I’m getting real fucking sick of starting off pyoff series down 2-0.

  I did not expect to enjoy Spokane, Washington by any means, but I did expect a win in at least one of the two games. My knee was doing better comparatively, which is like saying that being lightly dehydrated is better than getting frostbite. It still hurt, that dull throbbing pain that wasn’t going away during games, but it wasn’t making me keel over.

  Night times on the road became a time for maintenance in our hotel room. Extra stretching and making sure that I was icing religiously, were just conspicuous reminders to my now boyfriend that I was going to be pushing myself to the limit no matter what this pyoff journey.

  Maybe if the maintenance wasn’t so visible, it wouldn’t have caused the clear strain to stay with us in Spokane.

  True to coach’s word we kept our room assignments as we continued to win in the pyoffs. That was a dream come true for me, as it mean more alone time with Brock. Not that it amounted to much. Neither of us were interested in going out, rather we’d go over scouting reports lightly after coming to the room and then would lie in the same bed watching something either on a ptop or the hotel’s ancient tv. While we really had not been together more than a few weeks, I had fallen for this man hard. And now, I was starting to worry that even just feeling his body heat near me would lead to trepidation and anxiety. I had enough of that in my life trying to make sure I didn’t accidentally leave some makeup on when going to the rink.

  The games themselves were nothing to write home about. The first loss was a 3-1 loss, where most of the game it was a tight 2-1 contest. A te power py goal gave them the insurmountable two goal advantage, and I spent the st two minutes on the bench pulled as we tried to will ourselves a chance. Game 2 was a 4-3 affair that all the scoring was done in a wild first period that made absolutely no sense. The rest of the game was just goalies out goalie-ing each other. Coach even pulled me aside after Game 2 to remind me how well the st 40 minutes went. Say what you want about the analytics guys and how valuable they are, when a coach just knows what he sees and can cut through the numbers to back it up by giving some confidence, that’s what you as a franchise need to hold on to. That kind of value is better than anything you can cook up in a b.

  So, when we managed to get a return flight home the night of Game 2, which thankfully started at 4pm local time, I was more than grateful to spend the next two nights in my own bed before taking the ice for Game 3. Soon after I got home, Jenna sauntered in wearing a “Vote for Rory” t-shirt. I started chuckling, knowing full well she had no idea what it was.

  “Some asshat backed his chair into me as I was approaching his table with three baskets of wings and a pitcher on my tray. This was the only shirt I could find in the back to get changed in,” she said, apparently feeling the need to justify the shirt.

  “You’re becoming one of us more and more by the second,” I shot back.

  “I will never like hockey the way you do Rhea.”

  “I can’t wait to see you in the stands with one of my jerseys on in New York. I hope you buy one of the pink ones they make. Or maybe you splurge for one of the one off promotional night ones. Make it real special.”

  “With an attitude like that I’m never seeing you py again.”

  “Oh, you will.”

  Walking back to my room chuckling, I realized I was not as tired as I thought I was. Part of me wanted to call Brock to see how he was dealing with another 0-2 series deficit, and maybe we could talk game pns for Game 3 and hype each other up. I always imaged if I had a partner who was as into hockey as I was that we’d talk te into the night about the sports, learning new things from that fresh perspective right in front of us. Just being with each other would make us better because we’d push each other. Instead, my boyfriend had gotten more and more aloof as the pressures around us ratcheted up.

  “Hey, I need to ask you something about Brock,” I texted Sapphire. I figured if anyone knew him the best it would be her, and maybe I could solve what’s going on.

  “Unless its something for his birthday ter this year, the answer is no.”

  “The fuck?”

  “I’m not getting in the middle of something between you two.”

  “How do you know its something between us,” I shot back. I swear this girl was frustrating as all get up. She was the one who told me to text her about her brother, and now weeks ter when I finally did she shot me down!

  “No one texts saying they need to ask something unless its bad. Otherwise they’d just text the question.”

  “Things are a little weird between us, yeah.”

  “And like I said, I’m not getting involved.”

  “But you know him well!”

  “And you’re clearly not talking to him. That’s the answer. There. Question solved.”

  “Not helpful.”

  “Yes it is. But I’m also not trying to get in the middle of this. Like I said.”

  “Has he talked to you about us?”

  “And if he has you think I’d tell you? I kept your secrets, let him have his. Unless he tells you. Which I am telling you to ask him.”

  “Can you just tell me if he’s mentioned if something is off?”

  “So, his favorite band is The Band, I know, real Canadian even if we are not. Get him a vinyl record from them for his Birthday this August. He’ll love it. You’re welcome, I just made you an incredible girlfriend.”

  “Not what I was asking about.”

  “Great. Gd you understand. Don’t get too down about those two games. Win at home and its all even.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  This was not helpful. If anything it was making things worse. Why would she act like this if he clearly wasn’t talking to her about us. Great, a few weeks into my first retionship that I’m head over heels for and I’m already fucking it up.

  Maybe I should talk to him. I mean, she does know him better than me. But how can I do that now, with our season on the line? I told myself that if we won Games 3 and 4 I would talk to him back in Spokane. Where he couldn’t run away. That’s perfect. I’m sure we can clear it all up there.

  Winning does not clear all ills, the adage was a lie.

  I couldn’t even celebrate winning Game 3 by a score of 5-1 at home. We looked good! We were flying! Brock was barely talking to me.

  That frost extended beyond our home lives to on the ice, our communication was as poor as ever. It seemed he would rey tidbits of info to Scott, his defensive pair partner rather than just talk to me like we had been.

  Gone were the little invitations to meet even for a little bit in between games. Now, I was on my own back in my apartment doing rehab stretches and figuring out how to keep my knee from exploding to keep this run going, alone.

  Jenna would be there at times, but the bar was in need to extra help with every step we made in the pyoffs. She even let it slip that she was saving up to try and buy tickets to the finals games should we make it. I immediately reminded her that I do in fact have friends and family tickets, and she would be receiving them for the conference finals and finals should we advance past this series.

  Cra started coming over on off days to help me with rehab, so I wouldn’t have to go to the rink. It was nice spending time with someone from the training staff to keep my mind off whatever is going on with Brock.

  “I feel like you just need to talk to each other,” Cra said to me unprompted during one of our marathon stretching sessions.

  “Who?”

  “You know who, idiot.”

  “Brock?”

  “No, the President of the United States of America. Of course, Brock.”

  “I really don’t know what I did to get him to avoid me this much.”

  “You would know if you talked to him.”

  “Well I know that, but I’m not going to force myself over to his house and be needy and vulnerable in the middle of a pyoff run.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to mess with his head or my head or really disrupt any of my routines.”

  “Fair enough, but its not going to give you any crity.”

  We both knew that was true. But, there really wasn’t anything more I could say. Cra was correct, I needed to talk with Brock to figure out just what is going on. At this point he’s moved into overreaction territory. Was I really about to go to his house and enter the same territory?

  The drive over was mundane, just strolling through the quiet streets of our small-ish city in the middle of nowhere Oregon. I needed to know where we stood. Was this really going to implode only weeks after we got together? There was a pull between us when things have been going well. It was like I needed his energy in my life, so I could function. I didn’t want to be one of those co-dependent girlfriends, but I wanted to be present in his life. I wanted to know his family and be the girl that he took home for the holidays. Not that my family would be around, except if Brock was really old money like I joked they probably would do anything to get a piece. That’s a problem for way down the line though. When I tell them they’re not walking me down the aisle.

  Down, girl.

  Approaching the door I realized that this was either going to be one of those consequential conversations or absolutely nothing. And there was no way to know until my fist made contact with his door.

  After what felt like an eternity after knocking, I finally heard some footsteps approaching the threshold.

  Brock looked exhausted opening the door, like he hadn’t been sleeping. What was going on with my man, and how could I help? Clearly I had missed something and was not doing anything remotely helpful at being a partner. What should I expect, given just how stunted my social life was on account of forcing myself in the closet as long as I had? Brock was hurting and I was doing the opposite of helping.

  “Hey,” I meekly said, hoping to diffuse any tension right off the bat.

  “Hey,” Brock leaned over and gave me a halfhearted kiss on the cheek seeing me. “Did we have something pnned today?”

  “No. I just feel like things are weird between us. And after doing my stretches I figured I’d just come here and ask you about it,”

  “Oh. Yeah, I mean things are tense but this pyoff series is tense. I’m fine.”

  “Oh…kay,” and that’s when I heard voices behind the door. “Who’s there?”

  “Brady wanted to py some FIFA and wouldn’t stop pestering me about it so I invited him over. Do you want to join?”

  “No, no you’re good. That would be weird, and I don’t think I could keep me hands off you.”

  “Right.”

  “You’d tell me if things were bad between us right?”

  “Yes, Marksy I would.”

  Marksy. The name he had to use when there was someone around. The name that was both mine, but also a prison tying the st vestiges of masculinity to my day job in a way that just felt so…bro-y. I vowed to myself that I’d leave that nickname once and for all after I came out fully.

  “Okay. I’ll leave you two then. And Brock?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Just…I miss you okay?”

  He smiled, it felt half hearted but it was a smile before lightly pcing a peck of a kiss on my forehead.

  “I’m coming man! It was just Marksy returning something of mine,” I heard Brock yell as he closed the door to go back to his video games.

  Maybe when we were back in Spokane we’d have a moment of peace to really sort this out. Because that certainly wasn’t enough.

  Going back to Spokane my nightmare became reality. Coach was mixing up room assignments to undo the bad vibes of the first two games.

  Brock was with Scott, his defensive pair partner, while I ended up with Cude. Who immediately sensed something was up and stared me down when we got back to the room.

  “Disappointed?” Cude asked.

  “No, sorry just didn’t expect new roomies. Brock and I had a routine.”

  “Yeah I get that. Scott and I did too.”

  Somehow we had made our way back in this series and it was tied 2-2. They say a series doesn’t start until you lose at home, so Spokane still held home ice advantage as we came back for Game 5. This series was now a best of three. Win two and you’re through. Too bad two of the games were on the road.

  Game 4 was a tight 3-1 affair. My goaltending didn’t need to be great, because we did a great job of limiting their opportunities. I’d thank my boyfriend for the work he did, but again he remained cool towards me.

  Now, thankfully we had momentum on our side for the first time in this series. Our game wasn’t until tomorrow, and we’d have a quick flight back to Olympic City the morning after. If things were truly on our way, we could in theory wrap this series up on a massive high. That would be incredible rolling into the Conference Finals, with Winnipeg and Houston locked in a 2-2 series as well. I hadn’t made a start in either game against Houston, that was all Mac. Winnipeg, well anything about that horrid Canadian road trip is best left in the past. Ideally we’d finish the series up a day or two before them giving us time to look at our opponent and actually prepare.

  Not like much would stick anyway. I was too busy wondering where it all went wrong with the boy of my dreams, in my all-too-perfect scenario where I got to be the girl who gets the guy when all is said and done. I mean, we’ve been dating for what three months? Fights happen, and if we can’t handle a little frostiness in a high pressure situation, what were we going to do if either of us ever made it to the pros and let our professional careers bleed into our personal lives? The pressure in the NHL is infinitely more intense than whatever petty drama is going on down in the U. Could we really start a retionship on this foundation? Is what we had even a retionship? When does it stop going from being your dream to just your reality?

  Spiraling and getting lost in thought, Cude must have noticed me becoming more and more absentminded and quickly shook me free.

  “So, Scott and I were going to get food, if you wanted to come? I assume he’s going to invite Brock.”

  “I think I’m just going to order in, I want to watch some highlights.”

  “Your call, I’ll text you where we end up.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  Cude awkwardly shuffled out of the room leaving me alone once again. I probably should have gone with him, if not to keep my mind off things for a few hours before going to sleep and waking up in full-on gamely mode. Instead, here I was thinking about texting Brock just to see how he was and hoping that he stayed behind, too. Maybe we’d do the thing where two star-crossed lovers text each other from rooms down the hall, afraid to be with each other for fear of rousing suspicion. We’d chat te into the night, refusing to let the grasp we had on this feeling of bliss fade even if we needed to get enough rest to be on our best for tomorrow.

  Typing and deleting a potential message to break the frost that had been setting in, I wondered if this was really the best use of my time. If we won this game we’d have Spokane fully by the throats and could warp this series up with four straight wins. Maybe I should watch some of the video our analysts compiled for us after Game 4. They were clearly going to make counter adjustments and I needed to be prepared.

  I really wasn’t expecting to be a good little goalie and actually go above and beyond in preparations, but hey why not take advantage of the time I had unceremoniously gifted myself. I punched in an order for quasi-fast food on some app that worked here in Spokane and prepared for a night in. I only left my bed really to pick up the food from the lobby and tip the delivery driver. I don’t even remember Cude walking back in sometime ter, nor did I check any of the messages on my phone until the next morning. I had fallen asleep watching video with my food in my bed, leaving a mess in my wake. Despite the fries strewn about, I hadn’t heard anything specific from any of my teammates.

  Storming into the locker room, I did not give a flying fuck that we hopefully only had 20 minutes left in this pyoff series.

  “What were you even fucking thinking? I told you to watch the screen?”

  We had been up 4-1 te in the second period of Game 6, and Spokane was on a power py of one of the dumbest dey of game penalties that you could have ever seen. The type of penalty that could let a desperate team back in a game they had no business being in.

  Brock was defending the center of the ice on the kill, ensuring no one screened me before their defensemen would unch shots from the point. Except, he managed to let a defender slip. It wasn’t anyone’s fault per se, but these kind of mental pses add up when every inch counts just a little more.

  So, here we were in Game 6 heading to the final period with a two goal lead. We were in good position. We were about to win four straight games, and just move on with our wild division and go to the Conference Finals. We just had to py shutdown, mistake-free hockey for 20 minutes. Sounds easy. Those would be some great famous st words.

  “He slipped, they were clearly anticipating me. What are you even on about?” Brock took a step forward as I rushed to him.

  “We cannot afford this right now, not when its almost locked up.”

  “So make the save, man.”

  “Oh so this is on me?”

  “Its sure as hell on me”

  At this point the captain came between us. “Cut the shit! For fucks sake we’re up and trying to wrap up this series. Give it a fucking rest.”

  Game 5 had been an open and shut affair. I pitched a shutout after noticing some trends their offense was taking during my marathon lonesome highlight session. Our offense was good enough winning the game 2-0, with the scoring coming all in the second period. There wasn’t much to write home about for the actual game, but after its clear things had not reached a detente with Brock and me. Neither of us acknowledged each other on the bus to the airport, and the text I sent after nding asking if he wanted to come to mine, or have me come to his was left without a response. Gd to know where I stood.

  The anger from that was clearly taking over in the locker room, as I just wanted this fucking series to be over so we could have a moment to breath in this marathon postseason. Maybe then we could actually talk and move forward. This dancing around the actual problem, which I was feeling less and less confident each day in even knowing what it was. What if the problem wasn’t me after all? Could this all be a big misunderstanding that he is taking too far? I have asked him if he wanted to clear this up, and have been rebuffed multiple times. At what point do I just say this is not worth it, we need to have this out now? And could I live with myself if he said no and things fell apart?

  I backed down, rather quickly after the little outburst.

  “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry Brock.”

  Our captain then gave a pointed look at Brock.

  “Don’t look at me, he ran in here screaming.”

  He kept the withering look on my boyfriend. Unflinching. In charge.

  “Fine. Sorry Marksy.”

  His heart was clearly not in it, surprised at the forcefulness that I came at him out of nowhere. I would care if he actually talked to me outside of games. That heated exchange was the most we had spoken to each other in what seemed like a week. This was getting fucking ridiculous.

  De-escating the locker room was priority number one as we used the second intermission to have some rousing words to lead us back to the ice. Sometimes in sports, when things go for a certain way over a period of time, you start to notice that you know what the outcome was going to be. This series we had won the st three games and the first two periods of what would be the clinching game. Spokane was going to come out hard, if we weathered the first five or so minutes we could disrupt their game and put them on the back foot, for good. That’s exactly what happened. I made a few difficult saves, feeling more confident with each new one, knowing that we just needed this burst to fizzle out.

  Thankfully it did. Rather quickly even. We had our first bonafide scoring chance about four minutes into the period, and after a penalty call for Spokane we killed two more minutes on a power py. We may not have scored, but that didn’t matter. We had less than 15 minutes to go, and we were not going to let them get any sort of rhythm for it.

  With increasing desperation, Spokane started to py sloppy. We got a few odd man rushes out of this time, but were not really trying to bury one. It was all about not taking any penalties and just sucking the life out of this one. Over the st 10 minutes Spokane managed a paltry five shots on goal, and none really were that threatening if we are being honest. The life in their eyes slowly drained as the realization set in. They threw this series away. They handily won two games, putting us on the back foot and could have easily capitalized on our dysfunction and knocked us out.

  Instead, we rallied. Came together and seized the momentum back and were now rolling into the Conference Finals. Winnipeg and Houston still had a Game 6 to py, and if we were lucky it would go to Game 7. We needed that breather.

  After the game celebrations were in full force. The champagne was flowing, and makeshift t-shirts prociming us Pacific Division Champions were distributed. We stayed on the ice a full 10 minutes after the handshake line just soaking in the adoration from the fans. They really had been behind us in this pyoff run that started with five straight road games. Winning on home ice just felt so fucking special. I hoped we got the opportunity to do it again.

  As things wound down and I started to pack up, I noticed a forlorn Brock shuffling towards my locker. Except, he wasn’t alone. A tense Cude and Scott were following right behind him. He looked like a puppy that had been scolded vehemently after peeing on the carpet.

  “Marksy, whatever your shit is with this one we’re having it out on the road,” Scott said decratively, like he knew everything that had been going on in my life.

  “What?”

  “You heard him,” Cude said butting in. “We’re having it out. Full on word brawl in one of our rooms.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I said.

  A word brawl was something we did as a team throughout the season when things got unreasonably tense. It was no holds bar, say anything you want no fucking consequences until it was hashed out. I knew if Brock and I were to do one in front of other people our secret would be out. I had to prevent this at all fucking costs.

  “Deadly. I can’t keep pying next to him like this. Its fucking killing me,” Scott said.

  “Don’t think I noticed you holing yourself in your room again,” Cude added.

  “Surely there’s another way,” I plead.

  “What, are you scared of being wrong?”

  Oh, fuck off Brock. That was the worst thing you could have possibly said in that moment.

  “Fuck it. Let’s go. Nothing’s off the table.”

  “Great,” Cude said. “If we lose Game 1 it happens in Scott’s room after. If we win Game 1, its in ours following Game 2. This is getting solved on the road in whatever god damn city we have to py in. By the time we’re back in this arena you two are best fucking friends like before. Understood?”