by Tricia Owens
He Shoots, He Scores
By
Tricia Owens
Copyright
©2020 Tricia Owens
All rights reserved.
.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
Acknowledge-ments
Read more from Tricia Owens
Chapter 1
Blinking lights.
They slow the world down.
Each flash is another impression:
flash
Shadowed faces of men in helmets looking down at him with concern.
flash
A dark-skinned man murmuring into his ear, asking him to blink in response to a question.
flash
On his back, being carried or slid. Yellow banners hang from the ceiling above him, representing something important, something he is missing.
flash
A voice, sounding like a shout amid the eerie silence: You got this, Shannon. You got this.
The lights stop blinking.
His mind fills with fog. As it slowly takes everything from him, he thinks, I can’t leave yet. They still need me.
~~~~~
BREAKING: Colorado Snowdevils’ Neil Shannon Injured in Game 6 of Stanley Cup Finals
By Amanda Culpepper
The Colorado Snowdevils have announced that winger Neil Shannon is out indefinitely with an upper-body injury after being stretchered out of tonight’s SCF matchup against the Chicago Knighthawks.
Shannon appeared to be knocked unconscious 8 minutes into the second period of Colorado’s 4-2 loss to Chicago. Knighthawks defenseman Joe Willerson was charged with a minor penalty after hitting Shannon into the boards. Shannon scored both of Colorado’s goals in the first period.
Shannon is the Snowdevils’ leading goal scorer and notched 5 goals in the series against Chicago. He carried a 23-game point streak into tonight’s game and scored the game winner in Colorado’s 5-3 victory on Sunday. The series is tied up and will go to a final matchup on Thursday to decide the season champion.
~~~~~
Neil stared down at the fresh cast on his arm, still having trouble believing its existence.
“If I were you,” said his teammate, Joey, “I’d cover it in plastic wrap and tell the rest of the guys that you’re at risk for infection or something. Otherwise they’re going to draw dicks all over it.”
Joey laughed. It was clear by his uncertain expression that he didn’t understand why Neil didn’t join him.
“Tell me what happened,” Neil said, still staring at his arm. Broken in three places, the doctor had told him. Had it been the regular season, he would be out for twenty or more games.
But it wasn’t the regular season.
“You made a pass and Willerson knocked you into the boards,” Joey told him gravely. “Fortunately, no one from Chicago made any comments about admiring your pass or any shit like that. It was dirty and they know it. They’re lucky he only got a minor and not a game misconduct. Kapinski punched his face in later on your behalf.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Neil raised his eyes. “What happened with the game? It’s Friday, isn’t it? You played last night.”
Joey dropped his gaze. It was answer enough, but Neil needed to hear it. “Tell me.”
“Stevie filled in for you, but it was a tough ask. Magnusson’s line outmuscled us. Crushed us.” Joey swallowed, his throat bobbing. “They took it. 6-2.”
“Chicago won the Cup,” Neil said without inflection.
Joey sighed and nodded as he raised his eyes. “We missed it by a hair, buddy. Game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals. Closest I’ve ever been.”
“Me, too,” Neil murmured. He tried clenching the hand of his injured arm into a fist. It felt sore. Maybe it wouldn’t heal right.
“None of that matters when you consider the big picture, Neiler. You’ve got a concussion and a broken arm. Do you realize how much worse it could have been? You could have had serious brain injury—”
“I still might.”
“Exactly. So looking at it that way, who cares about a damn aluminum cup when your ability to function is at stake? Perspective, Neiler. Put this in perspective. The Cup will be there next year. We’ll win it in a sweep, okay? Be even more impressive.”
“We would have won it this year if I’d been playing.”
Neil wasn’t bragging. With him in the lineup, their top line matched up better against Chicago’s top line. The stats said as much. Their wins said as much. Neil’s status as the highest paid player on the team said as much.
Joey sat back. “We would have won, yeah.” His smile was bitter. “So what’re you gonna do about it? Mope and dwell on the what-ifs? Rage about a dirty hit? Season’s over, buddy.”
“I get it. I’d like to be alone now.”
Joey was silent for a moment, maybe stung by the brusque dismissal. “Okay, man. Chicago’s parade is scheduled for tomorrow.” He stood up and patted Neil on the shoulder. “Maybe you should watch it on TV. Might give you some closure.”
Neil formed a fist again and held it through the pain.
“It was bad luck,” Joey went on as he headed for the door. “Happens to all of us at some point. Make up for it next year.”
I don’t need your platitudes, Neil thought at him, seething.
“Not that you probably want to hear it,” Joey said as he paused in the doorway, “but those are from you-know-who.”
Annoyed, Neil glanced at the bouquet of flowers sitting on a chair. “Willerson?”
“Worse. Magnusson. There was a card with some bullshit about keeping your chin up. Anders threw it away, figured you wouldn’t want to see it.”
“He was right,” Neil gritted out. “I don’t want the flowers, either. Give them to the nurses or to another patient. Just get them the hell out of here.”
Joey nodded. “Give me a call tonight when they discharge you. If you feel up to it, I’ll come over and we can hit up Fortnite. Now that you’re braindead and handicap, I may win.”
He picked up the vase of flowers and carried it out of the room. Neil breathed a little easier, as though the air were no longer tainted by Adrian Magnusson’s insincerity.
Joey had called the hit on him dirty. Maybe it had looked that way to everyone watching, but Neil knew the truth. He’d left himself vulnerable at the worst possible moment because he’d allowed himself to be distracted by Adrian-fucking-Magnusson, Chicago’s star right winger.
Neil’s rival.
He picked up the remote control for the television set but paused before turning it on. He needed to psych himself up for this. Undergoing surgery on his arm and tests on his brain had been a godsend of sorts. He’d missed the final game and its aftermath—the devasting tsunami of disappointment.
Who am I kidding? It’ll be all over the news for the next week, if not longer. There’s no avoiding this, Neil. Just suck it up and deal with it.
He clicked on the TV. It was already set to the major sports network.
A bleat of grief and sorrow slipped past his lips as he watched footage of Adrian Magnusson raising the Stanley Cup above his head. Magnusson’s joy was so potent that Neil could feel it through the screen. He burned with a painful envy.
That should have been me. One more game, and that would have been me.
He glanced at the doorway to assure himself he was alone before allowing his head to bo
w beneath the weight of his emotions. A single tear slid down his cheek and dripped off his chin. To have fallen one game short...it felt like more than he could bear. He had worked so hard, sacrificed so much—he wasn’t sure he’d ever get over this.
After several minutes, he summoned the strength to look up again, but then flinched at what he saw. It was a replay of him being pushed along the ice on a stretcher, his gloved hands folded atop his chest and held there by one of the trainers who was assisting. His teammates followed along, clearly devastated and worried for him. And in the background, trailing behind, was Adrian Magnusson. Neil took one look at the opposing winger’s face and turned off the TV.
~~~~~
He was discharged two hours later, but he didn’t call Joey to inform him. After talking with the team doctor, the coach, the GM, and his parents by phone, all Neil wanted was quiet and solitude. He set his phone to mute and placed it on his dining room table so he wouldn’t see the text notifications that were already beginning to pop up on the screen.
It was the hazard of being popular. He had a lot of friends around the league and he was well-known in the sports world in general. At twenty-seven, he was in the prime of his career, and what a career he’d had so far. He had a very strong shot at winning the Hart Trophy for MVP of the league. It would probably end up being a close race between him and Magnusson. Winning the Cup would give the edge to Magnusson. Pity might sway the voters to give the trophy to Neil as a consolation prize.
On second thought, winning it didn’t sound so great.
With the season officially over, he could eat and drink whatever he wanted without fear of triggering a drug test. He ended up ordering delivery Mexican food. A fat, spicy, guacamole-laden burrito sounded like heaven to him.
Once it arrived, he stretched out on his sofa and pulled up the current TV show he was bingeing. Joey was right—Neil didn’t feel mentally strong enough to handle a video game even though it would have been a good time waster.
The show did its job well enough. It wasn’t until he took a bathroom break after three episodes and caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror that he remembered why he was home alone and not out partying it up in a month-long celebration.
He didn’t recall hitting the boards. He hadn’t felt his head bouncing off the ice or his arm snapping. He was obviously beat up, though. Besides the cast, he wore a look on his face that he didn’t recognize, a sort of stunned vacuity, as if he’d emerged from a plane crash.
He understood objectively that he was good-looking. He heard the sentiment stammered at him by fans and expressed in social media polls. He was regularly sought after for promotions and marketing. He consistently topped the Sexiest Athlete lists that websites churned out for page views.
But the man staring back at him from the mirror wasn’t attractive, he looked strange. The dark, slightly wavy hair he recognized. The pale skin born of Irish grandparents was his, too. But his dark blue eyes were cupped by unusual, bruised-looking crescents of skin. He hadn’t shaved in two days and the dark stubble made him look rough and ragged. He worried that his pupils didn’t track right, that they belonged to a man who wasn’t all there. Overall, he felt like he looked like an animal that had been struck by a car and staggered off into the bushes to heal.
It was his first major injury. Concussions were nothing to scoff at. The doctors warned him of what he could face in the next days or weeks: headaches, vertigo, memory loss, and nausea. Even panic attacks were possible, and they and the other symptoms could last for the rest of his life. Hockey players were hit in games every day of the week, so it angered him that he seemed to be handling it worse than his fellows had. He wasn’t weak. At six feet tall and 190 pounds he was strong, fit, and agile. Yet his body had been knocked around like a rag doll’s, and it hadn’t withstood the abuse. If he suffered a second concussion, his career could be over.
He couldn’t stand to look at this weak version of himself. He needed a beer—or six. As he was passing through the dining room on his way to the kitchen, he glanced at his phone. Someone was texting him that very second. Knowing better, but feeling guilty about not calling Joey, he picked up the device.
Except the texts weren’t from his teammate.
Making me feel like a stalker here. But what’s a dozen after I’ve already sent fifty, right?
I mean it, Shannon. I don’t want you getting the wrong idea about what happened.
Frowning, he scrolled back through the text chain to make sense of them and to learn who the sender with the Chicago area code could be. He finally reached the first one.
Hey, got your number from Cantor. He made me promise not to tell you he gave it to me, but he’s a big boy. I bet he could take you in a fight.
Wanted to check that you’re doing okay and if you need anything. I know, I know. Why would you need anything from me?
But it’s on me, sort of. I know you know what I mean. So if you need anything, I’m here. Just need to ask.
Willy feels terrible about the hit, btw. Wasn’t intentional. Winning is worth it only when it’s against everyone playing at their best.
At that message, Neil inhaled sharply.
“No way,” he breathed.
Not to sound shitty, but I thought about you when I picked it up. Could have been you. You’re a hell of a winger, Shannon. You’ve got my respect.
He couldn’t believe it. Adrian Magnusson had texted him to tell him he’d thought of him while hoisting the Cup. That arrogant son of a bitch.
Neil texted back. It wasn’t easy with the cast in the way and his thumbs trembling with anger.
You only won because I wasn’t playing. Enjoy boasting about a win with an asterisk beside it.
Immediately, the typing notification appeared. Neil waited for Magnusson’s snarky response.
Hey! Good to hear from you. You may be right, but we’re a good team, too. I’m hoping for a grudge match next year to prove who’s the best once and for all ;) Don’t cry if it ends up being us again. And before you say
Neil hurled the phone against the wall, finding satisfaction as the device exploded into dozens of pieces. In his head, he heard the voice of the doctor who’d discharged him from the hospital:
“Your emotions may be in flux for a while. You may experience bouts of unexplained anger or despondency. If it happens, you must remind yourself that it’s a result of the traumatic injury to your brain. If the feelings become strong, reach out to a support line. It’s important to talk to someone about them. It’s not your fault. It’s physiological.”
Upset with himself for being upset, he took a deep breath and squatted, letting his head hang between his knees.
“I’m okay,” he said shakily. “I’m in control. I’m okay.”
When he felt better, or at least didn’t want to fly into a rage and break things, he thought better of the beer, which might affect his mood. Feeling delicate and hating it, he returned to the living room to watch more TV. Sometime around midnight, he dug up a permanent marker and wrote on his cast, Next year we sweep.
If he didn’t win the Cup in four straight games in next year’s Final, he’d give up hockey for good.
~~~~~
If there is a heaven on Earth, thought Adrian Magnusson, this might be it.
The cheering around him was deafening. The air was clogged with balloons and shredded paper. All of LaSalle Street, for as far as he could see, had been packed with fans wearing Knighthawks gear. The city had been consumed by the team’s colors of yellow and navy blue. He didn’t doubt that if yellow weren’t an unappealing color for liquid, the River would have been dyed to match.
Now, standing on a dais in Daley Plaza, surrounded by tens of thousands of people, Adrian raised his fists and offered up his own yell of encouragement as the team goaltender stepped forward to wave at the delirious crowd. The downtown celebration was nearing its end, the Stanley Cup considerably less shiny now that it had been stroked and kissed and sprayed with champagn
e continuously for two hours. It would be cleaned after the event and displayed for the public to take photos with. Eventually it would spend a day with each member of the team. Adrian’s day was scheduled for next week.
As their coach stepped up to speak into the mic and thank the fans and the city for their support, Adrian checked his phone under the guise of taking a photo of the festivities. No new text from Shannon. Too bad. He was hoping that he and the Colorado winger would trade chirps. Adrian enjoyed a good round of friendly insults, able to take as well as he dished. Certainly he’d done so plenty of times in his matchups with Shannon on the ice. He was surprised it hadn’t continued now that they had each other’s phone numbers.
Then again, Shannon had just had his bell rung. He was probably taking it easy. Adrian hoped his rival was watching this on TV while he recuperated. Just in case he was, Adrian turned to the main camera and blew it a kiss.
As he basked in the glory of winning the ultimate trophy in his sport, he reflected on what remained of his career goals. Win the Hart Trophy? Take down Gretzky and Lemieux and set records that couldn’t be broken for decades? All viable. But maybe a tad predictable. He could think of another way to leave his mark on the league, but his agent and his parents would likely have heart attacks.
He stared out at dozens of oversized cardboard cutouts of his own face. It was a fun sight, and flattering, but there were other faces he’d rather look at it. One in particular.
Keep dreaming, Maggy. If anyone else is gay in the league, they’re embedded so deep they’ll never see the light of day.
It was the only dark spot on such a perfect day—that he had come to the parade without a partner and would be forced later to publicly flirt with women to keep up his charade. He’d done it for years and he anticipated doing it through the remainder of his career, but he hated it, despised it even. In general, he was a pretty honest guy. A straight-shooter as his dad always insisted he be. To lie about a fundamental truth about himself bothered him, but the league, despite their pro LGBTQ stance and promotions, wasn’t ready for an openly gay player. Though he liked to think that if anyone could pull it off, it’d be him. He was popular, and his stock had skyrocketed after leading his team to the Cup.