Thrusting my hips down toward the ice, I continue to stretch my hips out before practice. I sometimes get asked what it’s like to play hockey for a living. The only answer I can usually come up with is that it’s normal for me. I worked hard, which paid off because I got to live my dream every day.
The truth is, I don’t think there’s anything else I could do for as long as I’ve played hockey. It’s my entire life.
Am I tired often? Was I exhausted after practice and games? Yes, always, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. It’s everything to me.
Burnsy skates by, slaps my ass with his stick, “Yeah, Kos, thrust those hips.”
“Shut the fuck up, Burnsy, or I’ll show your mom how good these hips thrust,” chirping back.
He stops dead in his tracks, “Hey! Not my mama. Don’t bring her into this.”
I thrust the air harder and fake a moan, “Ahh! Brett’s mom,” he breaks into laughter and skates away shaking his headT. rash talk is the normal lingo of hockey players. All we do is talk shit, or chirp, to each other twenty-four-seven. I don’t think it’s even possible not to; it’s just in our DNA.
Our assistant coach blows the whistle, which means hurry the fuck up and finish stretching. For me, it means finding him immediately. I stand up and skate over to him, gliding on the fresh Zambonied ice.
“Plan for today?” I ask him, as he usually has me lead a good portion of practice since I’m the captain.
“Start one-on-one on each goal for twenty minutes. If you win any, you’re free of punishment. Losers are doing five suicides. Got it?” he demands.
“Yes, sir,” I say as the team starts to trickle over. Once most of the players are here, I crank up the volume of my voice to make sure they all hear me, “Listen up! One-on-one, both sides of the ice. You score, you stay. If defense wins, you’re out. Offense and defense, if you don’t win, you’ve got five suicides to do afterward. Let’s go.” We all break away and separate into two groups, broken down by lines. Lines one and two here, three and four there, and so on.
MacArthur’s in our goal. He’s typically our starting goalie. Don’t get me wrong, Flavo is an amazing goalie too, but he’s not as experienced and doesn’t have as good of stats as MacArthur. He’s a nasty motherfucker in all of the best ways. He’s been in the Nighthawks club since his rookie year. Almost no one ever beats him one-on-one in games. If you do, it’s a moment to remember because it probably won’t happen again. But we have a slight advantage, having played with him for so long—we know spots he favors, his reflexes, etc., but he also knows us just as well. He’s a great guy, but I want to sink this puck straight in his five-hole.
The scoreboard starts the countdown for twenty minutes. Game on. Digging into the ice, I take off and grab the puck, skating towards the net. Larinksi crowds me, so
I glide the puck between his legs and skate faster once it’s back on my stick.
“Come on, Mac,” I plead, approaching the net.
Pushing my stick out as far as my reach can go, I lift my stick and fake shoot before hooking the puck and swinging it to the other side of my body. MacArthur fell for it, and it was too late when he realized what I was doing. Lifting the puck onto my stick, I toss it into the top right corner of the net and skate around it with a big smile and my arms held out in a mocking shrug.
“Maybe next time,” I tease him, chuckling.
“Yeah, yeah. Fuck out of here, Kos. You’re not getting another one on me the rest of practice,” he says confidently.
He would turn out to be wrong.
We finished the drill and continued working our asses off for the next couple of hours. I’m completely drained, and all I want to do right now is to take a shower and a fucking nap, not simultaneously, but we’ll see. A voice stops me as I leave the building with my hockey bags. I really want to avoid her—no offense. I am just not in the mood.
“Alec!” Jana shouts from behind me. face.
“Hey, Jan, what’s up?” I respond with a smile on my
Jana is our social media person, whatever her job title is. She makes posts and videos across all of the Nighthawks’ social media accounts. Don’t get me wrong; she’s great at her job. It’s just the last thing I want to do right now: smile for pictures or memorize something for a video. But Coach made it very clear that when Jana says jump, we jump. When she says smile, we are supposed to look like we just won The Stanley Cup.
“I’m making a video of the players answering a question. Do you have a second?” she asks as she wobbles back and forth on her heels.
She’s pregnant; if I remember correctly, she’s like six months along. If she’s uncomfortable, you wouldn’t know it. She never complains, although I think pregnancy warrants endless and rightful complaining.
Setting my bag on the ground, I give her my full attention. “Hit me.”
She lifts her phone, “I’m recording. How many beach balls do you think would fit in the net?”
Her questions usually make me laugh, and this one is no different. A tough question, though. How big are the beach balls? Are they aired up too much, are they hard, or do they have a little give to them?
“Ehh, I would say twelve,” I answer her honestly.
She presses something on her phone and then stows it away. “Great, thanks! Have a good rest of your day, Alec!”
“You too, Jan.”
The boys, coaches, and staff are planning a baby shower for her when we return to New York. I say we, but it’s actually just one of the assistant coaches and some staff. After all, she is married to an assistant coach.
Laura immediately crosses my mind. I wonder what our life would look like now if we had never separated. Would we be married? Would she be pregnant? Would we already have kids? Knowing these questions are irrelevant, I try my best to push her out of my mind, but I fail again.
I wish I knew how to find her again. I can’t exactly drive all over town and hope to run into her; it’s illogical. Warm shivers dance over my skin as an idea pops into my head. Yanking my phone out of my pocket, I start a new message. My thumb hovers over the contact search bar with anticipation. I type her name, and her old contact pulls up, Clumsy.
Adding her contact to the message, I contemplate what to say—
Me: Hey
Nope, delete.
Me: Hey, Clumsy. How have you been?
God, I hate myself. Delete.
Me: Call me, please. -Alec
Eww. Delete.
What the fuck do I say, though? Hi, Laura. It’s me, Alec. How have you been? I miss you like crazy and can’t get you out of my fucking head. I need to see you so that I can figure out if these feelings are real or a glimpse of the past. I don’t know which one I’m more scared of, but I know that all I want is to see you again right now.
I definitely don’t send that.
Me: Hey, Laura. It’s Alec. Is this still your number?
I read the message over and over, but I think that’s the best I can come up with, given the situation.
Send.
My heart sinks, the message is undeliverable. All of that stress was for nothing, the number isn’t in use right now. Or I’m blocked.
My phone rings immediately, and my stomach jumps into my throat, thinking somehow it’s her, before I finally read the name on the screen, Mom. Weirdly, she’s calling again. We don’t talk often, and she wouldn’t have called me if it were an emergency. Without answering, I tuck my phone in my pocket, too exhausted to discuss whatever she wants.
“Holy shit, you’re still waiting for me? You are too sweet to me, Kos, I swear,” Costy coos and bats his lashes at me as he walks up to me.
“Shut the fuck up,” I laugh.
“Take me to dinner, and you might get lucky tonight, baby girl,” he adds.
“You are going nowhere near that part of me. Thank you very much,” I chuckle, knowing he is just trying to lighten my mood since I’ve been out of it.
“You know you want me,” he says, walking past me to the exit.
I follow in silence with a smug smile on my face. These boys are my best friends, and I’m so blessed to have each and every one of them. We’re a goddamn family, and nothing will ever change that.
I know people would kill for the life I have, and I know how privileged this life is. But there is a loneliness that only people who share this experience with me understand. We are constantly surrounded by gold diggers, puck bunnies, fans, and people who want to use us for their own gain.
A true connection is rarely made, which has me clinging to Laura like she’s a fucking life raft. I didn’t realize how lonely I had truly been feeling in the last couple of years. Not until I caught her in my arms.
It was a reminder of what we once had. She’s the only person who ever really knew me, and I miss that desperately. The more I think about it, the more I know these feelings aren’t fleeting. They never were; I just learned how to ignore them. But I can’t ignore them anymore and don’t want to. I want my clumsy girl back.
