Page 47 of The Cutting Edge
The clock on my professional career is ticking, and I’m not about to let anything stand in my way.
“I know you can do it all yourself, sweetie,” says Marissa gently. “But it’s okay to let somebody helpyoufor a change.”
“Not gonna happen,” I say.
Chapter eighteen
Logan
I'mnotsureifmy effort to win Coco over or working, but I'm not sure they'renotworking either, which is why I'm continuing to press the issue until she tells me to stop. I'm determined to get us back on track because what I’ve realized in the last few days with startling clarity is that I just can't stop thinking about Coco.
How is it possible to feel so connected so quickly with someone I've only spent a few days with? Yes, I always thought she was beautiful, and I'd be lying if I didn't say I'd occasionally entertain the idea of asking her out — but I was always so worried about how that might impact Poppy.
Now I'm wondering why I just naturally assumed the impact would be a bad thing.
Coco’s special, there's no doubt about that. Poppy feels it and I feel it, and that's only reinforced by the sheer number of people in Coco’s life who absolutely and completely adore her.
Her friend Marissa told me to give her some time, to let the situation shake out a bit, so Coco can figure out a way forward after the accident.
I know it's only been a few days, but I am on a mission to keep that thread stretched between us. I find myself checking my phone repeatedly throughout the day, hoping my latest gift has delighted her, and wondering If there's anything I can do to get us back on track.
Coach Sully majorly chewed me out for texting on my phone during our last game, but I could tell he was holding back — probably because he didn't want to mess with my mojo after such a huge win.I should know better, I'm the captain,it's not an NHL rule violation but it's not acceptable, you know the drill. I apologized, but I'll admit, if I had to do it all over again, I would. That flirty conversation with Coco, and entertaining the fantasy of what followed, was what got me out of my slump. Too bad it didn't last.
We lost our first game in the playoff series to Philadelphia, an away game. The announcers kept referring to me as the “hat trick hero” which was embarrassing as hell because I played for shit, and didn't score a single goal. I did get an assist for Cam’s goal, so it wasn't a total failure, but it might as well have been — I felt like I spent half the game in the penalty box with nothing to show for it. Zayne scored as well, a beautiful shot that just sailed across the blue paint like one of those airboats they use in the Florida Everglades, but it just wasn't enough and the Flyers beat us 4-2.
Coach Rocco chalked it up to playoff nerves and an unfriendly crowd, but all of us were off our game and we knew it.
Two days later, we were in the Philly arena once again for the second game in our seven-game series with disastrous results. We got our asses kicked, to put it mildly. Only Cam saved us from the total humiliation of a shut-out, scoring our one and only goal in the last 47 seconds of the third period, losing us the game 5-1, instead of the spectacularly humiliating 5-0 we were facing just a moment earlier.
We flew back yesterday afternoon to St. Pete to play our third game against the Flyers, and all of us are anxious to finally play in front of our home crowd. In the few days since we've been gone, the entirety of St. Petersburg, Florida has been re-decorated in our honor. There are teal and black playoff billboards and banners all over town with encouraging sayings like “Slash ‘Em Slashers” and "A Cut Above” with my scruffy mug and the faces of my teammates plastered all over them. Banners festoon every streetlight from downtown all the way to the beach. Homemade GO SLASHERS signs on poster board affixed to the windows are visible from office buildings all over the city. Normally, it would psyche me up to see so much support from the community. But I’m plagued with an impending sense of dread. It has not been fun getting our butts kicked in Philadelphia, and I know all of the guys are anxious to avoid a repeat of the event.
The night starts off badly before we even begin playing. As we take to the ice before the start of the game, our goalie, Nick Fosse face-plants for no reason at all, like it’s his first time on skates or something.
“Shake it off, man,” I say. “We’ve all done it.”
“Man, you’re full of shit,” Fosse laughs bitterly, his face red.
“Yeah. Shake it off anyway."
“Already done, Cap,”
We should have recognized it for what it was right then - an omen.
In the first two minutes of the game, we get called for a penalty for having too many players on the ice during a line swap, a common occurrence when you swap out lines every 45 seconds or so, earning us a two-minute penalty right from the get-go. Philly scores their first goal on us during the power play, and just like that we're down 1–0. It gets worse.
A minute later, we get called for the exact same penalty again because Milhauer is still working on his counting skills. This time, two of my low-line teammates end up in the sin bin, and the Flyers take full advantage of our skeleton crew and score another goal. Now we’re down 2-0. We’re only four minutes into the first period, and it’s already feeling like the longest game of my life.
Our goaltender, Fosse, must have pissed off Karma on his way to work today because in addition to his face-plant, mid-way through the first period he breaks his stick defending the goal. This is a fairly common occurrence, which is why any time a goalie breaks his stick, it's the defenseman's job to give him his stick, and the forward’s job is to givehisstick to the defenseman and then acquire another stick.
It's far more risky and dangerous for the goalie or the defenseman to be playing without a stick than a forward. Unfortunately, if the defenseman doesn’t notice that the goalie’s stick is busted for a few seconds, or approximately seven years, which is what happened tonight, and then the forward doesn’t notice at all, it’s a whole hell of a lot easier for the opposing team to score on your poorly-defended goal. Which is what Philly did, making this shitshow of a game, 3-0.
“JESUS, the errors are killing us,” says Cam as we skate into position for the face-off. The ref blows his whistle and then blows it again.
“Holy hell,” I hear Cam whisper under his breath.
The ref unexpectedly calls a penalty on Cam for not standing on his mark during the face-off (something I have literally never seen him do in the three years we’ve practiced and played together.) Coach Michaels, clearly losing his patience with all the fuck-ups and bad calls, goes batshit and asks for a review, but the penalty stands and Cam is sent to the box while the Flyers get comfortable with playing their five guys against our four, in yet another power play.
The unspoken NHL policy is that during playoff games, the refs try not to call as many penalties, but what usually happens is that they let the truly egregious shit slide in favor of keeping the game moving, but nail you on the petty crap.
