Page 74 of Icing the Enemy

The typical chatter in the locker room dies down as the minutes tick down, and it’s almost game time. I listen to my playlist that Oakley makes for me each week. If we lose, sheditches all the songs on the list and starts over with songs that have been winners. My life is good.

The phone rings into my ears, but it’s not Jasper; it’s my dad. He always messages me to wish me luck but never calls because he doesn’t want to throw me off my game. I answer with a smile, knowing it’s his voice on the other end even before I pick up.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, trying to conceal the excitement and a hint of nerves that linger just beneath the surface.

“Hey, champ.” His deep voice crackles slightly over the connection. “I just wanted to let you know I’ll be watching. Jasper’s team is tied 1-1. Give it your all out there, okay?”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “I will. Thanks, Dad.”

As we hang up, something is shifting, and I don’t know if it’s pre-game jitters or something unknown wracking my body. I finish taping my stick, the rhythmic motion calms me, and glance around the locker room, but the air is heavy and everything feels wrong.

After the pomp and circumstance of the pre-game, the buzzer sounds, and the first-round playoff begins. Despite the adrenaline coursing through me, I can’t quite shake the feeling left by my dad's call. It’s strange; his voice, lingers in my mind like a distant echo.

On the ice, the Dallas Rattlers come out swinging like boxers trying for a knockout–being aggressive as I’ve ever seen. We scramble to regain our footing, but it's like we’re a step behind. I see their forward barreling down the ice, our defense caught out of position with a brisk pass to Basilio. In a blur, Basilio hits a wrist shot, and the puck slides under Adam’s leg before we know it. The red light flashes mockingly, and a deafening cheer erupts from the Rattlers’ fans.

As captain, I gather my team and give them a pep talk. “We’re the Nashville Notes. Communicate on the ice. Pass, pass, pass until they have no idea which way to skate. Let’s do this.”

“One, two, three, Notes,” we yell in unison.

I refocus, shaking off the uneasiness traveling through my veins. Something is wrong. With the puck in our possession, Baker and I weave through their defense like it's a choreographed routine, graceful and powerful at the same time. I see the opening. Baker sends the puck my way with sniper-like precision, and I don't have time to think, just react. Relying on twenty years of playing hockey and the muscle memory that comes along with training hours a day, I send it soaring, splitting the air in half.

There’s that heart-stopping moment where time stands still, where I’m willing the puck to stay on the right trajectory to be on target. Suddenly, we’re back in real time, and the puck sinks past the Rattlers’ goalie, slamming into the net with a satisfying swoosh.

I score again at the beginning of the third period and soon, the rush of relief and triumph is dizzying, drowning out everything else. We rally together, and by the final buzzer, we win game one. The apprehension fades, replaced by the pure, exhilarating joy of playoff glory.

But when I look into the stands, Oakley isn’t doing the “Oakley winner dance.” She has her hands over her nose and mouth. Is she overcome with emotion over the win? I’ve never seen this expression at a game, let alone a playoff game. I motion for her to come to the glass.

“Is everything okay?” I realize Becca isn’t beside her or in the stands. “Is Becca okay?”

Oakley shakes her head no with tears sprinkling her eyes. “Not here, I’ll meet you in the tunnel.”

“No, tell me now.”

Her lips quiver, and she mouths, “I said I’ll meet you in the tunnel. I promise this is not the place.”

Oakley is never hostile or demanding, except in the sheets, so I hurry to shower and change when I see a million missed calls and texts from my parents and siblings and one voicemail from Mamaw.

“Sugarbear, you flew high today. That goal seemed like divine intervention. Fly high tomorrow and the rest of your life. I’ll be watching. This body is giving out, but my love never will. I knew I couldn’t pass until you found Oakley. She lights up everyone’s life just like you always have. Take care of Becca and make your mom and dad grandparents—it’s the best job in the world. Love you. Now, go win the Cup!”

With tears gushing down my cheeks, I have to get to Oakley and Becca. The guys stop and stare as I walk past them and by the time I reach the door, the locker room is eerily quiet. Oakley is standing in the tunnel with her lips tucked inside her mouth. Her knee is bouncing with her arms crossed. When she sees me, she comes flying into me. “I’m so sorry.”

I surround her with my arms, hugging as tight as I’ve ever hugged anyone. After minutes or hours of crying, I choke on my words. “When?”

She cries in my ear, “Becca got a call from your dad with a few minutes left in the third.”

When we break apart, I ask, “Where’s Becca? God, she must be devastated.”

“I don’t know. She said she needed to be alone.”

Grief rips through me once again, tears getting trapped in my lashes, and I need to get out of here to be alone with Oakley, Becca, and my thoughts. With our hands intertwined, we snake through the hallway, and we find Becca wrapped in John Basilio’s arms.

“Becca.”

She jumps, looking startled with mascara blackening her eyes. “Corby.” She leaps into my arms, and we cry together. “I loved her so much.”

“I know. We all did.” I want to let go of my sister, but I can’t. She’s always been my best friend, and the two of us along with Isaiah spent the most time with Mamaw. It was the time when Mom still worked and Mamaw babysat us after school. “Let’s get to the hotel.”

Becca gives a meek wave to John, but he comes over and says, “Shearer, I know you and your Mamaw were close. I’m sorry for your loss.”

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