Sloane: Have I told you that you’re my favorite goaltender in the world?
Jasper: You have bad taste.
Sloane: You’re still my fav.
Jasper: You might be the only one tonight.
Sloane: Correction. Favorite hockey player. Number one fan right here.
Jasper: Know a lot of hockey players, do you?
Sloane: Only the best one. I’ll be at the player’s exit.
A loss never feels good, but somehow tonight feels worse. I’ve started four games in a row because this organization trusts me. My coach trusts me. And we’ve lost four games in a row. This entire home stand straight down the toilet.
It weighs on my shoulders.
I’ve let my teammates down. My coaches. The entire city, who is so invested in this team’s success.
I feel like I let Beau down somehow. Like I couldn’t even win it for him. I’ve also been a miserable asshole to everyone around me. And I let Beau down in that too, because that man would plaster a smile and be kind no matter what.
Then there’s the heart-stopping blonde who’s been up in the skybox every night, supporting me. I spend the games trying to keep myself from looking up at her as I sit on the bench, beating myself up. As though I’d be able to make her out up there anyway.
Tonight I’ve showered and changed but I’m disappointed. I’m sad but I’m also angry. I walk down the back tunnel toward the press gallery. I hate this part of my night after good games, but I don’t even think there is a word for how it feels to string together four shit games in a row and then be forced to talk about it on the record.
Torture, maybe.
I know I’ve played bad. My team knows. The reporters know. And now we’re all going to sit down and talk about it publicly. Fucking perfect.
The minute I step onto the stage with a long table on it I hear the snapping of cameras. A few journalists I recognize say their hellos. I give them a terse nod and fold the brim of my hat. Then I pull out a chair, sit down next to my coach, and take a deep breath.
First question comes from a reporter I’ve seen before, one who always asks the most obnoxious questions. Like he’s intentionally trying to trip us up for a flashy sound bite. “Hi. Mike Holloway from the Calgary Tribune. Jasper, why don’t you tell us what happened out there tonight?”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. That’s not a question, and he knows what happened out there tonight. He saw it. Making me recount it to him is just a dick move.
“Well, Mike. As you saw, I wasn’t my best tonight. Not even close. I know what the team needs from me, and I couldn’t deliver. There were a couple goals I’d have liked back, then they had a couple good chances and just got the best of me. Obviously, those are saves I need to be making if we’re going to make a run this year.”
“Yeah,” the slightly round, middle-aged man replies. “Thank you. Follow up to that. It seems this is the new normal for you. Wondering what you’re doing to change things up? This year feels do or die for the team. Lots of people would love some insight into your training plans to get yourself back into fighting shape.”
I roll my lips together and nod, feeling a drop of water roll off the long ends of my hair down the back of my neck. My coach, Roman, glances at me but says nothing. He knows I hate this shit at the best of times, and he’s ready to jump in if necessary.
“Specifics are something that stay between me and the training staff. But I assure you I’m working hard. No one wants this more than I do. Definitely putting in the time with the sports psychologist. I’ll be refocusing on my mental game in the coming weeks. I can tell you that much.”
And it’s not a lie. My mental game is trash right now. I thought playing would provide me a distraction, but I should have listened to Sloane. If I had, I wouldn’t have let my team down this way.
“Pardon my saying so, but it almost seems like you might be a little too comfortable in the long contract you just signed.”
I blink at the man before me. The one who looks like he hasn’t exercised in years, let alone played any sport at an elite level in his entire life.
“Well, then. With your permission, Mike, I’m going to”—I hike a thumb over my shoulder—“take off and get to work on my training. Try to get myself a little more uncomfortable for you.”
I rise from the plastic folding chair and stand tall, hearing Roman jump in with some comment about keeping questions respectful. But I don’t really care. Fuck Mike and fuck this press conference.
I need out.
One quick stop in the dressing room and I have my bag and car keys. I’m almost out the door without saying anything. I just want to lick my wounds in private, but the guys deserve more. They deserve an explanation.
I turn, gripping the doorframe, eyeing the room. “Guys. I’m sorry. I’ve been an asshole these last several games,” I announce to my teammates still mulling around. I don’t talk much, but when I do, they listen. “My brother, the one in the military, went missing in action last week, and my head is fucked-up. You all deserve better from me. And I want you to know that I’m working on it.”
Heads snap up around the room. The silence is deafening.
“Jesus, Gervais.” With three long strides, Damon is pulling me into a hug, slapping me on the back, and the other guys are crowding in with concern painted on their faces. Damon steps back, hands squeezing my shoulders as he looks me in the eye and gives me a little shake. “You should have told us. Hockey is just a game. Family is family.”
“Jasper.” I hear my coach’s voice behind me and stiffen. He’s a good dude. But even good dudes have their limits. And he sounds pissed. “Let’s talk in the hallway.”
His hand lands on my shoulder to turn me away from my teammates, who all look on wide-eyed. I hear a joke about how I’ve really made Dad mad this time, and my lips twitch.
I shut the locker room door behind us and finally lift my eyes to meet Roman’s. They’re pinched at the sides, and his thick arms are crossed over his broad chest. Years in the league himself mean Roman King is still fit in his forties. Still a competitor.
Still remembers what it’s like.
“I don’t know whether to hit you or hug you.”
I mirror his position and glare back at him. He’s still got bulk, but I’ve got a few inches on him. “I would hit me if I were you.”
“Well, if I were you, I would have told my coach that my personal life was a heaping pile of devastating shit.”
I roll my eyes, feeling like a petulant child. “I didn’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to be treated like I’m fragile.”
A broad hand waves in front of me. “Spoiler alert. You are fragile.”
“Fuck you, Roman.”
His jaw ticks. “I’m gonna let that one slide tonight.”
“I didn’t tell you my shitty life story so you could hold it over me.” Roman hasn’t only been a coach, he’s been a mentor. He knows my childhood shook out poorly. He knows about Jenny. And he knows I’m an anxious control freak and that those character traits are why I continue to put myself in the net every night.
I crave the control the position offers me. It soothes me. No one to blame but myself when a shot goes wrong—which I know isn’t true, but it’s how I see it.
“I’m not holding your past over you, Jasper. This is me, as your friend, being concerned. As your coach though? I’m pissed you haven’t disclosed this. What the hell were you thinking, keeping this under wraps?”
I sigh raggedly, my exhaustion seeping in at the edges of my eyes. It smells like sweat and rubber here, and all I want is to be in the safety of my car, sitting beside a girl who is wearing my jersey and smells like coconut. “I’m sorry. I’ll get my head right before the next game. I promise.”
His eyes are sad now, and he shakes his head at me. “Jasper, you need to take some time. It’s normal to take some time.”
My nose wrinkles at his implication. “It’s normal to take some time when there’s been a death in the family. Beau isn’t dead.”
Pity. It’s written clear as day on my coach’s face. And I hate being pitied.
“He’s not, Roman. And I’m not going to start acting like he is until I know something.” Panic leaches into my voice. I sound frantic even to myself. I can only imagine how I sound to him.
“Jasper—”
“No. I’ll be here tomorrow for practice, and I’ll be ready to play the next game. I’ll be right as rain. Head in the game.” The way he shakes his head at me says he doesn’t believe me.
“Stop looking at me like I’m a dead deer on the side of the road that you’re sad about.”
“You’re going to take some time off, Jasper. I know you. I know the way your head works. And I know how near and dear your family is to you. Damon was right, family first. Hockey second.”
“I don’t need—”
“You’re suspended,” he bites out.
My entire body goes rigid. “Come again?”
“A two-week suspension for not disclosing this to management. We’ll call it a leave of absence in the press release.”
“You have to be fucking kidding me. The team needs me! The press is going to have a fucking heyday with this!”
The older man just pulls me into a rough hug, ignoring my arguments. “Your family needs you more,” is what he grumbles while giving me a tight squeeze. And then he’s pulling away, giving me another of those tragic looks. “The press is already having a heyday with you. Hockey will still be here in two weeks. Your head isn’t on the ice, and it shouldn’t be. Stay in touch.”
And then he walks away, dress shoes clacking against the concrete floors like it’s just another normal day. Like the world isn’t total, utter shit.
Like one of the best people I’ve ever known hasn’t vanished in some secret corner of the world, on some classified mission, where god-knows-what has happened to him.
The reality of the entire situation hits me like a wrecking ball to the chest.
What if he’s dead?
What if he needs help?
And the worst possibility of all, what if we just never find him?
Ready to get the fuck away from everything, I march out the doors into the lobby. It’s where fans wait for autographs and puck bunnies wait for a shot at a player.
But there’s only one person waiting who I want to see.
The beautiful girl wearing my jersey who feels like home. The one who has barely left my side for over a week. We both know she’s hiding from the realities of her life, but so am I. We’re kindred that way, and we don’t pick at each other about it.
Everyone gets ignored as I make my way to her. I don’t know who’s there or what people are saying. I have tunnel vision and all I see is Sloane.
I’m grumpy and miserable. The world is dark, but she’s like the moon when we sat on the roof. Bright and pure, shedding a silvery light over everything so that I can still see where I’m going.
Her arms clamp around my waist, the look she gives me is pure love and support, and then her head drops to my chest. Comforting me without saying a word. I take a deep pull of her scent and close my eyes to push away the intrusive thoughts threatening to tug me under.
Everything in the world feels wrong.
But standing here with Sloane in my arms feels right.
