Chapter 30
Lance
Three agonizing days.
It wasn't that long in the grand scheme of things, no, but for Lance it might as well have been an eternity. The first day, he and Ella cleaned and painted in Radar's old bedroom. They called it quits at midnight, but they still had more work to do in the coming days.
It took every ounce of strength he had not to call or text Paige. He wanted to talk to her, he wanted to hear Irie's voice on the phone. He wanted to start convincing Paige, and he wanted to know what she was thinking. But, like Ella told him, Paige wanted some space and he had to let her have it. There was only so much he could say over the phone. The real test would be in person.
The second day brought a welcome distraction, if only for a couple hours: a Brawlers practice.
Lance never cared much for practices. He viewed practices like a free skate: not a time to bust his ass, but rather a time to socialize and joke around with the boys. He was the type of player who seemed destined to be a star, who stood out at as a phenom at every level of hockey he played. Among his many genetic blessings, he possessed the flashy, quick-as-lightning and soft-as-butter hands that made handling the puck so effortless and easy, as if it were attached to the blade of his stick with a string. His skill simply couldn't be taught—a player was either born with it or not. And thanks to those attributes, he never saw the point in working hard in practice. He could coast through drills on raw talent alone, only giving a half-assed effort that left coaches tearing out their hair in frustration.
When he entered the dressing room, the team burst into a round of applause. The boys were glad to have their star player back. He was the bench-standard, after all, and if he wasn't busting his ass, why should they?
But that day, Lance commanded the room's attention, his voice booming. “Alright, that's enough. Get ready to work out there today, boys. We're not losing this next game.”
The room silently stared at him, mouths open and eyes wide, as if they were waiting for the punchline to another one of his jokes so they could finally go into a belly-busting uproar.
But today, there was no punchline. Lance took his seat at his stall and started suiting up.
“I'm serious, boys. Next game's a big one. We want to make the playoffs this year, right? Then it's time to start stringing some wins together. It starts today.”
The room quieted as the team strapped on their protective pads.
Captain Shea, sitting across the room, wore a coy smile.
***
Lance pushed his teammates hard in practice. The power of concentrated will coursed through his veins. He needed to win that game, because losses had a way of spoiling your mood and ruining your whole night.
And if he wasn't in the right frame of mind to do what he planned to do, he knew his entire demeanor would be like a sad puppy's. Which would obviously turn her off. And then she'd probably say no. In front of everybody.
Lance galloped around the ice like a race horse, daring his teammates to catch him. He embarrassed Quinton Brooks by putting the puck between the towering defenseman's legs, leaping around his gargantuan body, and then sprinting ahead to score on a break-away.
Normally, he didn't want to make his teammates look bad in practice. Today, though, he didn't care. Everyone had to get better. Lance needed the team to be better. He needed every single member on the roster to reach their potential.
After line rushes, Shea slid to a stop next to Lance. The aging veteran bent over at the waist, sucking air. If there was one thing you could say about Shea? His body wanted to slow down, but his mind just wouldn't let it.
“That suspension really lit a fire under your ass, eh, Coots?” he panted.
Lance winked at him. “Something like that.”
“Keep it up. I like what I see.”
Lance whacked Shea's shin pads with his stick. “Pretty sure the boys hate me right now, though.”
The captain laughed. “Yup. That's part of the gig. I always thought that part would appeal to you.”
“I could get used to it,” Lance said with a smirk before he pushed off with an explosive stride and rejoined the play.
***
“Whew.”
That was a common refrain around the dressing room after practice, heard amongst the chorus of Velcro straps tearing apart. The boys were exhausted, many still wanting for air, and everyone moved slower and stiffer than usual.
“Good practice today, boys,” Lance said proudly.
For his own sake, a soreness throbbed deep in his muscular thighs. It was the good kind of soreness that let you know you'd put in a hard day's work.
Coach entered the dressing room, walked over to Lance's stall and slapped him on the shoulder. “Good hustle today, kid.”
After showers, the team dressed in their suits and, one by one, headed for the parking garage, where Wally would fetch their cars.
Lance stayed behind and waited for Shea. Shea was always the last Brawler to leave after every practice and game, thanks to an hour-long stretching routine that he needed to keep his 37-year-old body from seizing up on him.
Shea seemed surprised that Lance was still in the room. “You're still here?”
“Yeah, I wanted to talk to you.”
“Okay. What about?”
Lance broke yet another one of Kip's rules and told a member of the team all about Paige and Irie, and how he intended to win them back.
Shea seemed stunned. “You sure you want to do that? You know this might blow up on you, right?”
“I know. I'm just telling you what I intend to do. So if you think I shouldn't do it, now's your chance to talk me out of it. It's still your team, after all.”
Shea scratched the back of his neck. “Remember when I told you that you had to find something outside hockey to live for?”
“Yeah.”
“Looks to me like you've found it. At the end of the day, a family is all a man's got, Lance. Your career will be over before you know it. Trust me, it comes fast—faster than you realize.” Shea waved his hand around the dressing room. “But family is far, far more important than all this bullshit.”
Lance bobbed his head. “Thanks, Shea. That's what I needed to hear.”
“You're welcome, bud. And good luck.”