The Pucking Proposal (Maple Creek)

We lost.

The fact boils in my veins. I can’t believe we lost to the fucking Ice Truckers. They’re known for “old-fashioned slap shot from the blue line and hold on to your nuts because it’s coming for your head at ninety-five miles an hour that you can see coming from a mile away” than complicated strategy or puck handling.

What makes the loss worse? It’s my fault.

The Truckers may not be able to pass for shit, and those laser beam slap shots have all the subtlety of a machine gun, but I fully expected that. They’ve played that way for years. What I also expected was to block them, but no matter how fast I reacted or what body part I sacrificed to the puck, I couldn’t keep the damn thing out of the net.

Final score: Ice Truckers: 3. Moose: 1.

Thank god for Shepherd tucking a sweet little wrist shot into the net during the second period so it wasn’t a complete shutout. But nobody is celebrating that tonight.

Nope, the whole team is silent, everyone’s eyes forward as Coach Wilson rips us a new one.

“What the fuck was that?” he shouts from the front of the bus, where he’s standing, holding on to the seats on either side of him while we cruise down the highway back toward Maple Creek. “It sure as shit wasn’t the team I’ve seen practicing on the ice every day for the last two months. Barlowe, Voughtman, Pierre . . . those Truckers were doing pirouettes around you, making you three look like clumsy bears on skates. Miles, Hanovich . . . did you decide to take a tea party break in the middle of the third period? You left Days for dead out there. And Days—”

I set my jaw tight and meet Coach’s eyes, ready to take my lumps.

“You were slow as molasses out there,” Coach growls. “Up the reflex drills or cardio or whatever you need to do so you can get to where the puck is. Or get off my ice, and I’ll get someone who can.”

Younger. He means he’ll get someone younger, and we both know it. Especially given the fact that my heir apparent is sitting four rows in front of me—Eric DeBoer. He’s twenty-three, fresh, hungry, and worst of all, talented as fuck. He needs me to get out of his way so he can have a chance, but the only way that’s happening is if I get the call to the NHL, not because I’m going out a has-been. I refuse to let that happen.

I grit my teeth, keeping my face coldly neutral and swallowing the words I’d like to throw back at Coach. Because, as much as I hate to admit it, he’s not wrong.

I felt good before the game, was excited about the matchup and confident we’d win, but somewhere around puckdrop, I felt like I’d missed something vital. I spent half the first period doing mental checks of what I might’ve forgotten. My nutrition and hydration were on point, and I’d followed my typical routine, slamming half a 5-hour energy and pissing before getting dressed as usual. I completed my pregame stretches and warm-ups with the team and my own goalie-specific ones, before doing my meditation and visualization exercises while listening to my curated playlist on my headphones. I had my lucky socks on and the laces of my skates were triple knotted and tucked, my protective gear was all in place, and my stick was inspected and freshly taped. I’d tapped the net, four times on the right and three on the left, and knocked my helmet against the top bar, becoming one with my territory. There was nothing I missed, but the niggling sense of forgetting something bugged me to the point of distraction.

And that’s when the Ice Truckers ripped one of their classic slap shots right by my stick-side shoulder, scoring their first goal.

That had been a wake-up call, but it was too late. They’d tasted Moose blood and were vicious, slamming the guys into the boards and throwing hands. Three times, any attempt at a Moose comeback was halted by dropping gloves and knuckling up. It felt like a drunk Saturday night bar brawl out there.

Coach keeps going, nitpicking and replaying every instance where we screwed up before finally turning a corner. “I expect better of you guys. I know you’re capable of it, but what you do in practice only matters if you can perform during games. Heard?”

“Heard,” a chorus of voices answers, and with a disappointed shake of his head, Coach sits down and immediately pulls out his tablet to rewatch the game, looking for more detailed nuances of where we fucked up. We’ll get that individual report in one-on-ones with him over the next day or two. We don’t have long, we’ve got another game this week.

I can’t wait, I think, already dreading it more than a simultaneous root canal and prostate exam.

I respect the hell out of Coach Wilson and would bleed myself if he asked me to, but taking it on the chin while he rakes you over the coals isn’t how I’d choose to spend an afternoon. Especially when, by the time he wants to do that, I’ll have already watched the video of tonight’s game a half dozen times and berated myself more than he ever would.

I do that after every game, win or lose. I like to scrutinize myself critically, see where I can improve or what I did well, but also, I like to focus on the other players, observe them for tells, understand how the plays progress, and decipher how I might better defend against them the next time we meet on the ice.

Sighing heavily, I let my head fall back to the seat and stare at the ceiling of the bus. In my mind’s eye, I’m already rewatching the game.

When I mentally get to the dirty shot in the first period where one Ice Trucker pinned Shepherd against the wall just before a second came in with a vicious hip check that should have been a penalty if not for some hometown refereeing, I wince involuntarily. They went at it like it was personal. Hell, maybe it was.

Shep’s sitting across the aisle from me, eyes locked on his phone. “Hey. You sleep with Green’s sister?” I ask him quietly. “Mom? Wife? Because that shit looked like a UFC fight.”

He lifts his chin, showing me the purple bruising that’s already blooming around his left eye. Keep your stick low my ass. “Not that I’m aware of, though I probably should’ve asked that chick at the bar what her last name was. Not sure I would’ve understood her with my cock down her throat, though.”

He’s kidding. There was no bar, no woman, no casual hookup last night. We were all fed, watered, and tucked into bed alone like good hockey players on the eve of a game. Well, Hayes might’ve been getting his dick sucked, but his wife made an appearance at this away game because their kid had a sleepover, so that doesn’t count.

“You good?” I ask, pointing at his eye.

He blinks several times, looking up, down, left, and right. “Yeah, I’ll live. Might have to get a guide dog, though. Think I could request a golden retriever? Girls love those things.”

“Dogs aren’t the golden retrievers girls are talking about, man,” I tell him apologetically, laughing at his idiocy even though the only reason I know what he’s talking about is because of my sister. “June says that’s a BookTok thing. Golden retrievers are guys who are goofy and energetic, loyal and sweet.”

“Oh, fuck that. No golden retrievers here.” He points at his chest, looking offended despite no one actually calling him a dog. “What’s the opposite of that? Pit bull? Velociraptor? Yeah, I’m a T. rex, baby.” To drive that point home, he curls his arms to his sides and drops his hands into claws. “Raawr.”

I can’t help but grin. Even when we lose and are pissed off to our cores, Shepherd can get you to smile. It’s one of the reasons he’s team captain.

He demonstrates another reason when he leans my way and says, “Don’t let Coach get to you. You weren’t slow. Those assholes were fast as fuck, slipping in and out of the zones like we were standing still. They upgraded more than we anticipated. We’ll get ’em next time.” He’s keeping his voice quiet so Coach doesn’t hear him disagree with his assessment. Loyal to Coach, but also to his teammates and friends.

Shepherd’s more golden retriever than he thinks, but I wouldn’t dream of commenting on it. He deserves to keep his illusion of dinosaur toughness the same way I wish I could pretend the other team was the problem tonight.

“Thanks, man, but Coach is right. I was off. I felt it from the drop and let it distract me. Kept feeling like I forgot something.” I shake my head, still not able to let the errant thought go.

“Try replaying everything leading up to the opener and then everything leading up to today. Maybe you missed something. Is it your mom’s birthday? Is the moon in retrograde? Or maybe it was a bad day and nothing more.” He lists out options like any or all of them might be a possibility, not judging any of them as stupid or unimportant. “Hell, maybe you shoulda taken a shit before the game.”

He laughs with that last one, and somehow, despite the loss, I do feel a little better.

“Thanks, man,” I tell him, meaning it sincerely. He dips his chin, smiling triumphantly. We might’ve lost, but he did one of his jobs tonight well. “Put that ice pack back on your face or Fritzi’s gonna KT tape it to you so tight it’ll squeeze your head like he did that melon.”

Shepherd blanches, peeking toward the front of the bus as he remembers Fritzi placing a watermelon between his thighs and squeezing until it split, popping open and oozing slush everywhere. “Ssshhh, he’ll hear you.”

But he puts the ice pack back and shoots me a grin.

I took Shepherd’s advice and Coach’s threat to heart over the last two days.

I’ve replayed my prep, watched the game, and had my conversation with Coach, where instead of bitching me out, he was caring and asked if I was okay. That was a million times worse than his usual yelling. But even after assuring him that I was top notch, I could see the doubt in his eyes.

At this point, I’m desperate and willing to do anything to fix my game. I need this season, need this team, need these playoffs. And so do the guys. I won’t let them down.

Which brings me to the door in front of me.

But am I actually willing to go this far to fix things? When the fix might be worse than the damage?

I stare at the bright-blue door, noticing that the brass number plate needs to be polished. Two-two-two. The only reason I knew where to come is because I helped Shepherd move the couch into this place two years ago.

When Joy moved in.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I turn to leave, but halfway down the hall, I stop. Running my fingers through my hair, I grip the strands tightly to punish myself for this ridiculousness. Mumbling to myself, I hiss, “Man the fuck up, Days. You can do this. You gotta do it. She’ll understand.”

She won’t. It’s absurd and offensive, but I’m desperate. So before I can talk myself out of it, I march back down the hallway and knock on the door three times.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

And hold my breath because Joy Barlowe is about to eviscerate me, leaving me field dressed and gutted on her living room rug, and I’m basically asking for it.