“Damn straight.”
The locker room is a sacred place. As a team, when we’re in there, in some ways it’s even more important than when we’re on the ice. This was where we talked, planned, strategized, laughed, cried, and bonded. The vibe was different than when we were playing, because the one-on-one interaction wasn’t just hockey oriented, but tonight it was quiet, the usual pregame energy noticeably absent. Instead of playful banter and lighthearted bickering, most of the guys were looking down, or staring out at nothing at all. It was like a freakin’ funeral in here.
The league had postponed our last game because of the funeral, and even though we’d just buried our team captain, the show, so to speak, had to go on. The Mavericks’ head of PR had locked out the press before the game tonight, so the public wouldn’t get a glimpse into how we were handling our grief, but that didn’t make it any easier.
As an alternate captain, along with Nash, a lot of the responsibility of raising everyone’s spirits fell to me since Nash usually dealt with on-ice issues, like talking to the refs. The problem was that I had no emotional bandwidth left. I was battling a wave of grief so intense that it was hard to breathe sometimes, and after spending the whole day putting out one child-related fire after another, I was physically and mentally exhausted.
There was no such thing in hockey, though. You battled through everything—injuries, grief, family drama, whatever it was. We didn’t have the option of time off in fucking January. We were also having an incredible season, leading the league in wins, points, and goals scored. If we could win one more, we’d break Pittsburgh’s record of seventeen wins in a row, but I didn’t know how we’d do that on a night like tonight.
Hell, I didn’t know any fucking thing right now. I didn’t know how I’d survive without my best friend. I didn’t know how the hell I was going to raise his two babies. And I really didn’t know how I’d get on the ice every night trying to lead this team like he did—because no one could do that. Ben was the whole damn package. Smart, skilled, and a leader in every sense of the word. He could mentor the rookies, bond with the veterans, and talk a guy in a scoring slump off the ledge. Even the refs loved him.
I had neither the patience nor the people skills Ben had, so while I was a leader because of my scoring ability and experience, I didn’t do as well with the serious one-on-one chats with teammates. If I were honest, I probably could do it, but had never been in a position where I had to. Until now.
“Listen up, boys.” Our head coach, Malcolm “Grizzly” Gizzard, came in and shut the door behind him. He scratched the long, bushy beard that had given him his nickname, and looked around, letting out a long sigh. “I don’t have a pep talk for you tonight. I don’t have scoring tips or threats or promises. Basically, all I’ve got are facts. Fact one. We’re on a seventeen-game win streak and we’ll break Pittsburgh’s record if we can win it tonight. Fact two. We’re in first place overall in the league by a long way, which bodes well for our playoff chances. I don’t know how to get past this game, the first one without Ben. So all I’m going to say is to play it for Ben. Play hard. Play smart. Dig deep. Don’t let all the background noise get inside your heads. Now let’s go.”
We all got to our feet but there was a heavy weight dragging us down. I could see it in the way the guys moved, the downcast expressions on their faces, even their body language. It was a reflection of my own mood, so I understood it, but this wasn’t good for team morale. We had a lot at stake both personally and professionally, and we couldn’t just roll over like this. Ben would be pissed.
“All right, let’s see some hustle, you guys!” I called out as we headed down the tunnel toward the ice for the warm-up. “Let’s go!”
I felt a tiny spark of excitement as my feet hit the ice but as I looked around and realized Ben wasn’t there, the unexpected wave of grief made me stumble.
Fuck.
This wasn’t going to go well at all.
And it didn’t.
We didn’t just lose, we lost spectacularly. 8–0. Our winning streak was over and we were a dejected lot as we filed back into the locker room. The press was waiting for us and even though it was a shitty thing to do, I ducked out and hit the shower, leaving it to Nash and the others. I felt like a coward, but I snuck out when I finished dressing and headed home. Maybe in a few days I’d be able to handle it all, but the idea of being asked about Ben and bursting into tears on camera was more than I could stand.