Delay of Game (18 page)

Up until that point in the game, there also hadn’t been much scoring.

With over eight minutes to go in the second period, the score was tied at one. Vancouver had struck first, getting a power play goal past Nicky near the end of the first period. Less than a minute into the second, Babs got that one back with what might have been the prettiest goal of his young career, which was saying something. The kid was going to score, and score often, for a long time to come.

He’d just come over the boards on a line change and was hovering right by center ice when one of the Canucks
D
had tried to chip the puck past him into the zone. Babs got his stick out in just the right spot, and then he was off to the races.

Maybe it was just because I was watching from the press box and not down on ice level with the boys, but I don’t think I’d ever seen Babs move so fast. He skirted around the defenseman he’d stolen the puck from, split right between two other Canucks who tried to block his progress—they crashed into each other, and he got through them unscathed—dropped the puck between his legs and passed it to himself, and somehow elevated it on a nasty backhand shot. The goaltender didn’t have a chance.

The boys and I—those of us stuck up in the press box, that is—whooped and hollered, not that Babs and the guys on the ice could hear. It didn’t matter. That was our team. Whether we were playing tonight or not, those guys down there were our friends, and in some cases, like family.

Jens was sitting up there with me, as were Stéphane Montfort and Aaron Ludwiczak. Monty was still recovering from a broken arm, but he’d started skating again almost a week ago. They might even clear him to play before the next game. And Luddy had suffered from a couple of concussions this season. We didn’t know when he’d get back in, especially since he’d tried to come back too early the last time.

Those three guys were out due to injury, unlike me and my suspension.

We had one more guy keeping us company, too—Kyle O’Roarke, better known to the team as Chunk. I honestly didn’t know how he’d come by that nickname, but it had stuck, and he’d probably carry it for the rest of his career. He was the one healthy scratch out of the bunch of us, and based on the way the boys on the ice were playing, unless someone else came out with an injury, Chunk would probably still be in the press box for the next game, too.

Since Babs had scored, it had been a chip-and-chase sort of game: dump the puck into the zone; try to get control of it; get off for a line change before you overstay your shift. That was true for both teams, for whatever reason. Neither wanted to take too many chances in case the other team capitalized on it. That was no way to succeed, though. That was fear, plain and simple. Playing afraid was no way to play hockey, especially in a game that mattered as much as this one did. Both teams were playing to not lose, not playing to win.

It was understandable, to an extent, especially for our guys. An awful lot of them had never been in the playoffs before. This was a whole new brand of pressure, and it was going to take a little time to adjust. I just hoped they didn’t take too long to make that adjustment or else our season would be over a lot sooner than any of us wanted it to be.

The refs blew their whistles, halting the game, because the puck got knocked over the glass and out of play. Some guy in the lower bowl leaped up and caught it, sloshing the beer in his other hand all over the row of fans below him.

“Fucking waste of a good beer,” Jens muttered beside me, and the other guys murmured their agreement.

The officials got a new puck and signaled for the coaches to decide which players they wanted on the ice. Since we were the visiting team, Hammer and Bergy had to make that decision before the Canucks did. They sent Zee, Soupy, and Babs over the boards for the forwards, Burnzie and Peter Nylund for the defense. That prompted Vancouver to send out their checking line since Babs, in particular, was one of the only guys on the Storm who had been noticeable in this game.

It didn’t seem as if it was going to matter who went out there, though. Once again, after the puck hit the ice, it was back to dump and chase, dump and chase, dump and chase.

Those final eight minutes of the period ticked by in tedious fashion with the tension in the press box only growing. The longer it went on like this, the more it would favor the home team. They were going to wear our guys down and then, finally, pounce.

As soon as the horn sounded, signaling the end of the second period, I got up and excused myself from the other guys so I could go down to the locker room. Not that I had a clue what I was going to say. But someone or something needed to knock some sense into the boys. Playing to not lose was a recipe for losing.

The guys had already gone into the room and the doors were closed, but the guard outside recognized me and let me in.

Almost complete silence met me when I walked inside. A couple of the guys looked up, but most of them were just trying to suck in air so they’d be ready for the third.

Zee was re-taping his stick. Soupy was taking his skate off to send away with Drywall Tierney, the head equipment manager, for repairs. Babs had his head back against his stall, his eyes closed. Webs and Burnzie were both talking to the trainers, getting some minor injuries dealt with. Nicky had even put some fucking headphones on and was in his own little world, oblivious to everything around him. He was a fucking goalie, though, so whatever. I couldn’t hold that against him. He needed to stay sharp, focused—whatever was required to keep him there, he should do. Kally was the only guy in the room who met my eyes and nodded. He’d been in the league for a long time. He sure as fuck felt happening what I felt; I could see it in the set of his jaw.

Yeah, they were getting ready for the third, all right. Ready for more of the same. Ready for a fucking beating. Ready to get their asses handed to them on a silver fucking platter.

Bergy caught my eye and raised a brow. I knew that expression.
So, you’re here. What the fuck are you going to do now?
That’s what he was saying to me with that look.

Good question.

I put my hands in my pockets and looked down at the center of the room—the spot where, if we were in our home locker room, the Storm logo would be. I could picture it in my mind’s eye, and I knew the rest of the boys could see it, too. We’d looked at that same logo countless times.

“I went to see Scotty yesterday, before we left,” I said.

The silence in the room grew much louder as every single guy looked up at me. I heard the door open again, and Jim Sutter slipped into the room. He just nodded at me, too, as Bergy had done.

I figured I’d better keep going. “Pretty sure he’s watching tonight in the hospital. This isn’t the kind of hockey he had us playing all year. This isn’t our game. Scotty had us playing a speed game, five guys working together in all three zones. Controlling the pace. Taking some fucking chances so that we happened to the game instead of the game happening to us.” I shifted my feet because it was fucking uncomfortable having the guys hang on my every word like that. It didn’t sit well with me. “I don’t know how proud he’d be right now. And I don’t know about you boys, but I’d rather play the game he expected us to play and lose than play like this kind of shit, whether we won or lost.”

That was really all I had to say, so I turned around and headed back out. Jim slapped a hand on the back of my shoulder as I passed him, but I kept going, not stopping until I got back up to the press box.

The guys up there gave me questioning looks, but none of them asked me where I’d gone or what I’d done. I wasn’t particularly interested in telling them, so I didn’t offer anything.

I sat up there, my hands folded and my chin resting on top of them, and waited. Wondering. Impatient.

The boys came out for the third, and I could see a little more jump in their steps. Kally and the rest of the top line—Riley Jezek and Viktor Ellstrom—got in place at center ice for the face-off. RJ won the draw, and Eller and Kally used their wheels to zip past the Canucks
D
and into the zone.

With
the puck. They carried it in, instead of chipping it over the line and fighting to get control of it. They just fucking kept it in their possession, just like we’d been fucking playing all year.

Eller passed the puck behind the net and Kally went over to keep it away from the Canucks defender. He slammed the fucker into the boards, a huge body check that made the glass rattle. I could hear it all the way in the press box. The crowd roared, but not as loud as my pulse. That wasn’t Kally’s game. He was a skill guy. He used his speed and his shot to break the other teams down, usually. But not right now.

Our whole bench was up, shouting encouragement, as Kally tried to dig the puck out of the corner. RJ joined him back there, and one of Vancouver’s forwards, until the puck finally popped free. Razor had to pinch in down the wall to keep the puck in the zone. He shot it wide of the net, and Eller picked it up on the other side, trying for a wraparound.

The goalie got his pad over just in time, and the rebound sent the puck flying out of the zone. Everyone had to chase it, and one of the Canucks forwards—one of the Sedin twins—got there first.

Now the game looked more like our style of hockey.

Now, whatever the fuck happened, Scotty could be proud.

SARA’S PHONE WENT
to her voice mail when I called after the game. No, scratch that. It went
straight
to her voice mail. It didn’t ring once. Did that mean she was avoiding me, or was her phone just turned off for whatever reason?

By now, surely she knew that I’d talked to her father. I didn’t know how she would respond to that—Sara’s reactions to things were a little more unpredictable than what I’d come to expect from my mom and sisters—but I was prepared for any number of reactions. Except the silent treatment. As long as she was willing to talk to me, even if
talking
was really more like
yelling
, it was something I could work with.

I waited for the beep after her greeting, impatiently tapping my hand against my thigh while lying on the bed in my hotel room.

“Hey,” I said once the tone ended. “Call me whenever you get this. Doesn’t matter what time it is. I want to hear your voice.” I debated for a moment whether it would be a good idea to just end it there. I couldn’t, though. I needed to tell her more. “I miss you. I can’t stop thinking about you, Sara.” Then I ended the call before I said too much, pushed too hard. There seemed to be a very fine line with her, at least in terms of how I was pursuing her, between how much was enough and when I’d gone too far.

Her voice was almost all I’d been able to think about for well over an hour. It was an intensely sexy voice, kind of low pitched like you might expect from a woman more than twice her age. A voice that had lived and seen and experienced. A voice made for the bedroom.

Once the game had ended—a three-to-two overtime loss—all I’d wanted to do was get somewhere quiet and call her. Instead, I’d had to go down to the locker room along with the rest of the guys who’d been up in the press box so we could wait through all the postgame stuff. Then the team as a whole had gone out for a meal after the guys finished cleaning up, and I’d just finally gotten back to my room.

Like last night, Jens had headed out with a few of the guys for a beer once we returned to the hotel. They were trying to drown the sting of the loss more than anything, but it might be better to let themselves really feel it. That sting could be an excellent motivator. They’d asked if I wanted to go with them. A lot of nights, I would have gone if for no other reason than to be sure everyone got back okay. Things were different for me now, though. Because of Sara. Because she had a baby on the way, and I had to find a way to get her to let me in.

I tossed my phone on the nightstand. Had it been too late for me to call? Maybe she’d already gone to bed and didn’t want to be woken up, and that was why she’d turned her phone off. But then again, maybe her battery was dead. It wouldn’t do me any good to worry about all the things that might have happened to her if that was the case. There was nothing I could do about anything from Vancouver.