Comeback (12 page)

THERE WERE MANY
things I’d come to expect over the course of the last few months in terms of my relationship with Nicky. I expected his self-effacing sense of humor to come through even at the most unlikely of times. I expected his confusion and bewilderment to make itself known when he thought no one would notice but me. I expected the way he would put on a front for most of the world but, for whatever reason, would let me see the cracks in his armor. I expected to feel sympathy, or maybe even empathy, that would push its way inside my own armor whenever I was around Emma and the kids.

What I never expected was to miss him as much as I did when the Storm left for this long December road trip.

I tried to go about my life as usual, but I wasn’t entirely sure what
life as usual
meant for me right now. I went to work and occasionally took some of it home with me since there were never enough hours in the workday. I spent time at the construction site, chipping in where I could and making sure my volunteers were showing up when they’d promised to, as unexpected absences often meant trouble for their sobriety. I stopped by and visited with Emma on my lunch breaks from time to time, since the kids were in school during those hours and she could feel free to be real with me instead of putting on a brave face for the children.

I went over to their apartment occasionally after work, too—mainly on the nights that the Storm didn’t play—and spent time with Elin, Nils, and Hugo, doing my best to distract them from the heartache we all knew was inching its way closer by the day, or maybe even by the hour. I watched the Storm’s games from my couch, waiting for those moments in the third period when Darryl Carlson would interview Nicky on the bench, so I could see his face and hear his voice and reassure myself that he was getting through his time away from his family as well as could be expected. Assuring myself that he was all right.

He wasn’t all right, though. He knew it, and I knew it. It was all a lie. A façade.

That was why, after I’d finished going through the rituals that made up my days, I often found myself pulling out my cell phone and debating whether I should call him. I wanted to hear his voice more often than during those all-too-brief interviews on the bench, but I felt as if that might be stepping over a boundary between us—one that I’d erected. I wasn’t sure if he’d see it that way or not, but most nights I ended up sending him a quick text message with an update on Emma and the kids or the progress on the Thurstons’ house, anything to do with those things that were personal to him but didn’t delve too deeply into my own personal life.

Nicky always responded to those messages with his trademark warmth and humor. Some nights, our back-and-forth messaging turned into long, voiceless conversations. Other nights, it was just a quick check in, a couple of notes from each of us before calling it a night. More and more frequently, I found myself let down when they didn’t become drawn-out discourses, and I’d be almost as disappointed as I was when I would turn out my lights at the end of the night without having heard his voice.

I’d texted him after my lunch break with Emma today. Not because of any longing on my part as much as to tell him that Emma hadn’t been able to sit up with me. She’d stayed in her bed and only allowed me in briefly to say hello before insisting she was fine and just needed a nap. She wasn’t
fine
any more than Nicky was. I’d told him all of that so he could begin to brace himself. The end had to be near.

A couple of hours after I’d sent it, he’d responded briefly with,
Thank you for letting me know
. Nothing more.

I probably should have called him over that one, but when I’d sent the message I’d assumed he was down for his pre-game nap or doing something else with the team and wouldn’t be able to take a call. Then I felt like crap the rest of the day for not trying.

I’d spent the whole day today with the expectation that I’d get to hear his voice, if only during his little third-period interview. But apparently, that wasn’t going to happen tonight. I’d come home from work early since the game in Montreal was set to start at four thirty, bringing some work home with me. I sat down in front of the box I’d loaded full of envelopes that needed to be stuffed, and turned on the TV only to find that Nicky was going to be the starter tonight. Hunter had tweaked his groin in the morning skate, according to Darryl, and so he was on the bench. It was his voice I would hear in the third period, not Nicky’s.

That revelation left me deflated on a personal level, while also filling me with excitement for Nicky. He’d been waiting patiently for his next start, and I knew he hoped he would get a chance in the net on this road trip. Now it was happening.

But was his head really in the game? The timing was awful, considering the message I’d sent him earlier about Emma.

The camera panned over the Storm’s end of the ice before settling on Nicky. He was busy getting the crease ready, scuffing the ice with his skates the way goalies did after a Zamboni run.

“So Nicklas Ericsson gets the surprise start in goal tonight,” Darryl said over the video. “He’s played well so far this season, posting a 2.13 goals against average and a very impressive .937 save percent. Those stats are better than they’ve been at any point in his career, but keep in mind that this is based on a small sample. We’ll see if he can keep impressing with numbers like that on short notice.”

I dropped the envelope I was in the midst of stuffing on the table, trying to get a better look at Nicky’s face behind his mask—his eyes, in particular—but it was no use. I got the distinct impression that any attempt to get my work done until the game ended would be pointless, as well.

Shoving it all aside, I tucked my feet up under me and settled in for the duration.

WE WERE KILLING
another penalty, our second of the third period in a tie game, this time with Danger in the box for tripping. I couldn’t blame him. We’d been on the power play, and for some reason Bergy had thrown Danger out there to cover one of the points even though he’s not a defenseman. The power play was almost over now. Burnzie pinched in along the boards trying to keep the puck in the offensive zone, one of the Canadiens’ penalty killers poked the puck out of the zone, and Danger had been off to the races trying to keep up with the guy so he wouldn’t give up a shorthanded opportunity.

It would have been better just to leave me to deal with the guy and stop the shot, but Danger had acted like a forward chasing down a guy on a breakaway and he’d tripped the guy. For whatever reason, the refs decided it should be a minor instead of a penalty shot, and now here we were.

P.K. Subban was the guy to watch out for on the Canadians’ power play. He may not have the hardest slap shot in the NHL, but I wouldn’t want to get in front of it without all of my gear on. Not only that, but he was liable to do some crazy things out there. You could never guess where he was going to end up on the ice. The second you tried to guess, he would fool you.

Q, Jonny, 501, and Colesy were out on the kill for the Storm right now. Q was zeroed in on Subban, trying to keep up with his every move, and essentially leaving the rest of the Canadiens to the other three.

As for me, I was just trying to see everything clearly—not an easy task with either Galchenyuk or Pacioretty constantly trying to stand in my line of sight. These were the moments that made me glad I was taller than the average NHL player. But no matter how big I was, having one of those guys in the way made things difficult.

Galchenyuk backed up until he was practically in my crease. I gave him a good whack to the backs of his calves with my stick, hoping the refs wouldn’t catch it or at least wouldn’t call a penalty for it.

“Get him the fuck out of my way, Colesy,” I shouted as my defenseman skated over. He dropped down to block a shot, though, instead of forcing this guy to keep his distance.

The puck rebounded off Colesy’s skate and went straight to Q, who shot it hard to get it out of the zone so they could go off for a change. Andrew Jensen, Burnzie, Babs, and Soupy poured over the boards and rushed into the zone. Most of Montreal’s players changed, too, but Subban stayed out.

He got the puck over the line cleanly, and their power play went back to work. Eighty-two more seconds before Danger would be coming out of the box.

Their forwards cycled the puck down low, keeping Jens and Burnzie in chase mode, not to mention moving my head on a swivel to keep up with them. At one point, Burnzie trapped the guy with the puck, and Babs went over to help him dig it out of the corner.

It worked. The puck shot free. The only problem was it went straight to Subban at the point, who one-timed it. For once I had a clear view—except for the fact that Soupy skated right into the shooting lane to block the shot. It hit him somewhere on the leg, and he shouted so loudly I could hear him over the Canadiens’ fans singing, “Ol
é
, ol
é
, ol
é
, ol
é
.” He dropped down to the ice, but Subban gathered up the puck, skated around him, and fired it on me again.

This time it got through the mass of humanity in front of me. I got a piece of it with my glove, just enough to keep it out of the net. It flew over the goal, where a Montreal forward pounced on it and kept the cycle going.

Somehow, Soupy got to his feet, but he couldn’t put any weight on his left leg at all and he couldn’t get off the ice. Still, he hobbled around out there, trying to do whatever he could to help kill the penalty.

The puck ended up back at the opposite point, and Babs just got enough of his stick in the way to deflect the shot back into the corner behind me. It broke his stick, though. He dropped it to the ice and skated back to help Burnzie kick the puck with his skate.

Soupy followed the play over in that direction, hopping more than skating. There was no chance he would get back into position before the puck squirted out of there and went to Subban. I couldn’t figure out what he was doing or why. He was drifting farther from the bench when he should be doing the opposite. I wasn’t sure if he’d broken his leg or what, but in his current condition, we might as well be in the midst of a five on three.

When the puck finally got loose, Soupy shouted at Babs and tossed his stick through the air. Babs grabbed it on his way to cover Subban at the point, getting there just in the nick of time to shove the stick blade in the puck’s path and deflect it out of play.

It didn’t stay out of play, of course, and Soupy ended up almost right in front of me—one of the worst places he could be because he might end up getting hit with another shot. Babs managed to get one of his own sticks from the bench, so at least his blade was facing the right direction, but he hadn’t gotten off for a change before the Canadiens’ power play was coming barreling in on us again.

A shot came at me before Babs and the other boys were in position. I kicked it with my skate, and Jens cleared it away from the net but not out of the zone. Subban gathered it up again, and now it was Soupy blocking my line of vision.

“Get the fuck down,” I shouted at him.

He hopped over and tried to block the shot we all knew was coming. It went off his butt and deflected past me, straight into the goal.

The goal horn sounded, and I skated over to Soupy and pulled his arm up across my shoulder so he could lean on me. “You fucking dipshit. What did you think you were doing? You all right?”

He looked at me but couldn’t even catch his breath enough to speak. He shook his head.

Babs was skating toward us with Ken Archer, our head medical trainer, in tow, and Burnzie had come up on Soupy’s other side.

“You think it’s broken?” Archie asked without preamble as soon as he got to us.

If anyone would know what a broken bone felt like, it would be Soupy. He’d had dozens of them, along with pretty much every other sort of injury you could imagine over the course of his career. So when he grimaced and nodded, combined with the fact that he couldn’t even put any weight on it, there wasn’t much reason to doubt him. Even if he was wrong and it wasn’t broken, at the very least this was a pretty severe injury, whatever it was.