I. A Game of Cards

/March, 2000/

It started with a game of cards. Come to think of it, it ended with cards, too. I guess you could think of that as one big metaphor for the whole thing, but then you would have to figure out who won and lost, and I'm really too drunk to care.

I've been drinking since noon; it's now quarter to five. Beer bottles decorate every available surface, the amber and emerald glass dazzling in the fading sun. Some of them are weeks old, their labels peeling with the heat. They are mostly cheap American labels, innocuous watered-down brews that taste like mouthfuls of sweat.

I remember I was drinking a Dos Equis when I heard the news. I wasn't drunk then like I am now; I was only sipping the beer, letting the almost painful chill of the sweating bottle soothe my heated brow. We were playing poker, me and Mike and some of the guys, trying to hide from the summer behind three-of-a-kinds and bags of pretzels. I was going for a full house when I got the call. When they told me, in no uncertain terms, that my time there was through. Thanks for all the years, buddy; thanks for your blood and sweat and heart and soul. Thanks for trying so hard, caring so much, that it sometimes made you sick. No, really, thanks a lot. Now pack up your life and show yourself out.

The kitchen was silent when I hung up the phone, and I could tell by their faces that they all knew. They had known when they showed up at my door that afternoon, bearing false smiles and stale snack foods. I swallowed and fought the urge to throw up, staring at my feet as the floor tried to suck me in. I wasn't sure what to say. So I didn't say anything.

I sat down, picked up my hand, and finished the game in silence. I walked them to their cars and waved them home without a word of goodbye. I did the dishes, I put the empties in recycling, I took a shower, as if nothing had changed. And when night fell I unplugged the phone and cried myself to sleep.

It's a nice way to begin a story, isn't it? Slightly tragic, yet dignified. I'd like to think I'm the kind of man who accepts his place in the universe with a certain amount of maturity and grace.

I'm not.

So here's how it really happened: I slammed the phone down on the bastards, yelling and cursing, then I rounded up my buddies in the kitchen and we all went out for a night on the town (which, considering we were in Colorado Springs, isn't really saying much). We went to the most expensive strip club we could find and ordered disgusting amounts of food and champagne, thoughtfully leaving it on my ex-coach's tab, and I watched naked women gyrate boredly across the stage as I drowned myself in alcohol. My buddies each bought me a lap dance (it was a long-standing tradition; we had done the same for Footer after he had found his girlfriend in bed with Brendan Shanahan), and I tried to pretend to be turned on while the strippers tried to pretend to care. One of them offered to give me a blow job, but after drinking so much champagne my dick wasn't having any of it. Someone helped me into a taxi around 2:00 am, and the same kind someone unlocked my door and poured me into my apartment. Where I promptly threw up, toppled over, and fell asleep in a pool of my own vomit.

Not quite as nice a story, is it?

Sometimes I think that if the first story had been true, if I was the kind of guy who smiled and accepted his fate, that the past three years wouldn't have happened. But then I think that I was probably just born under an unlucky sign or that I was hexed as a baby, and my being a loud, carousing, belligerent idiot really had nothing to do with it. I'll let you be the judge.

Anyway, that's how it all began: a game of cards, a phone call, and a night of drunken debauchery. I woke up the next morning still drunk, washed the puke and spilled champagne from my body, and boarded a plane to San Jose.

/November, 1995/

Welcome to San Jose, also known as Hell. Population, way too fucking many. Climate, reminiscent of the sun. As for major attractions...a fifteen minute cab ride from the airport to the arena revealed a rundown playground, a McDonald's, and six Starbucks. I guessed I'd never want for coffee. Hurray.

Coach Wiley was at the front doors to greet me. He was a tall, well-dressed man in his early fifties; his anemic pencil-gray mustache aimed to distract from the fact that he was going slowly bald. He had the solid, vaguely soft build of an ex-athlete growing old, thin layers of fat smoothing over the hard ridges of muscle he had developed in his youth. His smile was thin-lipped but generous as he shook my hand firmly, but it did not warm his light brown eyes, and from the moment our hands touched I knew that I did not like this man.

"Welcome to San Jose," he greeted me, echoing my earlier thoughts. "I hope you'll show more punctuality getting to practice in the future than you did this morning. You're half an hour late."

"There was a delay at COS," I replied with a forced smile, referring to the airport at Colorado Springs from which I had departed. "Something to do with security. I got here as quickly as I could."

"Since it's your first day, I'd let it slide," Wiley decided, smiling at me with the air of someone who felt he was being very charitable indeed. "But you should know that it's normally my policy to hand out extra skating drills to anyone who's tardy."

Tardy. Jesus Christ. I hadn't heard the term used seriously since high school. "Yes, sir." I forced another pained smile.

He showed me around the arena, pointing out his office, the equipment room, the trainer's room, etc, and then left me in the home locker room to change into my gear. I noticed that despite being the new guy I did not have the worst locker--it was somewhere in the middle of the row, about where it had been in Colorado--and there was already a plaque made up with my name attached to it, rather than the standard piece of masking tape. It cheered me up a little as I stowed my gear in the locker and headed out to the ice; maybe they really wanted me here.

Wiley was at the red line directing passing drills as I stepped onto the ice. He blew the whistle when he noticed my entrance and the team abandoned the exercise, skating over to the boards to form a ragged semi-circle around me. Introductions went around the circle, each player nodding his head as his name was said.

"Owen, allow me to introduce you to the San Jose Sharks. This is Jeff Odgers, your captain." A big man with an intimidating mustache. "These two psychos are your goalies, Chris Terreri and Arturs Irbe." Chris grinned, amused at the introduction; Irbe, an impossibly tiny man who seemed dwarfed by his equipment, merely smiled shyly. "Your d-men Marcus Ragnarsson, Doug Bodger, Michal Sykora, Jay More, Tom Pederson, Yves Racine and Mike Rathje." They nodded at him in greeting; Rathje, an enormous young man with a crooked nose, grinned at him and whispered something to his neighbor. "Your right wings are Shean Donovan, Ulf Dahlen, Andrei Nazarov and Dave Brown; your centers Ray Whitney, Darren Turcotte, Viktor Kozlov and Dody Wood; and finally, your left wings: Ville Peltonen, Chris Tancil, and Jeff Friesen. You've already met Odgers; he's a left winger, too. Guys, this is your newest teammate, Owen Nolan."

My head spun with the effort to remember all those names as the guys stepped forward one by one and shook my hand. Odgers was a big, friendly guy with a booming voice; he clapped me warmly on the shoulder and assured me that I would fit in just fine in San Jose. He had a rough but cheerful mannerism that put me at ease, and I could see why he had become captain. Whitney was also a warm, affable guy, easy to like; he offered to take me out on the town that night with some of the guys, an offer I quickly accepted. But the man who made the biggest impression upon me was Friesen. He looked to be about 17. He grabbed my hand firmly and shook it with confidence, grinning at me with a tiny bit of amusement that I couldn't place. I recognized him as the one Rathje had whispered to during my introduction; I was suddenly consumed by curiosity over what he had said. But Friesen just shook my hand and said, "Welcome to the team, Owen."

Wiley sent us back into the abandoned passing drill, and I found myself partnered up with Friesen. As we ran through the exercises I used the opportunity to try and bond with one of my teammates. I wasn't very good at this sort of shit, but it seemed like the right thing to do. I wanted to start my season here on the right foot, and being friendly couldn't hurt.

"So, uh, Friesen--" I began, but he cut me off.

"Jeff," he said with a little laugh, sailing the puck across the ice to me with a clean flick of his wrist. "Please. Or Freeze. S'what everyone calls me here."

He smiled and rolled his eyes at the nickname, and I found myself smiling with him. "Okay. Freeze. How are you iking San Jose so far?"

He gave me an odd look, then shrugged. "Pretty well. It's nice this time of year."

That intrigued me. "Oh. Have you visited here before or something?"

"Yeah, actually. It was through a camp thing...I think it was called my rookie season."

I was so surprised I shot the puck wide and nearly hit Shean Donovan in the foot. I waved in weak apology as Donovan jumped out of the way and landed on his ass. My face was burning with embarrassment as I turned back to Friesen, who had the nerve to laugh.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," I rushed, snagging another puck from the boards. "I just assumed you were a rookie--I mean, not that you play like a rookie--you're just so young--I mean not that that's--"

"Nolan, relax," Friesen laughed. "You're going to give yourself a migraine. This is my second year. And I'm not that young, I just turned 19."

He looked so ridiculously proud of that fact that I didn't have the heart to laugh. When he spoke he seemed much more mature than a mere teenager, but looking at him I still couldn't believe he was a day over seventeen. "Owen," I prompted, echoing his request. The rest of practice passed smoothly.

I met briefly with Whitney after practice so he could give me his phone number, since I had no idea what my number at the hotel would be, and we agreed to meet in the lobby at 8:00 pm once I called him with the name of the hotel. I showered and dressed quickly, eager to get some sleep before that evening, and left the locker room with considerably lighter spirits than I had entered it.

Management had me staying at the Fairmont, which was within easy walking distance of the arena, and which was quite possibly the nicest hotel in which I had ever stayed in my life. I am not ashamed to admit that I actually took a running jump and leapt onto the bed, delighted by the way I sunk deeply into the thick down comforter. Give me a break: I was 24, far from home, exhausted from that morning's flight and surrounded by luxury. I fell asleep with all my clothes on and plunged head-first into dreams.

It's cold, bitterly cold. I'm in a parking lot, dressed in full hockey gear, searching for my stick. t think dimly as I crunch across the pavement that this must be wrecking hell on my blades. There's a noise to left; a rustle of movement, followed by faint laughter. I spin, my skates whining against the cement, and clatter over to a clump of bushes that is faintly shaking. I have a hunch my stick is in there, but there are all kinds of thorns and burrs, and every time I reach in to retrieve it my hands are cut up. The laughter is growing louder as I struggle in vain, cruel, mocking laughter that sends a prickle down my spine. I shake a branch, trying to clear it away, and snow falls onto my head, obscuring my vision.. The last thought I have is, But it doesn't snow in California...

I woke up to someone pounding on my door. The dream was rapidly fading from memory; I tried to grasp at the pieces of it, but they didn't make any sense. Shaking it off I dragged myself to the door, peering tiredly through the peep-hole. It was Whitney. I glanced at the clock as I opened the door: 8:30. Fuck. I completely forgot about tonight.

"Ray, hey man, I'm sorry I didn't call. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. Must be jet-lagged or something."

"It's alright, I figured something like that," Ray returned amicably as I ushered him inside. "I called the front office and asked them where they'd put you. Shit, this place ain't too shabby, eh?" He gave a low whistle, looking around the suite with raised brows.

"I've definitely had worse," I acknowledged. I shut the door behind him and turned to my suit case, throwing it open and rummaging through it as we spoke. "So, where are we headed? What should I wear?"

"The Voodoo Lounge," Ray said, sidling over to stand beside me as I hunted for an outfit. "It's casual-chic. That would probably work," he added, nodding to a sharp charcoal suit and black shirt with pointed collar that I was examining. "Dress shoes, no tie, you know the drill."

I shaved quickly and changed into the suit, slicking some moose through my hair in a losing effort to smooth it down. Grabbing my keycard and my wallet, Ray and I headed down to the lobby, where a couple other guys were waiting. I practiced saying their names in my head as Ray drove us to the club in his brand new '96 Mercedes SLK 230. In the passenger seat was Viktor Kozlov, a center; I was proud of myself for remembering. He was a quiet, somewhat sullen young man of about 20; what little he said was dipped in a rich Russian accent. Andrei Nazarov, the winger--I couldn't remember which side--sat behind him, chatting animatedly to make up for his friend's silence. He was an enormous man, 6'4" at least, heavily muscled, with a solemn face that belied his cheerfulness. His babbling seemed to annoy Kozlov, as every few minutes the stern young man would mutter, "Quiet, Adik," followed by a string of mumbled Russian, but none of this dissuaded Nazarov, who rambled blithely on. I sat in the middle, next to Nazarov. Finally, on my left was Mike Rathje, the big d-man with the crooked nose. He grinned toothily at me like he did in practice, and I wondered what joke I was missing.

The club was like every club: dark, loud, and crowded. There was a line extending around the corner, but Whitney stopped at the front to chat with the doorman and after a brief conversation he waved us all inside. Whitney headed straight for the back, and I followed him blindly as he cut a path through the throng of people packing the dance floor. There were a few tables hugging the back wall; to one side was the bar, to the other a series of platforms hung from the ceiling with chains on which scantily dressed men and women were dancing. As we reached the table and sat down I realized that more of my new teammates were already there waiting for us. I picked out who I could: Shean Donovan; Darren Turcotte; another Russian with piercing blue eyes I couldn't remember; Odgers, the captain; and the kid, Freeze. I gave him a searching look as I took the chair beside him.

"What?" he asked defensively in between sips of his beer.

"Aren't you a little underage for this place? By about two years?"

He glared at me, his hand tightening unconsciously around the neck of his Corona. "I've been here before, but thanks for the concern, mom," he returned bitterly, and then as if to prove his point he chugged the remainder of his beer and set it on the table with a sharp crack. I laughed.

"All right then," I responded, "if you're so grown up, let's see what you're made of." I lifted my hand to single a waitress to the table.

"What do you mean?" he asked slowly. Some of the cockiness has evaporated from his tone, and he was licking his lips nervously.

"Just a little contest," I explained. Instantly we were the center of our teammates' attention. The waitress wandered over and gestured her closer, whispering into her ear. She nodded and threw an amused grin to Friesen as she headed back to the bar. Freeze's eyes widened slightly and I watched him swallow.

"What kind of contest?" Freeze asked, but I didn't bother answering. The waitress returned in record time to our table bearing a tray laden with full shot glasses. She lined them up neatly in front of the two of us, 10 each, winking and grinning at me when she was done. I slipped her an extra twenty and patted her ass as she walked away. Freeze was contemplating the row of glasses in front of him with a sick expression.

"You're fucking kidding me." For some reason the obscenity sounded wrong coming from his mouth, and it sent a little chill down my spine. I shook it off and gave him my most charming smile, the one that shows all my teeth. He didn't look reassured.

"We go shot for shot," I told him, laying out the rules. "One gulp. No chasers. First person who chokes, can't finish, etc loses."

"What if you both finish all of them?" Donovan asked. I laughed and didn't answer him. If the kid managed to force down three I'd be impressed.

I wasn't playing fair. We were taking shots of Tullamore Dew, a brand of whiskey I'd become well acquainted with over many summers in Ireland. I picked up the first shot glass and raised it in a toast to my opponent, then threw it back without a wince.

As soon as Friesen began to drink he nearly spit it out, but to his credit he hung in and finished it off. "Is water a chaser?" he asked desperately. I decided to be nice and shook my head, and he gulped down half his glass. The guys roared with laughter, a few of them clapping him heartily on the shoulder.

I downed my second shot with as much ease as the first and looked to Freeze, waiting. This time when he took the shot he tilted his head back and attempted to throw it directly to the back of his throat, bypassing his tongue. It worked and it didn't; he almost inhaled the alcohol and Rat had to pound on his back before he could breathe properly, but he didn't look quite as ill. The third round went quickly and smoothly, without any choking or spluttering, and I raised my eyebrows at him to show I was impressed.

By the end of the fifth round I was starting to get a little worried. The kid had tossed back the last two shots with what was quickly becoming practiced ease, and there remained only five more in front of us. I had rarely finished all ten shots before; I didn't usually need to. I was reassured when the kid gagged slightly after the sixth, even more so as I noticed his eyes beginning to slip closed. He was consuming a lot of alcohol in a short space of time, especially considering his youth, and the effects were starting to show. I swallowed my seventh shot with only the faintest of twitches, sipping my water as the warm burn in my throat moved down my spine, setting fire to my stomach. I was only pleasantly buzzed, my vision just beginning to blur. If we moved quickly I would be able to finish the drinks without any problem.

But the kid had finally had enough. He picked up the seventh glass, tipped it shakily to his lips, and then spat the mouthful back onto the table, choking and coughing. I sighed in relief and joined my teammates in congratulating him, then dragged him off to the bar for a beer, which he gulped down gratefully. His face was flushed and his eyes were now mere slits from which he peered blearily at the world.

"Not bad, kid," I offered, throwing a companionable arm around his shoulders as I took a slug of my beer. "I didn't think you had it in you."

"I lost," he said mournfully, his face flushing embarrassment as well as alcohol.

"Of course you did, but that's a given. I've been drinking since I was 12." He tipped his head back to scowl at me ferociously. "You hung in there and did well, that's what's important. Impressed the hell out of all those guys back there, I guarantee you."

The scowl slide off his face as my words sank in. "Really?" he asked uncertainly. "You think so?" I laughed and ruffled his hair.

"Absolutely," I assured him. "C'mon, let's get back to the table."

But here he balked. "I think I'm gonna go home," he said instead, slipping out from beneath my arm. "I'm pretty drunk, and I'm tired as hell." Now that he mentioned it, I noticed dark circles under his eyes. Sleeping it off was probably the best idea.

"Okay. You want me to call you a cab?"

He shook his head. "No, it's cool, I drove."

I blinked. He was serious. The idiot.

"Kid, are you crazy? You're in no shape to drive." He was fishing in his pocket for the keys to his car, and as soon as he found them I lifted them from his hands, drawing a whine of protest. "Show me where your car is, I'll drive you home," I ordered, leading him to the door. I waved to Odgers as we left and pointed to the kid, indicating our departure, then ushered him outside.

"Well if I can't drive then you can't," Freeze pointed out stubbornly, nonetheless leading me to his car. It turned out to be a small white Honda, old but clean, perfectly suited to him; the guys probably gave him shit about it all the time. "You've had just as much to drink."

"I can hold it better," I grunted, unlocking the doors and sliding into the driver's seat, leaving him little room to argue. If I was going to be honest with myself I had to admit that I was a little drunk; the whiskey was starting to kick in, and I had to blink a few times to steady my vision. Friesen, meanwhile, was slumped against the passenger side window, his mouth hanging stupidly open, nearly unconscious. I managed to prod him awake enough to get the directions to his house, then I slowly and carefully drove him home, checking the speedometer constantly to make sure I was under the speed limit. Getting stopped now, while I was driving drunk with an intoxicated minor in the car, was a world of trouble I didn't even want to think about. We made it to his house in one piece, by which time he had sobered up enough to get out of the car under his own power. We both drank a tall glass of water and then he put himself to bed, mumbling something about the guest bedroom. I sprawled out on the couch and was unconscious in seconds.

II. Winning and Losing

I woke up to a smell like burning hair and barely kept myself from retching all over an expensive-looking Persian rug. My head felt like it was trapped inside the bass drum from Slayer's kit. Hurrying to the bathroom in a ridiculous half-crouch to empty my roiling stomach, I vowed, as I always did after a night of over-indulgence, never to drink so much again.

I took the liberty of rummaging through Friesen's medicine cabinet and doused my mouth with Listerine before venturing into the kitchen. There I found the master of the house manning the stove, looking freshly scrubbed and obscenely chipper as he cooked a hearty breakfast. The burning-hair smell was arising from a frying pan crackling with hot bacon. I made a little noise of disgust, and Friesen turned to me with a smile and a cheery little wave that made me want to pop him one right in the jaw.

"Good morning!" he said brightly. "Are you hungry?" And without waiting for my answer he put a plate in front of me and immediately buried it beneath mounds of scrambled eggs, home fries, corned hash, and of course, bacon.

"I didn't know what you'd want," Friesen went on obliviously, "so I made everything." For his own breakfast he was assembling a massive sandwich made of toasted rye, tomatoes, lettuce, cheese, and six pieces of fried bacon swimming in grease. I watched with a kind of sick fascination as he took a huge bite of the monstrous sandwich, licking oil from his lips. I felt at any moment I would vomit, but the sight was too horrible to look away.

"How the fuck can you eat that?" I demanded incredulously, curling my fist around a glass of orange juice and taking a measured sip. Friesen blinked in surprise, swallowing his mouthful, then gazed down at his sandwich with sorrowful eyes.

"Sorry, is it bothering you?" he asked. "I don't have to...I mean, I can eat it somewhere else..."

"No, no, don't do that. It's fine." Although the very idea of the sandwich still made me nauseous, the orange juice was helping to steady my stomach. "I'm just amazed, that's all. You don't seem like you drink very much. I thought you'd be at least a little hung over."

He took a big bite out of his sandwich to hide his blush, but I could see it in the delicate pink tips of his ears. "Oh, well," he said, chewing thoughtfully, "I threw up about a hundred times last night."

"Oh, good, that makes me feel better," I joked, flashing a grin at his injured look. I drained the last of the orange juice from my glass and looked around for the clock. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Quarter to nine. We've got to leave for practice in 20 minutes." Freeze shoved the last of the sandwich into his mouth. "I'll drive you there. You should probably take a shower."

"Yeah." I sniffed at my shirt and wrinkled my nose. I smelled like sweat and smoke and whiskey, not a pleasant combination. I started to move towards the living room, then realized I had no idea where the bathroom was. "Where...?"

"Upstairs, on the left," Friesen supplied. "There are towels on the rack. Don't take too long, Coach is already pissed you were late yesterday." He gave me a crooked smile, as if to say, I know, he's an asshole, but what are you gonna do?

We made it to practice on time, and what's even better, we were not the last ones on the ice. That honor was reserved for the captain, Odgers, who looked like he had stayed at the club long after we left. He was shadow-eyed and ill-tempered, darkly funny, striking out with sharp wit at anyone who got in his way or tried to give him a hard time. I looked to Wiley with interest, expecting a rebuke, but the coach held his tongue. From the way everyone was reacting, I gathered this happened fairly frequently.

"All right guys, considering this is our first real practice since the trade--" I ignored the emphasis he placed on the word, certain it was meant for me but far too tired to care-- "I thought we'd have a short skate and then scrimmage. So why don't you go through your stretches, give me ten laps, and then break into your teams. We'll have Grey and White play first."

I sat down on the ice next to Friesen, starting with a simple leg stretch to work my calves, and by the time I got to my skates and put a foot up on the boards to loosen my hamstrings I was surrounded by teammates. Darren Turcotte caught my eyes and gave me a grin. "Great party last night, kid," he offered. I smiled back at him, trying not to show my surprise. Several other teammates made comments along the same lines throughout warm-up, including Whitney and the big d-man, Rathje, though he gave a quick wink I didn't know how to interpret. Odgers was for the most part silent, probably still nursing a decent headache, but he slapped me on the back before Black and Teal took the ice for scrimmage and asked me if I wanted to go out again that night. I immediately forgot that morning's promise to myself and agreed.

The scrimmage went well, and I managed to score one of Teal's three goals over Irbe's shoulder. Nazarov clapped me on the shoulder and complimented me on my shot as we trundled into the locker room. The praise warmed me and I glowed as I removed my equipment, until I caught Friesen's frown from the corner of my eye.

"What?" I asked him as he walked past me silently and turned on a shower head. I took the shower next to his, studying him covertly as the hot water poured over me. God, there was nothing better in the world than a hot shower after a hard morning of practice.

"Nothing," Friesen replied blandly to my question. He squirted some shampoo into his hands and massaged it into his short hair, tipping his head back to let the water wash it away. "You're making friends quickly," he noticed.

"Yeah," I agreed, soaping up my body. "They're nice guys."

Friesen was quiet for a minute as he showered. "Yeah," he said as he shut off the faucet and reached for his towel, "they're great guys."

I went out for my pre-game meal to a place Whitney had suggested called Original Joe's, then headed back to the hotel to sleep until game time. By the time I got to the arena and hit the ice for warm-up I was well-rested and ready to play, if not a little edgy. There was a lot riding on tonight's game. It was the start of the season, and the Sharks were 0-4-3 in their first seven contests. San Jose had traded for me because they thought that I had what it took to help pull them out of their beginning-of-the-season slump, and I was anxious to prove that their confidence in me was well founded.

Instead, I proved that I could take stupid penalties equally well in every period. I got caught for charging and holding in the first and second, and even my assist on a short-handed goal by Ray Sheppard couldn't put me in plusses. Whitney tied it up early in the third on a beautiful wrister and it looked for a second as if we actually might be back in the game, but Dallas responded just 22 seconds later with a goal from Trent Klatt that deflated our returning confidence. We lost 4-3, and I left the game a -1 with only 3 shots on goal. The mood in the locker room was decidedly somber. We were eight games into the season, and we couldn't buy a win.

We went back to the Voodoo Lounge that night to drown our sorrows, the same group as before plus a few of the other guys. Under my insistence Friesen took a cab to the club, and we split the fare back to his place, where I once again collapsed on the couch. Over the next few weeks this would become a routine for us, until finally I decided that I wasn't sucking badly enough for them to trade me again and found an apartment. Even after I moved out of the hotel, though, I could often be found at Freeze's place, and he spent as almost as much time at my apartment as he did at his own house. There was just something easy and laid-back about him that appealed to me; he balanced perfectly my own sometimes maddening intensity. I hung out with the other guys, especially Whitney and Odgers, and I was friends with several of them, but Freeze and I were close. He reminded me a little of Mike; funny, easy-going, unruffled.

Unless, of course, we were losing a game, which we frequently were. Then the calm exterior would crack, and his frustration would shine through. It was those rare moments during the game when he would lose his temper that I remembered he was only 19. He carried himself with so much confidence in his everyday life (even if sometimes his confidence was only bravado) that I sometimes forgot that beneath all the talent and poise he was just a kid a long way from home.

I tried to keep this in mind as I followed him into the locker room, picking up the splintered bits of stick he left in his wake and handing them to the trainer, who was looking slightly shell-shocked. He had a right to be; Freeze had swung his stick into the door in an unimpressive display of immaturity and had nearly taken the trainer's head off.

Freeze threw himself down on the bench in front of his locker and began unlacing his skates with violent jerks, muttering darkly under his breath. I couldn't quite understand what he was saying, but the word "motherfucker" seemed to figure prominently.

"At least it wasn't a loss," I noted, trying to stay positive. The look he gave me in reward could have melted the names off the Stanley Cup.

"It wasn't a fucking win, either," he swore, yanking his skates off and stuffing them into his bag, swearing loudly when the blades snagged. "I'm tired of not fucking winning. We're 11 games into the season and we've got four points. Fucking ridiculous."

"Yeah, well..." Okay, so I was having trouble coming up with a positive point of the night. "You had an assist," I offered lamely. "And you didn't get your face bashed in. That's got to count for something."

The game had been highlighted by four brutal fights, three of them within a span of less than four minutes in the first period. Amazingly, I hadn't been involved in any of them. Looking around the dressing room, I was glad; Odgers had kicked the whole thing off when he got into it with Randy McKay, and his face was a painful testament to New Jersey's brawling prowess.

Freeze sighed and began unbuckling his equipment. "Look, it was a shitty game. Just...don't try to cheer me up, alright?" He shook off his loosened equipment and grabbed a towel, disappearing into the showers before I had a chance to say anything else.

We entered the game against St. Louis with fresh determination. We were sick of losing. We were tired of being a joke. We were pissed off and embarrassed and hungry, and we were taking it out on the Blues.

We entered the third period down three to two and much humbled. The Blues, it seemed, were also a team sick of losing, and they were not going down without a fight. It had looked bleak for awhile with the score 3-1 midway through the second, but Jeff had tallied his first goal of the year with just five minutes to go before intermission to bring us back into the game. Jeff leapt in the air in victory and the whole team roughed him up as they celebrated, but we all knew in the back of our minds that the game wasn't over yet. We wanted the win, and we weren't taking no for an answer.

We retook the ice for the final, critical period down 3-2. Twenty minutes of grueling hockey later, we had our first win of the season. Boy, did we. After losing for so long, it seemed like everyone wanted to have a hand in the win. On top of Craig Janney's first-period goal and Freeze's inspirational tally in the second, Jamie Baker, Kevin Miller, Andrei Nazarov, Ulf Dahlen and yours truly each chipped in a goal in the third period to pull off a 7-3 win. It was almost surreal. We hadn't won a hockey game all season up to this point, and suddenly we had sunk a fierce opponent by four goals. Needless to say, none of us were inclined to head home to our beds, and the entire team took up residence at the Lounge and partied the night away.

Around 2 am Freeze and I made our inebriated, somewhat sloppy farewells and poured ourselves into a waiting taxi along with two very striking young women whose names I could not remember for the life of me. I had a vague recollection of the blond attaching herself to me at some point on the dance floor, but beyond that my memory was only a blur of shifting colors. As we clambered out of the taxi onto Freeze's front lawn, I considered briefly that perhaps bringing a stranger who I fully intended to fuck into his home was not the most thoughtful thing to do; but then she wound her arms around my neck and pushed her body against me, and I urged him to "Open the goddamn door already and stop wasting time."

I was sober enough to know that no matter how good of friends we were, fucking a chick on your friend's couch is un fucking acceptable, and instead I led Blondie to the guest bedroom, where I had slept away many a hangover in the last few weeks. The woman whose name I did not know got right down to business, pulling both of our clothes off and climbing on top of me. She was every bit as sexy naked as she had been in the slutty halter top and leather mini skirt, and I gave in to the blissful warmth of her body surrounding me, the clean smell of her sweat and the weight of her pendulous breasts in my hands. It had been far, far too long I realized. A few short minutes, and I was so close. I pulled her hard against me by her hips and opened my eyes.

Freeze was in the doorway, staring at me, a mixture of horror and surprise in his wide brown eyes. If I had been a little closer to sober or a little farther from orgasm I probably would have jumped up and slammed the door closed. As it was I didn't even have the strength to close my eyes; I just met his gaze and came.

For one tense, breathless moment we were frozen, afraid to move; then the nameless woman groaned and the silence shattered around us. Freeze mumbled a quick and largely unintelligible apology and backed out of the doorway, cheeks burning with embarrassment. I considered going after him, but I was too tired and too drunk, and anyway, I wouldn't know what to say. I'd find him in the morning when we were both more coherent and let him know that it was an honest mistake and that I wasn't mad. Right now, all I wanted to do was crash. I rolled the anonymous blond woman off of me, wincing slightly as she slid to the floor, and promptly fell asleep.

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