One Timer

“Handshake.”

I switch my cup to my other hand and start the handshake for what feels like the millionth time. Four taps, a fist bump, and interlocking our fingers.

Hockey players and their superstitions…

“Get out of here,” I wave him off, “go win.”

“I plan on it.” He tugs his helmet down.

I watch him change. It’s almost scary how his focus and determination take over and transform his face.

He skates out onto the ice, and the crowd goes insane.

“And now on the ice, he needs no introduction, Alexander Hawkins!”

Alex tips his head, skating a lap around the rink.

I make my way up to the box, smiling at the different people I know from years of spending time in this arena.

Billy Portman, the head cameraman for ESPN.

Dale Feinman, the usher who has worked here since the 70s.

Carly Tiller, the head custodian.

Lucy Reeves, manager of the snack bar.

Courtland Majors, a former player, sits in the same seat behind the home players’ bench at every game.

“They’re going to win this one, I can feel it.” Courtland’s stern expression only changes slightly.

“It will set the tone for the rest of the season.” I nod, jogging up the steps.

My phone is burning a hole in my pocket. I’ve refreshed my email forty times in the last hour. It’s time to check it again. Still nothing. Fuck.

My stomach twists into a knot. If I fucked up this deal, my parents will never forget it.

Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I start to turn, ready to make myself a cup of coffee.

But the announcers start to introduce today’s challengers.

Milwaukee skates onto the ice, and the crowd is a mixture of booing and cheering. Enough fans made the six-hour drive to tip the scales in the arena. Black and green flags wave in the stands.

“Today, Hawkins faces off against Dominik Makarevich, the center of the Milwaukee Baldes. These two have been bitter rivals since their rookie season. You can feel it in the crowd tonight! Both teams want blood on the ice!”

I sigh and ignore the announcers’ egging on this ridiculous rivalry. They aren’t helping.

Rivalries sell tickets. They are exciting for the crowd. I get it. But Alex doesn’t need to be pushed into hating Makarevich anymore.

“Don’t be a hothead today, please.” I look up into the rafters, asking the hockey gods for mercy.

Makarevich skates onto the ice, and it’s like napalm. Everyone is screaming, either cheers or expletive-filled hatred.

I watch him drop down and begin to warm up. I wonder if he wears earplugs. Minneapolis fans have burned his jersey in the street before games. They had to spend money to buy a jersey just to set it on fire.

The hatred runs deep.

But he looks completely unaffected. Like he can’t even hear it.

I’m always on edge when we play Milwaukee. Alex gets so caught up in his head that he makes stupid mistakes, and those mistakes only help Makarevich to edge him out in stats. More goals, more assists, more blocks.

The ground rumbles, Minneapolis is pounding their feet in the stands. It has no business being this loud in here. Not for a preseason game.

This might not count towards standings, but it counts in the grudges, in the hatred. To the fans, it matters.

I refresh my email again and freeze.

Oh, holy fucking shit. They responded.

My fingers tremble as I click it open.

I skim over the niceties and big brand polish, searching for one specific word…

“We accept the revised financial terms…”

I let out a breath and sink into an open seat in the corner.

I did it.

A four-year deal with 1.2 million guaranteed per year plus performance bonuses.

I let out a laugh. I can’t believe I did it.

I’m floating above the arena.

For a solid twenty-one minutes. Exactly sixty seconds into the second half, Makarevich skates across the slot so quickly he leaves everyone in the dust.

With only a second to make a decision, the goalie moves side to side, and he cuts right. The defense collapses. Makarevich slides a no-look pass to Ridinger… score.

For some reason, this play is the beginning of the end.

They never recover.

I watch in horror, as do the rest of the Frost fans, as they unravel. Play after play, they make stupid mistakes at the final second.

It’s a preseason game. They are just shaking off the rust. It’s fine. This is fine.

But it’s not fine.

It’s a dumpster fire. We lost to them in the series last year. They needed this win.

We can’t seem to solve this problem. The Milwaukee problem.

I watch as Alex gets more and more frustrated. He’s about to lose his shit, I can feel it. He has tells.

Then, he reaches out and hooks Makarevich with his stick. He flies into the glass. I can almost hear him saying, “I’ll take the two,” on his way to the penalty box.

That was such a bullshit move. Childish. I roll my lips into my mouth and keep them shut. It’s this kind of immaturity that loses him MVP awards.

The crowd loves it, though. They feed his ego.

The game ends. A loss.

Even the news about Bauer isn’t going to fix this. He’s going to be in a post-loss funk.

I walk out of the box and down toward the locker rooms. He has to do a press conference, and I need him not to act like a little shit.

I catch him right before he is lost to the showers.

“Hey, come here.”

“If you’re going to lecture me about the hook, save it.” He pouts like a child.

“We’ll talk about that later. I have news from Bauer. They accepted my counteroffer. 1.2 million per year for four years.” I bounce on my toes.

“What?” He looks shocked.

“I told you I could do it! I negotiated the deal. They want to meet with you and put pen to paper next week while you’re in New Hampshire.”

“No shit.” His expression isn’t completely happy, but it’s better than before. “Good job, Mol.”

“Thanks.” I place my hands on his shoulder pads. “Now go behave yourself in there with the press. Don’t be a jackass.”

“Yes, mom.” He rolls his eyes.

Fidgeting with my credential lanyard, I rush to the press room. Maybe I’ll be able to get a seat in the back.

When I get there, Makarevich is already sitting at the pedestal table at the front of the room.

“Mak, you’re coming into this season after making it to the playoffs last season and losing in game seven. Do you have plans to do anything differently?”

“Well, obviously, I would like to win game seven this season.” He looks at the reporter from Hockey Monthly with an unimpressed expression while the rest of the room laughs. “We left everything on the ice in the finals. We didn’t win, but I am proud of the effort. This year, we will win.”

God, his voice. Maybe it’s the accent.

It’s more than that.

He’s un-rialiable. It’s clear he’s passionate about hockey, but he never yells. He never plays dirty. Alex says he doesn’t even shit-talk.

He looks out at the sea of reporters under the brim of a Milwaukee Blaze baseball hat. With his face shielded, I’m not too distracted to listen to what he’s saying. His English has gotten so much better.

My mind wanders back to the draft. We met that night, briefly. I’m sure he doesn’t remember it. It’s been four years, and he’s probably met a million people since then.

Why would he remember? But I do. I remember it vividly for some reason. He made an impression without any effort at all.

I was surprised by his voice when he spoke to me. It was softer than the tone he’s using now.

I listen to him carefully answer each question. He’s calm and unaffected. Funny and charming with a slight arrogance that only makes him more appealing. I wonder who did his media training, and is it too late to have Alex work with them?

He never gives away anything. He answers the questions directly with no embellishments.

“Of course, I have to ask about Alex Hawkins. You edged him out in the stats last season.”

“Yes, but that is not question.”

The room erupts—a wave of laughter and camera clicks. “Right, the question is, do you use that rivalry as motivation?”

He pauses, looking up slightly. “I am motivated by playing well. Rivalries are just extra noise.”

“You spent the off-season at home in Belarus. How was your break?”

“Is always good to be home.” The slight smile on his face is almost nonexistent, but it looks genuine.

“You and a few other players started a hockey camp there. What was the thought process going into that?”

He lights up, sitting forward against the table. “Belarus has produced amazing talent in the NHL, but there is much more. We want to give back to the country that made us. The kids are excited to play.”

His accent wraps around each word, and I feel them in my chest.

I want his interviews to be over. God, please wrap it up.

I hate when we play Milwaukee as much as Alex does. But the reason why is my secret. My deepest, darkest secret.

I have the biggest crush on Dominik Makarevich. And I will take that to my grave.