Or was she that special, that important, that connected to me like no one has been since, woman or man, relative or not? I haven’t been that close to another human being since I lost her.
Getting myself under control, I flatten the crumpled paper with shaky hands and fold it neatly. I need to get to practice before I’m late, so I slip it in my pocket, swearing I’ll figure it out later.
Grabbing my key fob, I head down to the garage, a luxury in the city, but I’m lucky to be able to afford it. I’m the luckiest bastard in the world. Right?
My mind goes to Nicky and the sad compelling story in the short letter. The possibility of who the kid is—that she could be June LeBlanc’s kid—my June--eats at me as I drive to the practice rink, but I need to clear my head, stop speculating about the letter, and get my head into hockey where it should be.
Arriving at the arena, I give into the team mentality, the all-hockey mindset that got the Brawlers the Stanley Cup last season. It’s three weeks to Christmas, still early in the season, but the team is doing well, and the brotherhood between us intense.
The chance of a back-to-back Stanley Cup win is astronomically small, but don’t tell that to anyone in this locker room. As I walk inside and exchange hello grunts with my now familiar teammates, the hockey mind takes over; the striving energy infiltrates everything, even the damn lockers in this place shake with championship vibes soaked up through the iconic history of the franchise.
There’s that good luck at work again. Thanks to an off-season trade, I get to play for my dream team this year. Hopefully, every year until I retire. Or until my luck runs out.
Flying aroundon the ice for drills is intense, but the scrimmage afterwards blows away whatever I thought practice was about from my prior NHL experience. We line up like it’s a game to play two line changes, three minutes each. Not that we’d ever stay out for three minutes in a game if the coach can help it, but he wants us to be prepared and conditioned—no damn joke.
We’re near the end of the six minutes when I notice a commotion beyond the boards, and I do a double-take. Why I bother noticing or paying attention to some spectators—probably press—near the locker room chute is beyond me, but O’Rourke gets the puck away from me at the blue line and takes off, and I’m more than late with my poke check, and there’s no f-ing way I can catch him once he’s gone. I’m so far behind him on his breakaway; I can’t even reach him with my stick to trip him. Of course, he scores easy because he’s the best in the league at it.
Finn comes out of the net and wants to strangle me.
“What the hell kind of defense is that?”
My only response, since I have no excuse, is to flip him the finger. We all make mistakes. I know half his anger is at himself for letting O’Rourke deke him out.
“It’s practice. Not the Stanley Cup finals,” I say. “Get over it.” I know it’s the wrong thing to say, the exact wrong attitude for this team even as I say it.
Finn glares at me, and the coach whistles us over to the bench. Aiden overhears the exchange and gives me a headshake. Hell. I can’t mess up like this.I get a damn letter, and I’m looking for June in the stands like a hypersensitive teenager all over again.
“Sorry, coach,” I say before the coach starts his lecture. He nods. He’s not going to talk to me about it in front of the team. But I’m not surprised that he asks me to see him in his office when we reach the locker room.
“After you’re dressed,” Larry Green says under his breath. Then he addresses the team.
“Listen up. The team’s annual family and friends Holiday Festival at the garden is in three weeks. Each of you can bring up to ten guests. I expect you to use every one of those invitations. This is a team event to get to know each other better.”
Brady Mack says, “Sure, you mean so the guys can give me even more shit about how pussy-whipped I am?” He’s laughing as he says it because I know he could give a damn about what anyone thinks about his devotion to his wife and her family.
“Think of it as an opportunity to show off what you have,” coach says. He’s serious. The guys nod, acknowledging the truth, and it hits me. Coach Green is dead serious about team closeness and respect. “Carry on,” the coach says as he leaves us to shower and dress.
Sweat-soaked like always, I strip and head to the shower with my towel. As the water hits me, I search my mind for even one person I can invite to the team’s holiday event. One person who might show up if I did.
Growing up north of Boston in Manchester-by-the-Sea, a small town with two sides. An impenetrable set of tracks divided the town into the haves and have-nots. I was raised squarely on the have-not side, and June lived comfortably on the have side. But being a star hockey player in high school bought me a lot of gravitas, enough so that her parents didn’t throw me out when I showed up at their door in a rusted-out pick-up.
There’s no way I can stop myself from thinking about inviting June. And Nicky, if the kid is hers. Maybe they could count as friends. Shit, I need my head examined. June is more like a long-lost enemy than a friend. That’s something I need to remember. And I have no idea if Nicky is her kid. I’m so far ahead of myself that I may as well invite the kids I don’t have yet.
On top of my already June-jumbled emotions, a jolt of longing hits me. We used to talk about all the kids we wanted. If we’d stayed together, we’d probably have two or three by now. Okay—maybe not unless we had twins. Picturing June’s beautiful body glowing and round with twin babies inside her almost makes me buckle with aching loss.
Slamming my locker door, I pick up my keys and jacket and head for the door without a word to anyone. Not even Aiden’s raised brows stop me, and when he opens his mouth to say something, I scowl with the menace that’s meant for myself because I’m so disgusted at my sudden weakness. I need to keep my head in the game—the hockey game. Leaving the locker room, I head for the coach’s office.
It should take more than a letter to Santa to get me jumping to conclusions and excited about June again. Last I knew she was married. Hell, for all I know, this letter is a joke; A damn sick joke. I still don’t know for sure who’s responsible for sending me the letter, but I’ll find out because that letter was written by some sad little kid named Nicky from that address.Someonesent it.
Racking my brain, I don’t know where to begin to find out who. I have no one to ask. My parents don’t live in Manchester anymore since I bought them a home in Florida. If I ask them, they won’t know who lives in June’s house now. They only come up for a few games a year and stay with my sister or me. My sister is five years older than me and moved to Connecticut; She hasn’t lived in Manchester in forever, so I won’t bother asking her what she knows. Who else from my hometown can I call? Who still lives there? I don’t even f-ing know.
Of course, I could call June—if I had her number. The number I have—seared in my memory despite its uselessness—was disconnected six years ago. Two days after, she ditched me.
Facing the fact that I’ve lost touch with my roots doesn’t sit right; it makes me uncomfortable because I know why. After considering my high school hockey teammates my brothers for life, I let it all slip away because I’m a dick. Because I was in such pain, I needed a clean break from them all. There was a five-year reunion, but I didn’t go to it. My best friend from high school and teammate kept in touch with me, but we went to different colleges, and he moved to New Hampshire. We exchange emails or texts on occasion, but I hadn’t seen him since last season when I got him tickets to a playoff game.
How did I get so rootless, so distant, and separated from the place I grew up? I had a happy childhood there and a great time in high school. Right up until that last party. A graduation party. The third or fourth one we’d been to that summer.
Without the problem of who I’m going to invite to the team holiday festival resolved, I walk into the open door of Coach Green’s office. Time to deal with my more immediate problem—getting my head out of my ass so I can concentrate on hockey as I should be.