Page 3 of How We End
“It was, Jon.Fans were hoping for a different Vegas team than the one that fell apart down the stretch last season.They started out strong, but a list of injuries—and Julian Silver’s six-game suspension in March—took them out of the playoff race.”
“In preseason, Coach Murry said this group was healthy, ready to make a run.The team may be healthy but they don’t look strong enough to make that run.Is this still about health, or are we seeing something else?”
“Honestly?A little of both.They start off strong, but by the second period they’re losing momentum—too many turnovers through the neutral zone, not enough bodies in front of the net.And a lot of that ties back to Silver.Early last season, he was producing two, sometimes three points a night and driving the league’s top penalty kill.Then came the injury, then the suspension, and the team never recovered.”
“And that’s the question now.At thirty-four, can Julian Silver still be the guy to carry this team—or was he just a flash in the pan?”
CHAPTERTWO
JULIAN
October 9
3-2 Loss to St.Louis
“What the fuck was that?Huh?”Murry shouted, pacing the floor.“Can any of you explain to me what the hell happened?Seven turnovers.Seven in the last six minutes of the game.What the fuck?We are here to win.Not get our fucking asses served to us by the worst team in the league.”Murry surveyed the room.“Anders.You hit the post four times.Four.Walker, who the hell were you passing to in the third period?King, you have got to keep the fucking puck in the o-zone.And Silver.”
I stayed quiet, waiting for him to lay out everything I’d done wrong.The five missed shots, the four minutes for stupid penalties, and the icing that cost us the game.The din of the locker room died down.I glanced up to see the team and Murry looking at me.“Yeah?”
“My office, now.”
“Can I shower?”
“No.”Murry turned and headed down the hall.Anders caught my eye, and I could read the worry.
“I’m sure he wants to congratulate me on a great game,” I joked.Murry’s office sat beyond the locker room, the hallway’s carpeting and artwork muffling the sounds of my teammates.“What did you want?”
“Sit.And close the door.”Murry nodded to the chair.
“I’ll stand.”Sitting hurt too much.My hip had started to bother me.Last season it had been my knee.The season before that, my shoulder.I was running out of joints.
“Why, Julian?”Murry paced the small space behind his desk.On the wall behind him were photos of players and past championships.My photo with the GM in front of the Welcome to Las Vegas sign was front and center.Two showgirls on either side.I was the golden hope to bring home the silver.
Murry ran a hand over his face.“McGrath wants to scratch you.”
“What the fuck for?We’re only three games in.”They hadn’t been my best games, but there were other teams that were struggling.
“Four,” Murry said, breathing out.“McGrath is worried that we are going to have a repeat of last year.”
“And you think the same?”I was here because of Murry.This was the second team I played under him.He was a good coach and treated his players well.Murry promised Vegas was a good franchise and they would give me a cup.That was two and a half years ago.
“I’m not sure I have a choice.”He flopped down in his chair, groaning.“This isn’t like you.Your head hasn’t been in the game.”Murry raised his eyes to me.I could see the doubt written across his face.“I’m worried about you.You’ve never let your personal life get in the way like this.Hell, you’ve never let anything get in the way of your game.You said you had it under control.You promised everything was fine.”
“It is.I’m fine.”I didn’t believe those words, but if I said them enough, maybe they’d come true.
Murry searched my face, looking for the lie.“Then why don’t I believe you?You haven’t had a shot on goal since February.You’ve had one stupid penalty after another, including the two tonight.You can’t let them get to you, Julian.If you can’t get your shit together, I’m going to?—”
“I’m fine.”I cut him off, knowing where this was going.I didn’t need therapy or time off.I needed to play this game and forget last season had ever happened.“Don’t let them do this.Please.I just…” I turned away from the stupid photos, a reminder of all the hopes this city, this franchise, had placed on me.
“You what?”Murry asked.
“I’ll do better next game.I’ll train harder, I promise.Please don’t let them scratch me.”A healthy scratch for a player my age was the first warning.The team would say it was for a couple games to “let me rest,” but those two games would turn into ten games, then a season.My career would die on the floor of the press box.
“I’ll see what I can do, but Julian, you have to do something.Show McGrath and the rest of the franchise that this isn’t going to be a season repeat.I’ll give you a month.After that I’m going to recommend you get some help.Go shower.”Murry nodded at the door.
“What did he say?”Anders was waiting by the lockers.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”I pulled off my base layer.
