Page 17 of Playing it Safe
I lie there for a minute. The ceiling in my bedroom has a water stain in the corner I keep meaning to fix. Puck's food bowl clinks in the kitchen. He is already growing restless.
I’m exhausted because I lay awake for hours, thinking about Briar’s hands on my face, her mouth on mine, and the way I stood on her steps like an idiot.
With a groan, I get up to feed the ungrateful cat. I make coffee and drink it black, standing at the counter in my boxers, staring at my phone.
I normally read in the mornings. Lately, I’ve been reading books and articles about sports psychology. Trying everything other than therapy to get myself back to the top of my game. It’s not often I sleep in, and even less frequent that I make it this late in the day without my family reporting on the latest disaster.
Is it possible they all heeded my advice? Doubtful. Ah. My phone is on airplane mode. I think I flicked it over when I was walking Briar home.
My return to the world brings a flurry of texts from the guys. Photos of Spinner asleep in a cab, and Howie and the Stag twins inviting me to some sort of picnic later in the summer. A notification from the Uprising that today is GAMEDAY, BABY.
I leave the phone in the kitchen, then get dressed.
Practice is better than last night, which is a low bar, but I'll take it. I move well in the drills. My edges are clean, and my passes connect. Coach watches from the bench and doesn't single me out, which counts as approval. Grentley and I run a defensive rotation that clicks the way it used to, and he taps my shin guard with his stick afterward, which is the Grentley equivalent of a standing ovation.
We're not making the playoffs. But there's a difference between a team that's given up and one that's playing for something less obvious — pride, maybe, or next season, or the simple refusal to phone it in.
In the locker room, Spinner peels off his jersey and turns to me. "What are we doing tonight?"
"I'm going home," I say. "Uprising plays Columbus at seven, and I'm watching it on my couch."
"With your cat," Rookie adds, grinning from across the room.
“The one and only.”
Spinner and Rookie exchange a look. Howie, who has been quietly rolling off his socks, glances up. "What channel?"
“I don’t know, man.” I pull my shirt over my head. “Why?”
“Seven, you say?” Spinner balls up his base layer and tosses it into the laundry cart like a basketball. “We’ll bring food.”
"I didn't invite you."
"Ella wants to come," Howie says, like this settles it.
“No.” I put my hands on my hips, hoping my trademark glare will dissuade these swarming gnats I call friends.
"She's already planning a menu.” Howie holds up his phone as proof. I look at Rookie, who shrugs.
"She likes hockey," Rookie says.
I emit a growl. "Fine. Don't bring anything with onions. The cat gets sick."
By six-thirty, my living room contains four hockey players and one nurse, who is sitting on the floor, trying to coax Puck out from under the couch with a piece of turkey.
"He doesn't like strangers," I tell her.
"He doesn't like you either," Spinner points out. He's sprawled across the armchair, a plate of wings balanced on his stomach. "At least Ella’s pretty.”
Rookie throws a piece of celery at him. “Don’t talk about my sister, asshole.”
Howie, still unable to help himself, throws popcorn at Rookie. “Don’t talk about my girlfriend like I’m not here.”
Ignoring it all, Ella lies flat on her stomach and extends the turkey beneath the couch. "Come on, buddy. I'm very trustworthy."
Puck will not be moved. I’m sure he’ll claw my forehead later while I’m asleep as retribution for the noise. Luckily, the room settles once the game starts.
Columbus comes out fast, but the Uprising absorb the pressure, and by the middle of the first period they're controlling the pace. I watch the passing sequences and hold my breath, fascinated. The accuracy. The speed of decision. A give-and-go along the boards so clean it looks choreographed, except it isn't — it's just two players who know exactly where the other will be.
