Page 41 of Famous Last Words
ROBBIE
At the final siren, we’re five for five. I scored my second ever hat trick, Dallas scored his first ever shutout, and as we skate off the ice to the roar of the home crowd, the atmosphere throughout the arena is electric.
It really feels like something has clicked. Not just between me and the guys on the team, but with everyone, everything. Coach is being less of a sullen asshole, and even Rusty seems to have pulled his head out of his ass and stepped up as captain.
Removing my helmet, I trail behind as we file into the locker room, and everyone gathers around Dallas, spraying him with water or Gatorade or whatever they can get their hands on, christening him on his very first shutout.
The merriment in the room is palpable; there’re slaps on the back, hugs, high fives, all accompanied by the sound of everyone yelling to be heard over each other. Randomly, “Baby I Love Your Way” by Big Mountain starts to play from somewhere, Dallas singing at the top of his lungs completely offkey and somehow already naked from the waist up, cowboy hat secured on his head.
I take a seat in front of my cubby, wiping the sweat from my forehead with a towel before taking off my skates, and as I look around, I can’t help but smile, because this is what it used to be like. This is what I loved about hockey. Coming back into the locker room after a win and acting like absolute dorks with the guys you just busted your ass for out on the ice, to celebrate the moment, not to think about tomorrow or the next game. It used to be like this when I first started with the Lions, but somehow along the way, the fun was lost and it became just another grind.
A hush falls over the room as Coach takes center floor, and I’m a little taken aback by the smile on his face. Well, it’s almost a smile. Probably as much of a smile as he’s willing to give, but a smile nonetheless.
Everyone settles as Coach starts talking about all the things we did right, and the improvements we can work on in preparation for our game on Monday night.
“I wanted to take a moment to call out Robbie Mason.” He points a finger at me, and the room erupts in applause. I roll my eyes at the unwanted attention, grunting a chuckle when Dallas wraps his arm around my neck and gives me a fucking noogie.
Coach continues. “Son, you’ve found your voice out there on the ice, and you’re proving to be a true leader. We’re glad to have you on the team,” he says quickly, as if the words were painful to say.
I bow my head in return, an unspoken truce seemingly shared between the two of us in that one fleeting moment.
“Now.” Coach holds the game puck in the air. “Game puck.”
The guys all cheer.
“This one goes to the backbone of our team, the one guy who goes out on to that ice every damn night and gives it his all. Themouth from the South, voted—” he pauses to roll his eyes, “—sexiest goalie, two years in a row.”
Beside me, Dallas is already on his feet, theatrically bowing like a dickhead to everyone.
“Celebrating his very first shutout, Dallas Shaw!” Coach closes the distance and pulls Dallas in for an awkward side hug.
Grinning ear-to-ear, Dallas takes the puck, looking at it with the kind of revered awe reserved for a firstborn child, and I can’t help but jump up to slap him on his back, which he takes as an open invitation to wrap his arms around me in a half-naked, sweaty hug.
“Couldn’t have done it without this fucking boss!” he yells, pointing at me, and again, I roll my eyes, not wanting to steal his moment.
The celebrations continue around the room, the social media team popping in to take a few quick videos of us for the team’s social media accounts, but my mind drifts to the one thing that’s been nagging at me all night. Keller never showed.
I texted her this morning to tell her Andy wasn’t going to be at the game tonight, that she was on her own. Her response had been laced with that smart mouth tone of hers, telling me she’s abig girland that she cantake care of herself. I rolled my eyes, maybe even laughed a little, and my dirty fucking mind might’ve even wandered to the gutter momentarily, imagining hertaking careof herself alright. Naked and wet, in a steamy shower.But when we got out onto the ice for warm up, my eyes immediately went to the friends and family section to look for her, to make sure she was on time, maybe even fuck with her by trying to get her on the Jumbotron again, but she wasn’t there. And by the time the first period had well and truly kicked off, she still wasn’t there.
I’d considered texting her during the break, but there’s a strict no phone rule, and I didn’t want to piss off Coach. Now, she’s a definite no show, and I wish I could say that I’m pissed, but if I’m being honest, I’m more concerned.
I pull out my phone, staring at the last message she sent me as I consider my response; I don’t want to come across as a complete asshole.
Me: You’re not here.
I re-read my message and can’t help but scoff because that’s literally all I’ve got.
Staring at the text window, I wait for her reply, but nothing comes. She’s usually super quick with responding, but it’s crickets. Not even those dots show up to indicate she’s replying with something sassy.
I don’t miss the way my gut twists. But before I can think of a follow-up message or, I don’t know, fucking call her like a grown-ass adult, I’m stopped by Coach Bromley tapping me on my shoulder.
“What’s up, Coach?” I tuck my phone into my bag.
Coach points to the corridor that leads to the office. “Office.”
Following behind him, I know I can’t be in trouble given how stoked everyone is with our fifth win, but as I enter the office to see Coach Draper and Chris Garret, and the team fucking owner, Bob Oakley, all standing around, my heart flies up into the back of my throat. This can’t be good.
“Robbie, you know Bob?” Chris Garret says, pointing to the imposing billionaire.
