Page 2 of Off Season

That’ll be you soon.

Fuck off, conscience; give me a break. I’m trying to keep it together here.

Once I’ve shaken hands with every player and staff member, I head back down the tunnel and return to thelocker room. I sit down in my cubby, resting my elbows on my knees before dropping my head into my hands.

These guys worked so hard this season and played some of the best hockey of their careers. Even when we were hit with injuries, we kept pushing harder every game. We stepped onto the ice with determination and hunger to win.

We wanted this win.

Wedeservedto win, and as captain, I feel responsible for our loss. I feel like I’ve failed my team.

I’ve failed our fans.

I’ve failed myself.

And I’m fucking devastated.

What could I have done better?

Ugh. For fuck’s sake.

There’s nothing I can do now except move forward: study tape to see what can be improved, train hard during the off-season, and channel our energy into making next seasonourseason.

My jaw clenches, and I quickly blink away the burn from my eyes at the sound of someone hitting their cubby in anger.

I need to get my shit together.

I need to be the strong one for the team. The one guy they can depend on to help ease the weight of their own emotions.

The atmosphere is somber when the rest of the guys filter in. Some just sit and stare at nothing, lost in their own heads, while others undress without a word. There’s no post-game playlist. No rogue socks being thrown or asses slapped with damp towels.

Just this painful silence and heaviness in the air.

I don’t move. I just lift my head slightly, resting my chin on my steepled fingers, and watch this great group of guys for the last time.

I’ve been playing in the NHL since I was drafted by the Thunder nearly twenty years ago, but time doesn’t make it any easier. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been in this game for one year or almost two decades. You spend more time with these guys than you do with your family. You build connections and lasting friendships, and while trades and retirements are all part of the game, it doesn’t make knowing I’ll never play with this group again suck any less.

Coach Harris walks in. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his pressed pants, exhaustion clear on his face. He takes a moment to look at all of us individually before running a hand down his face with a heavy sigh.

“I’m really proud of every single one of you. I’m proud of this team and what we’ve accomplished. You guys worked so fucking hard this season. The time and commitment you’ve put in has been incredible. You deserved this win, and I’m disappointed for you all that the season ended this way. Unfortunately, you know it’s the way it goes sometimes in hockey, but I want you all to know you should be proud of yourselves, and we’ll come back fighting next year.”

I clench my jaw again as my chin wobbles slightly. Normally, I would follow up with a few words of my own, but tonight I can’t speak. The words are lodged in my throat. All I can do is nod and grunt, agreeing with every word Coach says.

Blaine gives me a sad smile, squeezing my shoulder before disappearing into the showers. One by one, they give me a fist bump or shoulder squeeze as they move to theshowers until I’m the only one left in the room, still sitting fully dressed, staring at the mountain of jerseys in the laundry hamper. I haven’t even unlaced my skates. I’m frozen in time with nothing but a dull fucking ache deep in my chest. Twisting like a knife.

Is this loss hitting me harder because the dreaded R-word keeps filtering more frequently through my mind? It’s fairly common that once a player hits the big three-oh, the imaginary timer begins to count down the years you’ve got left in the league. Recovery takes longer, aches and pains become more regular, and younger guys keep getting faster.

Somuch faster.

I’m not naive enough to think I have many seasons left, but fuck, this loss is hitting me harder than ever.

And not just emotionally.

Sucking in a deep, shaky breath, I squash my emotions down and start to undress. This isn’t the time or place for me to feel sorry for myself. After I carefully place each piece of equipment in its designated place in my cubby, I head into the showers.

“Ethan, you’re up for interviews in ten!” I hear the team’s public relations coordinator, Colleen, call out as I rinse the shampoo from my hair.

That’s another thing I dread. The press.

---