You know that old saying, everything that can go wrong will go wrong?
Murphy’s Law, they call it. Murphy being some old Irish guy who was probably (not) Triple J’s ancestor.
Well, that’s what happens the second we take to the ice on Thursday night.
From the moment we skate out there, it’s an absolute gongshow. Twelve seconds into the game, Tampa scores. Complete fluke, but it sets the tone for the rest of the ugliness that unfolds.
In the middle of the first, one of Tampa’s D-men gets called for slashing, and takes two minutes in the box. I’m ready to use this to our advantage, but our opponents run an insanely effective penalty kill, blocking our every opportunity, and earning an insanely colorful stream of language from Dallas, who’s playing on my left.
Later in the period, the same jackass smashes into Aaron from behind again, sending him flying against the boards. It’s an ugly hit, totally uncalled for. So of course, next thing we know, Aaron’s gloves are off, and it’s on.
“HEY!” I scream as I skate up, fast as I can, from my position behind the net.
I grab the first blue jersey I see and haul a player who’s trying to muscle in on my teammate out of the way. He stumbles on his skates, then turns and swings for me. I catch his fist in one of my gloves, swing with my other. At this point, half the guys on the ice are brawling. Some out for blood. Curses and filthy insults and streams of blood spew from multiple mouths, as the refs get involved and shove us all apart, blowing their whistles frantically.
“That’s enough, that’s enough!” one of them hollers as he pushes me away from the guy I’m on, his arm a barrier across my chest. Which gives me a moment to assess the carnage on the ice.
And I do mean carnage.
By the time the refs separate us all, Aaron and I are hauled to the Cyclones’ penalty box, while the jerk who started it all slinks off to Tampa’s. 4 on 3—power play, Tampa.
I throw my hands up in frustration as I make my way off the ice. I can only watch as our penalty kill strategy dissolves into thin air and Tampa scores again in just under a minute.
The rest of the game follows the same kind of pattern. Brutal, often ugly. Hard to watch. Perez sneaks in a shot at the start of the second. Another two minutes later. But it’s not enough.
Final score when the buzzer sounds: Tampa—5, Atlanta—2.
We got our asses handed to us.
I’m frustrated with how badly we played. How that one player in blue clearly had it out for Aaron. How, no matter how effective my stick handling, I couldn’t sneak anything by the opposing team’s goalie for the entire sixty minutes of play. My head wasn’t in the game like it should’ve been.
Feeling lower than low, I start to skate off the ice with my stick in the air as a salute to the poor fans who paid to watch that trash.
But then, I hear my name. And I look up and see Maddie, standing right behind the home bench, her hands pressed up against the boards. I can’t hear what she’s yelling, but simply seeing her lifts my spirits.
Her eyes meet mine, and the realization hits me like a gut punch.
No matter what happened on the ice tonight, she was here. And she’s going to come home with me, win or lose. Because hockey may be important to me—it’s the career I love and have dedicated myself to… but at the end of the day, it’s just a game.
Maddie is my WIFE.
And even when presented with the perfect contract that fulfills all of my hockey dreams and aspirations, she was the one giving me pause. For the first time in my career, I put something other than hockey first. Wasn’t selfish…
Because I’m in love with her.
She’s shown me how much more my life can be, and how much better it is with her in it. How I’m more than just a hockey player… I’m a teammate. A son. A brother.
And a husband who’s ready to risk it all for her. I’m all in on this thing between us.
Hockey may have been my top priority in the past, but things have changed. Now, I’m a married man and Maddie comes first. She’s home to me. My career will revolve around my marriage—not the other way around.
I blow my wife a kiss, and then make my way to the locker room with a smile on my face—one that she put there.
