Page 2 of Wrong Score

I remember sprinting full force toward Reeve lying lifeless on the asphalt with Keely kneeling over him screaming for someone to call 911. I remember the feeling of his weight on the gurney as I helped the EMTs hoist him into the back of the ambulance. I thought I might never speak to him again. And then I spent the entire night in the OR with Keely and Sam Roberts, the Hawkeyes GM, while he was in surgery.

Ezra’s right. It’s a miracle that Reeve’s back out on the ice at all, let alone practicing at the capacity that he is. But Aisa is a force to be reckoned with. Ever since he joined the team, he’s been the first to show up and the last to leave. He puts in more time on the ice than any other player, and bribes players with pizza and beer to come out and huck some pucks at him on their days off.

He still has a heart for this game, and he reminds me a lot of myself in my earlier years when I was playing professionally, but he should be improving this week, not missing a shot from our own team on a play he already knows.

Powers shoots to Conley, and then Conley shoots it to Slade Matthews, our center, who shoots the puck back to Powers.

Aisa dives down, stopping the puck with his pads but the puck gets away from him and Matthews recovers it, shooting it back at Aisa and making it past him and into the net.

Score for Matthews.

Ezra blows the whistle again at the end of the play.

"Aisa!" I call out, waving him over. He looks up from the net, his eyes meeting mine through the cage of his helmet.

He skates over while Ezra motions for Seven Wrenley, another goalie for the team, to jump out onto the ice and take Aisa’s spot in the huddle with Powers and the rest of the team. Aisa comes to a stop at the boards in front of me. "Coach… I…I" he stammers, a flicker of something in his eyes. Guilt? Uncertainty? Disappointment?

He's never distracted. That's one of his best qualities. Just like me, he uses the ice to escape.

I lean in closer, lowering my voice. "What’s going on out there? Is your knee acting up? Do you need Keely to look at it–"

Reeve hesitates, glancing around at his teammates. "No, no, It’s not my knee. It’s sore but it’s fine–stronger every day.”

“Okay, then what’s going on up here?” I say, knocking lightly on his helmet.

“It's nothing, coach… really. Just some personal stuff with Keely. But I'll get it together, I promise."

"Keely? What's wrong with Keely? Is she okay?" I ask, unable to keep the sound of concern out of my voice.

Ever since the night of Reeve’s accident, and spending the evening in the OR with her, I feel especially protective over Keely, the Hawkeyes’ in-house PT.

Yesterday morning, I had an appointment with her for my shoulder. Her stretching techniques have been helping a lot with the pain from the bucket of pucks I shoot every morning between the time slot when Penelope, the Hawkeyes Assistant GM, comes in for morning warm-up and the team comes in for practice.

Keely seemed off, but it's not as if she and I are in the habit of sharing war stories over afternoon tea and biscuits.

"Yeah, she will be. Or at least I think so. Rowan got involved..." he looks up at me and something flashes in his eyes—like he shouldn't have said anything.

"Rowan got involved? Does this have anything to do with the conversation you two were having right before Thanksgiving when she left my office?" I glance back at Rowan’s usual spot to find she’s not sitting there anymore.

I’d told Rowan to lay off the team. During our first run-in right before Thanksgiving in my office, I warned her off my players. She left, stomping out of my office and leaving the door wide open. I saw her stop in front of Reeve. I couldn't hear what she was telling him, but whatever it was, Reeve didn't look happy.

I can see Reeve bite down on the inside of his lip. He wants to tell me something, but he thinks he shouldn't.

"Aisa, if Rowan has something on you or Keely—"

"Never mind," he blurts out. "It's not important."

It's one thing if Rowan is asking my players trivial questions like,"Did you leave a cookie for Father Christmas as a kid, and if so, were they chocolate chip or oatmeal raisin?"but if she’s collecting dirt on my players, I need to know about it.

The thought makes my blood boil.

“Take a break, go see Keely about your knee,” I tell him.

He nods, practice is almost over anyway and whatever is going on, he needs to work it out so that he comes back to practice ready to play at his best. He skates over towards the player tunnel and heads for the locker room.

The rest of practice passes in a blur of drills and strategy discussions. By the end, I'm more frustrated than ever with my own inability to focus.

"Alright, team," I call out. "Let's wrap it up for today. Good work out there but remember—we're a team. We rise together, we fall together. I want to see that unity on the ice tomorrow."

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