Page 8 of Playing Dirty
Not even close enough to be unlucky.
"Fuck's sake," I mutter.
Jonesy skates up, spitting his mouthguard into his glove. "You'll get it back, man. You always do."
Byithe means my game, which has been off for the better part of a year. I grunt and push off toward the boards to avoid a deeper conversation I'm not ready to have.
I was the league's golden boy. People used to throw around words likegenerational talent. Then a massive hit shattered my knee. My calendar filled with meetings and photo shoots through the rehab, and even after my body mended and I returned to the ice, my focus stayed fractured.
It cost us the Cup last year, and I can't let it happen again.
The shrill blast of Coach Whelan's whistle cuts through the arena, and we all peel off toward the boards. I catch my breath against the wall as he surveys us with an expression that says he has zero sympathy left this morning.
"We reached the Final last year," he says, his voice carrying easily through the cold air. "And we were humiliated. Right now Chicago is making a run, Boston is looking elite, and New York is sitting out there waiting for a rematch, with Brennan playing like a madman."
Liam Brennan.
He's the league's latest star, a year my junior, and last spring he decided that my professional dismantling was a personal project. Fearless on the ice. The same arrogant confidence I used to carry before the injury and I cannot fucking stand him.
This season is supposed to be my rebuttal. Proof that the slumpwas a glitch and nothing more. Instead, all through practice I've been fighting my own instincts, and if wedoboth claw our way back to the Final, Brennan will be looking to finish what he started.
Whelan rolls into the usual talk of forechecking and finishing, but his voice blurs into background noise until he slaps his clipboard against his thigh with a sharp crack.
"That's enough for today," he shouts. "Clear out."
The lads peel away toward the tunnel in small clusters with the usual post-ice chatter. I move slower, caught up in my own head, and Jonesy drops back from the group with his helmet off, blond hair damp with sweat. He's my closest friend on the squad, and he's watching me with concern.
"Stow that look," I say, skating past him. "I'm fine, I just need to lock in."
"I'm not looking at you like anything," he says, falling into stride beside me. "Though I will say, you look like hell."
I let out a dry chuckle. "Cheers, Jonesy. Massive ego boost."
"Always happy to help."
We head down the tunnel toward the dressing room, already a wall of humid noise and bad music. Twenty guys peeling out of heavy gear, arguing about the playoffs and where to eat. I sit down and start unpeeling the tape from my wrists.
"So." Betts drops onto the bench opposite me with a towel around his neck. "Mr. Wine Ambassador. You going to bring in a bit to share with the rest of us?"
"I will, yeah." I laugh. Betts nods happily, having still not picked up on Irish sarcasm despite being teammates for years now.
"Good. I want something a bit fancy." He leans back against the wall. "Though I do think it's pretty funny, considering I've never actually seen you drink wine in my life. You're a bit of a fraud, you know?"
I snort. "Fraud is such a negative way to look at a fat check."
"Oh, leave him be, Betts," Tom calls from two stalls down. "You're just bitter that nobody's offering you buckets of cash to put your face on a billboard."
"Well, not all of us were blessed with a face for the camera like pretty boy over here." Betts gestures toward me.
"First sensible thing out of your mouth all morning," I say, and the entire row of them groans.
They aren't wrong that the money is ridiculous, which is largely why I signed on. I love the game, but I don't want to be in the rink forever, and I've seen what happens to the lads who never built a life outside the rink.
So I do the deals and bank the money. If it means my parents can retire comfortably and my four sisters never have to stress over a bill, then I'll play the part.
"Have they actually got you learning wine?" Jonesy asks, dropping onto the bench beside me. "I enjoy a glass as much as anyone, but that sounds boring as hell."
"Apparently." I ball up the tape. "Some kind of crash course on Monday."
