Page 106 of Body Check

DaSilva steps to the side, ushering me to take his spot on theXmarked on the floor. I’d tried to memorize tonight’s speech after Sports 24/7 told us thatGetting Puckedwas actually up for an award for best docuseries of the year.

Steven Fairfax didactuallyfaint when the nomination email hit his inbox. Mark Fillmore took a picture and texted it to me right after.

Gripping the microphone tight, I allow my gaze to bounce along the unknown faces in the audience. “I had a speech prepared,” I murmur, keeping my tone light, “but I have a feeling that it was somehow left on my kitchen table. Which means I’m gonna have to wing this for y’all, and it’s going to have to be short because the Blades are down to game seven tomorrow, and if I miss my flight, I know who I’m comin’ after.”

The crowd applauds at that, and I mentally thank Holly for booking us a red-eye from L.A back to Boston. My wife knows how to plan ahead, and for that I’ll always be thankful.

“See,” I say once the clapping subsides, “I planned to come up here with a perfect speech about how I transitioned from hockey player to hockey coach in the quickest time in the history of the league. Hey, DaSilva”—I point the mic in the analyst’s direction—“I got Gretsky on something. Man might be a god in my book, but he can’t hog every top-place slot.”

DaSilva offers a gallant, dramatic bow. “Touché, Carter, touché.”

I give a little bow of my own, sending the audience into a fit of laugher. Maybe I’m notthatawful at this public-speaking business.

Pushing the thought away, I keep going. “The truth is, I was a wreck. Tell any pro-athlete—hell, askanyonewho has an extraordinary love for their craft, whatever it might be—that their time is up, and I promise you that it’s not going to be a smooth process. It wasn’t for me, as you’ve seen during the course of this season’sGetting Pucked.”

I step back, away from the stand, taking the detachable microphone with me. “There’s nothing more terrifying than realizing that you’re only hurting yourself if you keep up with what you’re doing. For me, that was playin’ hockey. Each time I stepped onto the ice, I risked injuring myself more. And I’ll be honest, I didn’t quit—against the advice of my very nice, very patient doctor. In my defense, I wasn’t willing to stop until he traded a picture of Cam Neely on his desk for one of me, but that’s another story for a different day.

“So, I kept going until I could go no more. There’s something refreshing about waking up and thinkin’,well, shit can’t get any worse from here. I pushed my body to the brink and my body flipped me the bird. Don’t worry, we’re on speaking terms now.” Scrubbing a hand over my jaw, I run through the words I’d rehearsed with Holly. All of them, now, come up blank.

Fuck it.

Time to go off the cuff and wrap this up.

“I’ve been asked multiple times what changed my bitter outlook, and I’ll tell you that it was thanks to one person—the woman who interviewed me for the final episode ofGetting Pucked. She was a constant on the show the entire season, working some of the most brilliant magic behind the scenes. My wife, Holly Carter.”

Fruitlessly, my gaze searches for her in the crowd. When I don’t see her, I push onward. “I once asked myself, without hockey, who am I . . . and I’ll admit, I didn’t have an answer six months ago. I was me, a man who loved hockey and a man who lovedher,Holly. But then I thought about it,reallythought about it, and I finally knew what I hadn’t realized all along: hockey may feed my soul, but it’s not because of the rush of the ice under my skates or the sting of my helmet hitting the Plexiglas. It’s because of my guys on the team; the staff who work diligently to improve us, game after game. It’s the fact that, when I was out for the count, my family came to me with pizza and trash talk and goddamnCards Against Humanity, and me and them and Holly stayed up until four in the morning playing ridiculous board games.”

“I love hockey because I’m part of a family.” I shove my hand into the front pocket of my slacks. Draw in a deep breath before going for gold. “My brilliant wife then slapped me with a healthy dose of reality, and said,Not all superheroes wear capes, Jackson. So, I stand here before you, out of my usual Blades uniform and skates. I put down the hockey stick in favor of working together with doctors like Dr. Mebowitz and others who study TBI and CTE. We can’t change what happened to me or what’s happened to so many other athletes, but we can do something different for our children.”

There’s a commotion at the side of the stage, and it takes me a moment to register the fact that Holly,myHolly, is making her way up toward me. In her hands, she carries what looks like a navy-blue towel.

Only when she shakes it out do I realize that she’s bought me an honest-to-Godcapewith the words ASSISTANT COACH emblazoned in silver.

“You didn’t,” I rasp, not even giving a shit that the entire theater can hear me.

I stand, rooted to the spot, as Holly gives the fabric an extra shake like a matador waiting for the bull. She steps in close. “Turn around, Coach.”

Like any husband who knows the benefits of obeying his wife, I turn my ass around.

Her nimble fingers close the front around my neck, snapping the cape’s button closed before lingering a tad longer than is socially appropriate. She skims her nails over my chest before snagging the microphone from my grasp.

Whirling around to the crowd, she sidles under my arm and rests her head against my chest. “Let it be a lesson learned,” she says into the mic, “not all superheroes might wear capes, but when you’re the Beast of the Northeast, the Badass of Hockey, there’s no other option. Anyone think Jackson here should wear this cape tomorrow at the game? Maybe it’ll bring him and the Blades a little luck?”

As the crowd freaks the hell out, I don’t know whether to kiss or spank my wife.

But when Marshall Hunt scores the winning goal the following night, clinching the playoffs for us and bringing home the Cup, I opt to do both.

And I make sure to wear my cape for a little luck.

Epilogue

Holly

Five Years Later

“Mommy, can I eat cereal out of Stanley?”

Normally, the answer to that question, posed by my four-year-old son, would be a hardhell no.(Without the four-letter word additive, obviously.)

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