Page 15 of Power Play

On the dais,in front of all those microphones, my brother looked… grumpy. I mean, he always looked grumpy. But this was a level of crestfallen that only losing on the biggest stage could give a guy.

It was an awful feeling being so happy for myself and so sad for him. For a second, just a second, I was glad my mom wasn’t here. These big hard feelings would tear her apart.

My dad was here though. Standing in the back of the room. Looking like a mall Santa on the off season. I caught his tear-filled eye and winked. It made him smile in the face of his sadness.

Because that’s what I did. That was my job in our family. I was the guy who brightened the mood. Changed the dynamic. I was the guy who made all those hard moments a little easier.

I stood in the back of that room and just let myself feel sad for my brother. Sad that Wyatt lost. Sad that he had to answer a bunch of stupid questions about it. Sad that he was answering those questions in a pair of Timberlands and hooded sweatshirt that he got on the one and only family vacation we took with our mom to Ft. Lauderdale when we were in high school.

It was his lucky sweatshirt.

Though, maybe not anymore.

It had a good run.

“Our guys were champions,” he said. His voice gruff with emotion. His playoff beard was dark with pinpricks of silver. “Total gladiators. I am proud of each and every one of them. We had a couple of calls that didn’t go our way. And frankly, Rousseaux played like a man possessed. We threw everything we had at him, but he was a brick wall tonight.”

The cameras flashed and the reporters all started yelling more questions at him. He pointed at Dick Dyer in the front row, which, frankly, was an odd choice. Dick was an instigator and not one of Wyatt’s favorite journalists. But Wyatt was clearly punishing himself for the loss.

“That second period?” Dick started.

“Not my best twenty minutes of hockey.” Wyatt said.

“You looked tired out there,” Dick said. “Dare I say-”

“Don’t fucking say it,” Wyatt said, but he said it like he was joking and the room laughed. Only I saw he was serious. Dick was suddenly on the endangered species list.

“What’s your question Dick?” Wyatt asked.

I laughed, enjoying the smear of shit my brother managed to put on the guy’s name.

“Does it make you think it’s time to call it quits? Go out with some pride?”

Before my brother could say anything, I cleared my throat and stepped forward. Which predictably resulted in an absolute fire storm of camera flashes. Everyone turned my way.

“I can answer that question,” I said. “The game of hockey needs Wyatt Locke. We need his experience and his heart and his professionalism. He’s no closer to hanging up his skates than I am. He’ll be back next year. Hungry, mean and on top of his game.”

“Liam!” one of the reporters shouted. “What are you feelings about your brother losing and your team winning?”

“It’s sour candy,” I said.

Everyone looked at me puzzled until finally Wyatt leaned into the mic and said; “He means bittersweet.”

My brother’s eyes met mine over the microphones.

I love you,I said with a nod.I’m sorry you lost.

He pursed his lips and nodded at me.I’m real proud of you,I love you, too.

And that was all we would ever say about it.

“Alright everyone,we’ll have a team meeting when we’re back in Portland on Monday. But tonight,” Coach Davis shouted to those of us still lingering in the family greeting area, “tonight isfor a celebration. Be smart out there boys. Don’t do anything too dumb.”

Coach Davis looked right at me and I tried to play innocent. Everyone around us laughed at the joke.

Last year, when we lost in the playoffs, I rented a giant yacht off Cabo San Lucas and filled it with super models and my teammates. We drank champagne and made a ruckus until the loss didn’t sting quite so bad.

Social media got ahold of it and turned it into a whole thing. Like it was some damn orgy or something.

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