Page 8 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
“But we won,” Pierre says.
“With thanks to Hammer’s magic socks,” Ted says.
I swallow because this was the first time in a long time I didn’t have my lucky charm. In fact, if the guys were watching more closely, they’d notice I’ve given up several of my pregame habits, which was about as fun as having a tooth knocked out.
But I did it. Go me.
“The other teams are watching our every move. When they find our weaknesses, they will exploit them,” Badaszek says gravely.
The guys banter about each other’s shortcomings on and off the ice … and my lucky socks.
Vohn rivals me in the grouch department. They call himCCshort for cantankerous curmudgeon, though not to his face. I’m known as the Grumpy Goalie, but that’s not exactly it. It’s not that I’m grumpy, more like quiet, reserved, stoic.
Badaszek adds, “Buckle up, boys. Moving forward, we’ll be closing these gaps and tightening our play.”
Leaving us to talk among ourselves, the coaches confer. This only means one thing. Next week’s practice will be brutal.
“Hammer, what’s your take?” asks Micah, team captain, always trying to include me.
“We all know Hammer doesn’t have opinions. He goes with the flow,” Hayden says.
Redd winks. “Hardly. Under that stoicism is a scholarly man, worldly even, with commentary on everything from Renaissance art to modern engineering.”
“And cereal milk.” Ted makes a gagging face.
Out of the six of us, it’s an even split between Pierre, me, and now Redd—with thanks to his daughter Blue—who’re pro cereal milk. The rest think it’s a vile abomination to beverages around the world.
The back and forth continues until they slowly filter out of the room, leaving me feeling heavy with the reminder of why I am the way I am. I wasn’t always so tight-lipped. I got tired of hearing my voice. I keep my trap shut, do what I’m here to do-–what I’m good at—and leave the rest to the big mouths in the room. That would be everyone else.
“Good job out there today, Hammer,” Badaszek says, brushing off the whiteboard.
I grunt in response as I get to my feet. He shifts so he’s blocking my path to the door, but I don’t get a feeling of aggression from him, though he was formidable in his day. He has a few daughters and I glimpse his paternal side for a moment as he looks up at me.
“Hammer, it’s okay to accept a compliment.” He searches my eyes as if trying to figure out what I keep hidden.
“Yes, sir,” I reply.
Even though I’m on the ice as frequently as the other guys on the team, I don’t move around quite as much and my protective equipment weighs over three stones. Kind of like my life outside of hockey—or more accurately, on the other side of the world, the life I’ve been avoiding. It’s baggage I try to leave in my locker.
Badaszek holds my gaze and says, “It’s okay to brag a little. Let the guys know that you were the star player this game. Shutouts don’t happen every day.”
I grunt in response.
“But you’re not going to let me pat you on the head and tell you what a good job you did, huh?”
“Probably not, sir.”
Having grown up in a small country north of England, I’m used to the cold, but sometimes it digs into my bones, making me especially tired after a game. I’m not a grandfather in hockey years—that’s like dog years—quite yet, but I’m getting towards the end of my career. I can feel it. Sense it.
This means the hiatus I have taken from my family will soon come to an end.
Have I been avoiding them? Yes.
Do I hate them? No.
Butloveis a word never exchanged among the Hammers. Far from it. I’m not looking for it either. I’ve watched the rise and fall of many good hockey players—not taken out by injuries but by women. Not looking for that either, even though it’s the key to my freedom after my career is over.
Coach says, “Hammer.”
