7
jasper
Sloane: Have I told you that you’re my favorite goalie in the world?
Jasper: You have bad taste.
Sloane: You’re still my favorite.
Jasper: You might be the only one tonight.
Sloane: Correction. Favorite hockey player. Number one fan here.
Jasper: You know a lot of hockey players, right?
Sloane: Only the best. I’ll be at the players’ exit.
Losing never feels good, but somehow tonight it feels worse. I’ve started four games in a row because this organization trusts me. My coach trusts me. And we have lost four games in a row. All this streak at home has gone down the toilet.
It weighs on my shoulders.
I have disappointed my teammates. To my coaches. To the entire city, who is so involved in the success of this team.
I feel like I let Beau down in some way. As if I couldn’t have won it for him. I’ve also been a miserable asshole to everyone around me. And I let Beau down there too, because that man had a smile on his face and was kind no matter what.
Then there is the stunning blonde who has been in the box every night, supporting me. I spend games trying not to look at her while I sit on the bench, punishing myself. As if he were able to distinguish her.
Tonight I showered and changed but I’m disappointed. I’m sad, but also angry. I walk through the back tunnel towards the press box. I hate this part of my night after good games, but I don’t even think there’s a word to describe what it feels like to string together four shitty games in a row and then be forced to talk about it on tape.
Torture, perhaps.
I know I played badly. My team knows it. Journalists know it. And now we’re all going to sit down and talk about it publicly. Fucking perfect.
As soon as I get on stage with a long table on top, I hear the clicking of the cameras. Some journalists I recognize greet me. I give them a curt nod and pick up the brim of my cap. Then I pull out a chair, sit next to my trainer and take a deep breath.
The first question comes from a journalist I’ve seen before, one who always asks the most obnoxious questions. As if he was intentionally trying to trip us up to get a striking sound.
-Hello. Mike Holloway of the Calgary Tribune. Jasper, why don’t you tell us what happened out there tonight?
I refuse to roll my eyes. That’s not a question, and he knows what happened out there tonight. He has seen it. Making him tell you is stupid.
“Well, Mike. As you saw, I wasn’t at my best tonight. Not even close. I know what the team needs from me, and I couldn’t do it. There were a couple of goals that I would have liked to get back, and then they had a couple of good chances and beat me. Obviously, they are stops that I have to make if we want to compete this year.
“Yes,” answers the slightly round, middle-aged man. Thank you. Continuing with that. It seems like this is the new normal for you. I wonder what you are doing to change things. This year seems decisive for the team. Many people would love to know your training plans to get back in shape.
I purse my lips and nod my head, feeling a drop of water roll down the long ends of my hair to the nape of my neck. My coach, Roman, looks at me but doesn’t say anything. He knows I hate this shit at the best of times and is willing to intervene if necessary.
The specific details are something that is between the training staff and me. But I assure you that I am working hard. Nobody wants it more than me. I’m definitely spending time with the sports psychologist. In the coming weeks I will refocus on my mental game. I assure you that.
And it’s not a lie. My mental game is garbage right now. I thought playing would distract me, but I should have listened to Sloane. If I had, I wouldn’t have let my team down like this.
“Sorry to tell you, but it almost seems like you are too comfortable in the long contract you just signed.
I blink at the man in front of me. The one who looks like he hasn’t exercised in years, not to mention not having played any elite sport in his entire life.
-Well then. With your permission, Mike, I’m going to-I gesture with my thumb over my shoulder-take off and get to work on my training. Trying to make myself a little more uncomfortable for you.
I get up from the plastic folding chair and stand, listening to Roman chime in with some comment about maintaining respect in questions. But I dont care. Fuck Mike and fuck this press conference.
I need to go out.
A quick stop in the locker room and I have my bag and car keys. I almost walked out the door without saying anything. I just want to lick my wounds in private, but the kids deserve more. They deserve an explanation.
I turn, gripping the doorframe, scanning the room.
-Guys. Guys, I’m sorry. “I’ve been acting like an idiot these last few games,” I tell my teammates, who are still hanging around. I don’t talk much, but when I do, they listen to me. My brother, the one in the military, went missing in action last week, and my head is screwed. Everyone deserves better from me. And I want you to know that I’m working on it.
Heads are raised in the room. The silence is deafening.
Jesus, Gervais. In three long strides, Damon hugs me, pats me on the back and the other boys approach with concern painted on their faces. Damon steps back, his hands squeezing my shoulders as he looks me in the eyes and gives me a little shake. You should have told us. Hockey is just a game. The family is the family.
Jasper. I hear my coach’s voice behind me and I stiffen. He’s a good guy. But even good guys have their limits. And he sounds angry. Let’s talk in the hallway.
His hand rests on my shoulder to pull me away from my companions, who are looking at me with wide eyes. I hear a joke about how I really pissed off Dad this time, and my lips twitch.
I close the locker room door behind us and finally raise my eyes to meet Roman’s. He has them pressed at his sides and his thick arms are crossed over his broad chest. His years in the league mean that Roman King is still in good shape at the age of forty. He is still a competitor.
He still remembers what it is like.
“I don’t know whether to hit you or hug you.”
I mirror his position and return his gaze. He’s still big, but I’m a few centimeters ahead of him.
“I would hit myself if I were you.”
“Well, if I were you, I would have told my coach that my personal life was a devastating pile of shit.
I roll my eyes, like a petulant child.