Page 87 of Dirty Pucking Player

The man would probably play with a broken leg simply to prove he could.

I just need to trust he would never jeopardize the team by playing when his head isn’t in the game.

It’s really all I can do.

So, instead of running to him, I push out of the locker room. The cool air of the arena hits me at the mouth of the tunnel, and I step out into a roar of applause from the fans already seated to watch warm-ups.

The sound envelops me, wrapping around me like a hug from an old friend. All the fond memories of being on the ice and the feeling of contentment being in skates flood my brain, washing away the concern over the man who has occupied far too much of my thoughts with such a big game starting in only a few minutes.

I take a deep breath of the chilly air and step into our bench area.

Upbeat music fills the arena, amping up the already raucous crowd to a whole new level. This team. Their team. Has made it to the playoffs in their first season. And these fans have been here since the beginning, since day fucking one. This is what they thought could never happen but dreamed of, nonetheless.

The guys file out onto the ice with Bash bringing up the rear.

Shit.

It’s not like him to not want to be first out, to not want to be the center of attention for every second possible. The only other times I can remember him heading out last was when I was the reason—keeping him back to tear into him.

The unease in my gut returns and strengthens. He doesn’t even glance my way as they start their warm-up.

My gaze follows Bash. He flashes across the ice, juggling the puck on his approach to the goal. He whips his stick back and fires.

Shot after shot…each misses the net.

Wide to the left.

Wide to the right.

Off the pole.

Over the net.

Jesus.

Bash skates around for another shot and shakes his head as if trying to clear off whatever is causing this catastrophic string of misses.

This is bad. Really, really bad. Potentially catastrophically bad.

Whatever’s going on with Bash has messed him up mentally enough that I don’t know if I can trust him to play solidly in this game. It’s only warm-ups, but I’ve never seen anything like this from him. And I’m not the only one who has noticed.

Mac tosses me a concerned look from his place on the ice near Bash, and I force myself not to respond or even acknowledge it. Not until I figure out what to do about it.

We made it pretty far this season without Bash, but he’s become an absolutely invaluable member of the team. If he’s off, it could throw off his entire line and the entire offense of all the lines—the entire rhythm of the team could be at risk.

I glance over to where Bob sits in the GM’s box and fist my hands so tightly, my nails dig into my palms. This is the Stanley Cup playoffs. This is as big as it gets. We’ve already made history in more than one way, and I don’t need it to go down in flames because one of the players was in his own head about something.

This game literally means everything. There’s no room for hurt feelings or distraction. That’s a hard lesson I learned as a player and now has only been reiterated as a coach.

The littlest things can fuck up your mental game. I always knew it was possible. Even when I played. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t happen to me a time or two, but when it did, if I couldn’t get my shit together, Bob—or whoever was coaching—pulled me.

There’s only one way to deal with it—get the liability off the ice.

I’m sorry I have to do this, Bash.

He’s going to think this is personal. He’s going to believe it’s about what happened between us. But it’s not.

Don’t shit where you eat.

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