Page 1 of Dating Goals
1
GRIFFIN
Nothing says fun quite like worrying if we’ll be out of a job tomorrow, but Coach Knight seems determined to ignore it, just like he ignores the sweat dripping down our backs and the way some of the guys have that freaked-out look in their eyes. I’m determined not to let the possibility of an NHL lockout distract me, though. I focus on blocking puck after puck, soaking in the smell of the ice and the sound of it scratching beneath my skates. Coach Knight is on some sort of cruel marathon kick, dragging out the session until we’re ready to drop.
My teammates are firing shots with extra oomph today, probably channeling their frustration about the looming lockout deadline. I drop into the butterfly position, my pads hitting the ice with a satisfying thunk as Owen’s slap shot whistles past my blocker.
The puck pings off the post. A close call that has me grinning behind my mask.
“Getting slow there, Crash!” Owen taps his stick on the ice, but I can see the tension in his shoulders. Everyone’s wound tight today.
“Coming in hot!” Sawyer barrels down center ice and winds up for a slap shot that could probably punch through concrete. Ibarely snag it with my glove—the force sending vibrations up my arm.
“Easy on the merchandise!” I flash him a thumbs-up with my blocker hand. “I need these hands to eat my feelings when we’re all unemployed tomorrow.”
The reminder of the Collective Bargaining Agreement deadline hangs over the practice rink like a storm cloud. My teammates’ shots are getting harder, faster, angrier.
Owen lines up for another shot, his face set in stone. “Focus up. If this is our last practice for a while, let’s make it count.”
My pads are too heavy. My eyes sting with sweat. I’ve got to show Coach I can outlast everybody. Just in case I don’t see the guys again until Christmas. Just in case the CBA talks fail and some of my friends head off to Europe.
Hendrix swoops in next, bearing down on me. He fires five quick shots in succession…left pad save, blocker, catch glove, stick save, and…the last one squeaks through my five-hole.
“Finally!” Hendrix raises his arms in triumph. “Thought you were turning into a brick wall there, Griffin.”
Another missile from Owen’s stick comes screaming at my face. I snag it with my glove, but just barely.
“Easy there, Jablonski,” I say. “Take it out on the net, not me.”
I have the feeling that if I move out of the way and put up a picture of the Titans’ owner, Malcolm Chase, the guys would go to town on it.
I try to stay focused on the pucks flying at me, but my mind keeps drifting to the ticking clock.
Midnight.
That’s when everything changes if the league and players can’t agree. The franchise owners are still playing hardball over everything. Salary cap, revenue sharing, free agency age. The whole thing’s a mess.
“McGregor! Eyes up!” Coach Knight’s voice cuts through my thoughts. He’s running drills like it’s any other day, face set in his signature scowl. “I don’t care what’s happening off the ice. Right now, you’re here.”
Another shot from Owen catches the corner of my net. Crap.
“Again!” Coach barks. “Until we get it right.”
The whole thing makes my stomach churn. If they don’t reach a deal by midnight, we’re locked out. No more practices, no access to team facilities, no games. And a whole lot of angry fans.
I shake the sweat from my eyes beneath my mask as the guys line up for another round of rapid-fire shots. One after the other, they come at me. I miss half of them.
“Focus, Griffin!” Coach’s whistle pierces the air. “One more time. Sawyer, Owen, give me that power play setup we worked on.”
I stretch my legs between shots, trying to stay loose. My agent has been negotiating with a team in the Swiss National League for a few weeks now. EHC Visp Föhn. The name rolls around in my head during quiet moments. At least I have a backup plan if this all goes sideways. Their offer sits in my email inbox, but I haven’t opened it yet. I don’t want to jinx the CBA. I guess I’m just too superstitious.
After what feels like hours of drilling, Knight finally calls it. Just in time. The players are so ready for practice to be over, I think we might actually drop if we have to skate another minute.
“Hit the showers! And whatever happens tonight, I expect every one of you to stay ready,” Coach says.
Sawyer and Hendrix clatter toward the lockers, where the rest of the team seems to think the showers will be much less torturous.
My legs burn as I skate off the ice.
