Baden, page 14
Normally, the coaches don’t watch the opening warm-up drills. The players are more than capable of handling this on their own, but tonight we’re all standing at the gate, watching our men soak up the crowd’s adulation in what is, for many of the players, their first game in this league.
Warm-up drills last about fifteen minutes, but just before they wind down, the opposing team, the Washington Breakers, enter our side of the rink one by one. They move around to our players, shaking hands, giving backslaps and pats on the head with their big-gloved hands. It’s not a usual acknowledgment done before a game, and I imagine the words we cannot hear are of encouragement and good luck.
It’s an unusual show of camaraderie, and I’d venture a guess that this will happen a lot in upcoming games.
The players eventually trickle off the ice and head to the locker room. Sitting in front of their cubbies, it’s clear why the three-quarter circular shape is a great idea. Keller stands in the middle and gives his last-moment instructions. It’s his chance to motivate, and after his dismal failure on the first day trying to get the players to bare their emotions, he’s managed to pull together some decent lines. The men seem to respect his coaching skills, although he still falls a little flat on inspiration. Seasoned league players wouldn’t need it so much, but this team does.
It’s why I wince slightly when Keller wraps up his remarks. “You will not be on track to win a lot of games the rest of the year, but you certainly have the opportunity to win some. And that’s more than what was probably ever expected. You’re already winners in my book.”
I don’t know everything about coaching, but I’ve been coached my entire life. As a player, those words might be a little demoralizing, not because they’re untrue, but because everyone already knows it and they don’t need the reminder. They need to be told they have unforeseen potential, and anything can happen with hard work and dedication. Hell, we proved that on the Arizona Vengeance by coming into the league as an expansion team and winning the championship.
Luckily, Keller doesn’t say anything more, and from some of the expressions on the players’ faces, they’re glad of it.
Everyone starts filing out of the locker room, once again heading to the hallway that leads out onto the ice. It will be done with even bigger fanfare. The music will be louder, the announcer more passionate, and the bass turned up to make his voice really boom. The crowd will go nuts.
It’s a moment I hope this team soaks in and never forgets because it’s the start of a new era.
♦
All suited players, except the backup goalie might stand near the tunnel sometimes. The coach and the assistant coach stand behind the bench for an eagle-eyed view of the game. Normally, the associate coaches, including the goalie coach, watch from the owner’s box.
While Bill and Maurice went up to join Brienne Norcross, I prefer to stay at ice level. It means I’m at the hallway boards where the team enters from the tunnel, right near the net. Luckily, the opposing team’s tunnel comes out on the other end of the ice in the same position, so I’ll switch in between periods.
I want to be near my goalie. I want that same eagle-eyed view from ice level.
I ask Jesper to watch with me from this angle rather than from the bench as his input is valuable.
It’s unusual, and Keller looked at me oddly, but it really doesn’t matter where I’m at during the game, as long as I can watch and help Patrik in between periods with helpful advice.
After introductions, the national anthem, and a final TV commercial break, it’s time for the game to begin.
Face-off.
Those few seconds when the players find their places around the center circle, elbow-to-elbow with the enemy.
Coen Highsmith steps in to square off against his opponent.
Patrik stands before the net in a slight squat, rolling his head side to side.
Thunderous cheers and roars of anticipation roll through the arena.
Every bit of it has my skin prickling with fear and unfettered joy, a not-so-terrible combination when you put them together, but I feel like I’m about to explode.
I am one hundred percent focused on this team and this game and our debut.
My eyes cut past the players in the face-off circle and lock with Sophie sitting across the ice, third row back. Okay, maybe I’m only ninety-nine percent focused on the game.
She flashes me a double thumbs-up, and I smile in return. My eyes move back to center ice just as the puck drops, and Sophie is forgotten.
Now I’m at a hundred percent focus.
The puck hits the ice, and Coen is so fast on the draw, he easily flicks it to Gage. A quicker player—perhaps a little younger and not coming out of retirement—could beat Gage in a race to the opposing team’s zone. But what Gage doesn’t have in speed, he makes up for in strength, experience, and determination. Lowering his shoulder and spinning away from the Breaker beside him, he protects the puck and carries it over the blue line, followed quickly by his teammates.
If anyone had an idea of how the opening face-off would go, given the hard-knock story of this organization, they couldn’t have hoped for such a quick attack by our less experienced team. Once inside the Breaker zone, there’s a flurry of activity. A couple of clean, efficient passes are made, and Coen takes a quick wrist shot. It’s perfectly angled and catches the goalie by surprise, but in a show of dexterity and lightning reflexes, he deflects it.
The puck bounces straight to a Washington player, and their team takes off down the ice. Five players who’ve had six months of playing together move in synchronization, understanding slight nuances in their teammates’ moves and reading subtle cues.
Our defenders look discombobulated. Not squaring up to the puck, a little unsure of themselves, and that results in them being just a second too late in making a grab for the puck.
Just as we did moments ago, the Breakers execute three sharp passes and their center takes a hard slap shot, aiming to slip just under the top crossbar. Patrik flips an elbow up and manages to change the puck’s trajectory. It bounces right back to a Washington player, lands perfectly on his stick, and all he does is snap his wrist to launch a quick strike. The biscuit slithers to the left of Patrik’s hip and hits the back of the net.
It only took twenty-four seconds for the opposing team to score on us.
Patrik’s head lowers in defeat. The other players have slumped shoulders while the Washington players celebrate.
The arena is absolutely silent. None of this bodes well for the remainder of the game, but this isn’t surprising. We are a team that just hasn’t had a chance to find our groove.
But then something quite amazing happens. A few of the fans start chanting, “Titans, Titans, Titans!” It’s not one of those chants that dies out as soon as it starts but is immediately picked up by every person in the arena.
“Titans, Titans, Titans!”
It gets louder, louder, and louder, and fuck me… some of the opposing team fans yell it too. Everyone is standing, stomping their feet and clapping their hands. The combination of noises is so loud, I swear I feel the vibration through the floor.
Our first line—forwards Coen, Gage, and Stone, and defensemen Nolan Carrier and Kirill Zucker—stare at the fans. Patrik takes off his mask, his expression confused by what seems like the crowd’s approval they’d been scored on.
But eventually, they get it.
It’s the crowd’s approval that they are on the ice and that they are trying.
Gage skates over to Patrik and says a few words. I have no clue what, but clearly it’s encouraging. He then claps him on the back a few times, and Patrik nods with a smile.
Gage waves the remainder of his teammates over quickly and pulls them into a tight circle. Again, no clue what he’s saying, but whatever it is, as they break apart and skate back for the next face-off, at least their heads are held high.
And thus begins the first game for this new team.
CHAPTER 15
Sophie
Frankie and I walk into the bar, and there is no punch line.
We’re going to meet Baden for a post-game drink, but he’s still at the arena doing whatever it is coaches do with the team after the game. He’ll come here once he’s able to.
We agreed to meet at Mario’s, a bar and grill that opened fifteen years ago, owned by a famous former Pittsburgh Titans player named Mario Fontaine. After he retired, he stayed in the city rather than return to his hometown of Montreal, and he now owns a number of businesses and does a lot of philanthropic work. The restaurant, located between the arena and the baseball field, is normally so packed on game nights, it’s practically impossible to get in. But Baden apparently has clout, and he made reservations, assuring us we would have a table awaiting our arrival.
I give the hostess Baden’s name and she acts as if she’s been waiting all evening for us. She welcomes us graciously and shows us to a high-top table that borders the bar and restaurant area. While we wait for our waitress, we talk about the game.
As a lifelong fan—and I mean, I was raised on Pittsburgh sports from the time I could speak—it was thrilling to be at the first game after the plane disaster. I’ve been to many games in that arena, as well as to football and baseball games, but nothing has ever been as incredibly emotional and exhilarating. Not even when we were in the playoffs.
And even though we lost, every single fan there left satisfied.
The loss wasn’t hard to swallow by any means. It wasn’t a blowout, and our team held tough. The final score was 4–1, and admittedly, our new goalie was a little shaky, but they played their hearts out. If not for a couple of unlucky breaks, the score would’ve been closer.
I can’t wait to hear Baden’s take on it all. He’d confided in me that Patrik had outperformed Jesper in practice this week and got the call to start in net. But Baden felt that Jesper would do well, too, as his mentality is better suited for the stress of the position.
Regardless of the loss, I think all would have to admit the team played well considering they were just pieced together. The only goal came from veteran player—straight out of retirement—Gage Heyward. Surprisingly, our best player, Coen Highsmith, underperformed across the board. Not only did he not have a point to his name this evening, he didn’t even come close to getting a point. Our star center looked sluggish and dull. The fan favorite, known for his incredible energy, disarming smile, and roguish antics, was nowhere to be seen. I expect that might be due to an emotional component, but it’s so hard to tell. Maybe Coen was only good because of the people he played with. Maybe without the players who died on that plane, Coen isn’t going to be good at all.
So many unknowns.
But this is also what makes things exciting for the city. Pittsburgh was built on the backs of steelworkers, a breed known for their determination, strength, and grit. An unwillingness to quit is the spirit that embodies the character of the city. It is what we expect of the team out on the ice.
While we would like a winning team—one that looks like the Titans we had before the crash—that’s not as important as having a team playing their guts out on a consistent basis. The citizens of Pittsburgh will appreciate that and will never abandon this team if that’s all they have to give right now.
Our waitress appears, decked out in jeans and a Titans jersey. We advise her we’re still waiting for one more, but we each order a beer to sip on while we wait. We decline menus as we had plenty of junk food at the arena.
“It seems like you really enjoyed the game,” I muse as we settle in to wait for our drinks.
Frankie snorts. “Oh, you noticed, did you? I wasn’t sure with you staring at Baden the entire time.”
“I was not,” I exclaim indignantly. “Okay, maybe I watched him a little, but I was mostly focused on the game.”
“Whatever.” Frankie gives me that look… the one that says I’ll never get away with bullshitting her.
“I wanted to see how he was doing.” My attempt to explain will probably fall flat, but I’ve got to try. “This has been a hard transition for Baden. Tonight was so monumental, not only because it’s a new career but because it’s probably the final nail in the coffin of his old life.”
Frankie’s expression becomes sympathetic. But it’s me she’s worried about. “I love that you’ve got a close friendship with him and all, but please protect your heart.”
I frown, her tone catching me off guard. “What do you mean by that?”
“I see how you look at him,” she says softly. “And I hear how you talk about him. You care very much for him, and well… I’m afraid it won’t be returned and you’ll get hurt.”
I’m intrigued more than offended. Frankie is one of the sharpest and most intuitive people I know, but she doesn’t know Baden at all. “What makes you think I’d get hurt?”
I don’t bother arguing with her that I care for him, probably more than a friend should, because it’s true, and why waste energy?
Frankie shakes her head as if she doesn’t want to say.
“Frankie,” I warn, as in, don’t you dare shut down on me now.
Her eyes lock onto mine, and she leans forward a bit. “It’s just… as you were watching him tonight, he wasn’t watching you. I don’t think he looked at you once, and it worries me that he’s not feeling the same about you as you are about him.”
I try to think how to explain this to Frankie, but instead, I burst out laughing. It’s hilarious that she picked up on that detail, which is something I already knew.
And something that would never bother me in a million years.
Reaching across the table, I take her hand and squeeze it. “My dear, sweet friend, I love how you love me, and that you look out for me, and it speaks to the depth of care that you’d even notice something so minor.”
“It’s not minor to me,” she grumbles, trying to pull her hand away.
“It is minor,” I assure her, holding on tight. “Because you don’t understand sports. You don’t understand the pressures and that the minute Baden walks out there, he is one hundred percent on duty and doing his job. I would’ve been disappointed in him if he’d even spared me a moment’s glance because he’s expected to be all in with this team. He was focused right where he should be.”
Her expression is dubious as I release her.
So I give her a tiny bone. “He looked at me once… before the game started, and that was more than enough acknowledgment.”
“If you say so.” She sounds cranky, like she wants to find fault with him, but that’s not really it. Frankie only wants what’s best for me, but I imagine she’ll examine Baden like a bug tonight to try to figure him out.
“Going back to my original question… did you enjoy the game?” I ask.
I really don’t need the answer as I can sort of figure it out myself, but I want to hear her admit it. Frankie doesn’t watch sports. Doesn’t like them at all. Doesn’t want to understand them.
But she knows how to have fun. She knows how monumental this team’s return is, and so she was beside me screaming her lungs out as loudly as I was. She got wrapped up in the excitement and emotion. Maybe it will change her into a hockey fan.
“I did,” she admits, just as our waitress arrives with our beers. Before she continues, she holds hers up and I tap mine against it.
“Cheers,” we say in unison.
After a sip, Frankie says, “The atmosphere was very electric, which is something I’m generally not attracted to these days.”
“Not Zen enough for you on a routine basis,” I suggest.
“Exactly,” she replies, pointing at me. “And the rules are confusing. I still don’t understand icing and not sure I ever will.”
I can’t help but laugh. Frankie was so wrapped up in the cheering, and on one occasion, she was out of her chair, nearly mindless from the excitement of a hard-fought battle against the boards down in our zone. The puck popped free and launched down the ice toward their goalie, but just off to the left.
It was icing and no one chased after it, but Frankie was screaming at the top of her lungs, oblivious that the ref called the play dead. “Go get it. Get the puck. Score. Score. Score!”
I had to tug her back down into her seat, but it was futile trying to explain icing. There simply wasn’t enough time before play resumed, nor did Frankie really want to understand the rules.
We chat about non-hockey things as we sip our beers, her thoughts about opening her own yoga studio and my thoughts about possibly returning to school.
Without any hint or prompting, Frankie told me I should go into interior design or renovation, and I considered that extra validation on top of Baden’s.
When Frankie and I finished our first beers and Baden hadn’t arrived yet, we ordered another. Since we’d taken an Uber from my house, we didn’t have to worry about parking or having a few drinks.
Ordinarily, I would’ve been terrified at the prospect of getting in a stranger’s vehicle for a ride downtown to the arena. Since my attack, I would’ve been too fearful that the driver might try to hurt me, despite my successful use of Uber and Lyft during my work travels. But with Frankie along, I had more confidence. I reasoned that no singular driver would dare to take on two women. Besides, I had Mace in my purse.
Unfortunately, as we entered the arena, I’d completely forgotten they would search my bag, and my little bottle of pepper spray was confiscated. That wasn’t worrisome as Baden would be taking us home, a plan we made last night, a gallant offer by him that I accepted.
Just as the waitress brings our second beers, I see Baden winding through the crowd following the same hostess who seated us.
His eyes meet mine, and he levels a broad grin as he approaches. I’m so excited about him having his first game under his belt that without thought, I jump off my chair and wrap my arms around his neck. Baden returns the embrace tightly.
