Strictly for Now by Carrie Elks
CHAPTERSIX
MACKENZIE
“The damn nurses won’t let me watch the game,” Gramps complains to me over the phone. “I told them I won’t shout or swear, but they don’t believe me.”
“I wonder why that is,” I say dryly. I know for a fact that his nursing team has been explicitly told by the doctor not to let him watch because it always spikes his blood pressure. “And it’s not their fault so don’t give them hell for it.”
“Can I stay on the line?” he asks. “You can tell me what’s happening.”
“No.” I’m firm because he’s exactly like my dad. If he sees any chink – even if it’s tiny – in your armor he’ll push and probe until he gets what he wants. “I’ll call you afterward. How does that sound?”
“It sounds like I’m a prisoner in my own damn room,” he grumbles.
“But at least you’re recovering,” I tell him. “That’s good, right?”
“Hmm.”
I’ve been to visit him twice this week. And every time I’ve had to promise that I haven’t made major changes to the team. Which I haven’t, mostly because I’ve no idea what changes I can make to actually get this team into making some money rather than hemorrhaging it.
The IRS is breathing down the team’s neck. There are no savings to be made. And the one I tried caused so many problems I wish I hadn’t bothered.
Yes, I’m still kicking myself about the towels. I should have known that change wouldn’t go down well so close to the season opening game. I should have thought of it but I didn’t.
And Eli Salinger is pissed with me.
For some reason I don’t like it. Even though he tried to be nice afterward, I could still see the frustration in his eyes. I hate that he made me feel small. Like I’m not good enough. He might not have meant to do it but that’s what happened.
The same way I never felt good enough when my mom tried to teach me to skate or my dad urged me to try dribbling a puck with a stick. And I always ended up flat on my ass.
I let out a sigh.
“What is it?” Gramps asks. “Is there a problem?”
“No, no problem. I need to go. I’ll call you later.”
“Wait! Can you call during the intermission at least?” he pleads.
“Goodbye, Gramps.”
“Mackenzie!”
I disconnect, because I have my orders from his nursing team. My stomach is rumbling so I head down to one of the concession stalls, the smell of hotdogs making it do little flips of excitement.
When I was a kid, I spent my life dreaming about that smell. It was the only good thing about watching hockey. I’d stuff my change into the little Minnie Mouse purse my mom had brought home for me when she was skating for Disney, and then I’d wait until the whole family was shouting at the players before hopping off to buy myself the biggest, most delicious dog covered in onions and sauce and mustard. It was my idea of heaven.
Until the day Isabella told me I was getting a little bit pudgy.
That memory makes me feel sad as I reach the front of the line. Maybe I should head out and grab a salad instead. But then I see the line of dogs slowly rolling down the grill and I can’t resist buying one and smothering it with mustard.
As soon as I bite into it I can’t help but groan. It’s that good. Yeah, the hot dog stands in New York are great, but this is something else.
I use my pass to get back into the staff area. Ahead of me is the locker room. I walk resolutely past it, kind of in a trance because of the goodness of the dog. That’s why I don’t notice Goran until I almost bump into him. He’s wearing just his underclothes – the thermals that will be topped off by his gear.
“Hey.” He glances at the dog. “That looks good.”
“It’s great,” I tell him. I think I might be addicted. I swallow down the last bite and try not to groan again. Maybe game days won’t be so bad after all.
“You have mustard on your mouth,” he says. Then he reaches out to slide his finger along my bottom lip. His bright blue eyes catch mine and for the first time I’m wondering if what Eli said is true.
Does Goran have a crush on me? I’m old enough to be his mom. Well okay, his much older sister at least.
His finger lingers on my lip and then the locker room door opens and of course Eli has to walk out at the exact moment he’s touching me.
His brows knit as he sees me and realizes that Goran and I are standing way too close.
“Team talk,” he tells Goran.
I step back too late. And then Goran does the most idiotic thing imaginable.
He licks the mustard off his fingers.
Eli’s face turns red. Shit shit shit.
“I should go,” I say, because I have no idea how to make this look better. “Good luck with the game.”
“Thanks.” Goran smiles and it doesn’t help. But he can’t see Eli’s face, which is probably a good thing right now. I turn on my heel and walk back to the door that I came through. I’ll find another way up to the exec box.
Or watch the game on the television in my office. That might be the better choice.
I don’t look back as I press the unlock button and grab the handle.
But I can still feel the heat of Eli’s stare as he watched Goran lick his fingers. And the feeling of mortification as it washes over me.
* * *
ELI
Nobody says a word as we walk into the locker room at intermission. We’re a goal down and haven’t been getting any chances at all. The team all grabs a drink, pulls their tops off, sit down heavily on the benches, and I’m still trying to work out what to say to make them play better.
Everything we practiced has been forgotten. They look like a freshman team in high school. I’m pissed but I need to be able to bring them all together somehow.
Max looks more pissed than I am. And I don’t blame him. The defense has been sloppy and he’s had to save more pucks than he should. He’s also let two go past him.
But he’s pretty much the only one that isn’t playing below his potential.
When they’re all seated and rehydrated I clap my hands together. And I keep my voice even as I talk us through the game up until now. None of them are smiling, there’s none of the energy in the room there would be if they were winning, but at least they’re listening to me.
“You’re better than this,” I tell them. “Every single one of you.” Sorry Max. “I need you to go back on that ice and be ready to win. The puck is yours for the taking, so take it. Be aware of who is around you. Pass when you see a break.”
We talk about the plays we’ve practiced. I tell them who’ll be on the ice after intermission.
“I’m coming onto the ice, too,” I say, because I can do it for twenty minutes. I need to. I might be here primarily as the coach, but the AHL rules allow me to play, and my doctor has cleared me for twenty minutes of active play a week.
Watching them from behind the bench has been excruciating. My mind may have accepted the fact that I’m semi-retired, but my body wants to be on the ice.
My voice is hoarse from shouting at them.
“But I can’t do this on my own,” I tell them. “Not least because I’m old and slow.”
They laugh but it’s true. The AHL is mostly a young man’s league. I’m forty years old. Past retirement age, even if I was firing on all cylinders.
“Are you with me?” I ask them.
“Yes Coach!”
And that’s all it takes for the mood in the room to swing. They’re nodding and talking to each other, as though they’re actually realizing they’re a team and need each other’s help. I check my watch. We have seven minutes left.
“Five minutes,” I say. “Conserve your energy, do what you need to do, and then let’s get back on the ice and win this damn thing.”
When the intermission ends, we head back out. The Zamboni has cleared up any evidence of the game so far, and as soon as my skates hit the surface it feels like I’ve come home. My blades are sharp, my stick is taped exactly the way I like it, and I can feel the rush of cool air come through the grill of my helmet. I take my place on the right wing and nod to Goran who’s facing off against the opposition, his stick poised and ready.
Then the puck drops and blood rushes through my ears as the third period begins.
Nothing else matters but the puck and the goal. I glide across the ice, my mind calculating which team member is where, who is attacking, who is defending. It takes a millisecond because hockey is all about reactions. There’s no time to take a breath, to look around and strategize.
My body knows what to do. It always has. And when I get the puck it feels like I’m complete. I head down the right wing and pass, the puck locking onto Carter’s stick.
He’s in front of the goal. I hold my breath.
And he slams it into the net.
Roars fill the air from the half-full arena. Carter lifts his stick in the air and promptly gets sent off the ice. He skates over and climbs off, replaced by Dubois, who vaults the wall and slides easily over to the center forward position.
We’re two minutes away from the end of the period when Carter is allowed back on. He high fives Dubois and nods at me and I nod back at him.
We’re down 2-1 and it’s pretty much a done deal. But at least we scored. The whole team has lifted its game this period. The defense has worked so hard that Max looks almost bored in front of the goal posts. The game has been mostly at our end, but their goalie is good and he’s warded off every attempt on goal since Carter’s.
In the corner of my eye, I see the clock counting down. Carter has the puck and he’s weaving it around the opposition’s players, looking more like he’s dancing than playing hockey.
And then, without even taking a breath, he slams the puck right into the center of the goal, and for a moment the whole stadium is silent before they realize that he’s done it again.
2-2. We’re tied. Which means overtime. And this time Carter keeps his damn stick down as he basks in the sound of the crowd’s adulation.
As I glide across the ice to congratulate him, my gaze lifts to the staff box. And I see Mackenzie there, watching us.
