Page 48 of Offside

“Westbrook is like Mr. GQ, Lindy. There’s a bar full of women that want to talk to the best looking guy in the league.”

Cole really was the best looking guy in the league. But that was neither here nor there.

He fixed me with the open, earnest expression he’d been deploying since sophomore year at Minnesota State to get me to agree to things that were not in my best interest. Like being his wingman. It had worked then. It had an embarrassing track record overall.

“Twenty minutes,” I said.

Griffin was standing. “That’s all I’m asking.”

“Twenty minutes. I owe you one.”

I pushed my steak aside and went.

Her name was Amber and she was exactly as advertised. Warm and funny, worked in marketing, had grown up in Fort Worth and had strong opinions about Dallas versus Houston I found myself actually listening to for a full eight minutes. She was pretty and easy to talk to and laughed at the right moments, and at some point she touched my arm when she made a joke, and when I registered it I felt exactly nothing.

Not polite restraint. Not professional distance. Nothing. A flat, complete absence where there should have been at least the low-grade flicker of interest I used to be able to produce on command in a situation like this. I sat in a nice restaurant in Dallas next to a perfectly fine woman and all I could think about was a parking lot in Tempe on a Saturday afternoon, the way Maren had closed the distance herself and understood with the clarity I usually saved for game film exactly what had happened to me.

I stayed the full twenty minutes. I was a decent human being.

When Griffin reappeared, visibly pleased with himself, I excused myself with genuine warmth and went back to my steak. I did not examine the fact that the whole time I’d been sitting across from Amber, my phone had been in my pocket and I’d been conscious of it the way I was conscious of things I was waiting for. I finished my food. Said my goodnights. Went back to the hotel alone.

The room had that hotel room silence—not peaceful, just empty. I showered, changed into sweats, and sat on the edge of the bed with my phone in my hand and the game film I’d meant to review still queued on my laptop. I opened a text to Maren and then closed it. It was late. She had work tomorrow. I’d texted her after the loss, just three words, did you see, and she’d sent back two words, rough one. I put my phone on the nightstand and didn’t pick it up again.

I stared at the ceiling thinking about a parking lot in Tempe and the way she’d kissed me back and the sound she’d made against my mouth.

I didn’t sleep well.

Nashville the next night was different.

The locker room after the win had the loose energy of men who’d been holding their breath for weeks and finally didn’t need to. The chirping started before the showers, kicked off—inevitably—by Danny Hart’s third goal, a deflection off his shin that had technically gone in off his ankle, which Danny had celebrated as if he’d scored a clean wrist shot from the circle, full arms-up, full lap around the net.

“The ankle,” Cole said, in the postgame. “We’re celebrating the ankle.”

“It counts,” Danny said.

“We know it counts. We’re asking about the celebration.”

“I’ve waited my whole life for a playoff goal.”

“It’s a regular season game in November.”

“A career goal,” Danny amended. “Against a contender.”

“Against their backup.”

Danny pointed at him. “Still counts.”

Cole scanned the room for support. Theo had his eyes closed against his stall. Eli was pulling off his pads in order, buckle by buckle, not thinking about it. Kasperi was on his phone.

“Kovac,” Cole said. “Backup or not. Does it count the same?”

Eli looked up. “The puck goes in or it doesn’t,” he said. “Everything else is noise.”

“That’s very zen.”

“It’s hockey.”

Danny pointed at Eli now. “See? That’s the quote I’m putting in my highlight reel.”