Page 16 of Keeper
“Yeah, D?” I muttered, my gaze on the team logo in the middle of the locker room.
“Look me in the eye, bud. Listen. That wasnotyour fault. You’re playing your fuckin’ heart out—we all see it. It’s on us, man. We let you down. We didn’t come ready to play. It’s gotnothingto do with you. Trust me, you deserve better than what we’re giving you.” He turned to address the room. “Boys, we need to figure this out. Weallneed to play better for Vaughnsy.”
Heads bobbed in agreement, and words of support were grunted from all around the room:
“Our bad, tendy.”(Tendy: slang for goaltender.)
“Yeah, we played like shit when you were in net.”
“Sorry bud. You’ll get ’em next time.”
“Thanks, boys,” I muttered as I took my seat at my stall and started tearing off my equipment.
I appreciated the sentiment, but what else could they really say? The locker room is a sacred place. Where men bond over jokes and insults, all in the name of encouraging each other and holding each other accountable. Where the individual pieces become greater than the sum of their parts.
When someone’s struggling, we don’t tear them down. We build them back up.
But the simple fact of the matter is, right now, I’m not getting the job done, and everyone knows it. And when a goaltender’s confidence is shot, it’s reflected in the way the entire team plays. If the goalie doesn’t trust himself, why should his teammates?
The answer is: they don’t. And because they don’t trust their goalie, they play safe, because they’re afraid to make a mistake that will end up in the back of the net. Playing safe means taking no risks. But an offensethriveson risk, so you can guess what happens next—the goal scoring dries up. The inability to score is accompanied by a feeling that wemustplay a perfect game and squeak out a 1–0 victory. The second we give up a goal, the whole team is broken and defeated, and then the goals really start pouring in.
Put the backup in net, though, and it’s like everyone took a breath of fresh air. Suddenly, they are a very different team.
That’s where we’re at right now.
To make things worse? I’m playing like garbage in a contract year. Meaning I’m costing myself millions of dollars.
I turned on my cell phone and saw a missed call from my agent, Pete Donnelly. He left a message:“Tanner. Saw your game. Call me when you’re free.”
Great,I thought.Pete’s probably pissed about all the money I’m costinghim, too.
Cooper’s knees creaked as he took his spot in the stall next to me. “Whew. Gettin’ too old for this shit.”
Cooper was a bonafide starter back in his day. He’s still a great goalie, but now that he’s thirty-eight years old and his hair is starting to thin, each game exacts a heavy toll on his body. That was the main reason why he signed in Dallas this past year—he’d assumed that he would enjoy a lighter workload, serving as a backup to a legit number one goalie. He hadn’t expected to get this much work, this early into the season. He hadn’t counted on me stumbling out of the gate. Then again, who did?
I clapped him on the thigh. “Hey, great game, Coops.”
“Thanks, Vaughnsy.” He whistled at the trainer and called for an ice bag. A second later, he snagged the airborne ice bag with the same flash he showed against the Reign. “I’m just holding down the fort until you get back into your groove, kid.” He held the ice bag against his hip flexor and sucked air through gritted teeth. “Hope it’s soon, because I’m not sure how much longer I can hold up. At my age, these joints of mine are made of papier-mâché.”
Add Coops’s breaking-down body to the list of things my shitty play is causing.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Ah, hell.” He put his arm around my neck and pulled me close. “I was just trying to make you laugh, kid. You just gotta loosen up and relax. Trust me, I’ve been exactly where you are. I know how it is.”
“Yeah? You’re a vet, Coops, tell me what you see. I need a fresh eye.”
“Not sure anyone would callmefresh,” he said, chuckling. “But to me, it looks like you’re over-thinking the game. We’re goaltenders, Vaughnsy, we can’t attack the game. We have to let the game come to us.”
“And how do I do that?”
“You need something to take your mind away from the game. You need something bigger than hockey.”
Normally, when I get into a little funk, I can break the slump by hooking up with a new girl. This year, it just isn’t working.
“I’ve tried that,” I said. “My go-to isn’t working.”
Coops let out a great laugh. “I’ve been there, too. Your go-tos are great … until they’re not. You just gotta mix things up.”
