The Ledger Chapter 1 - Perry's POV

Chapter 1

June

Thirty-five pounds doesn’t seem so heavy when you get the privilege of hoisting the holy grail of hockey trophies.

It’s euphoric.

Light as a feather with the adrenaline high.

The physical embodiment of all our hard work. Every day we spent grinding, fighting and training. Every meal with our families we’ve missed. Every sprain, bruise, tear and broken bone we’ve pushed through. It all pays off the moment we get to lift the fucking cup.

Nothing can compare to the surreal high of winning the Stanley Cup.

Not even the rare smile from Aaron ‘Chipper’ Cherniavsky, the world’s grumpiest on-ice goalie, who earned undeniably the most difficult shutout in playoff history. Not even the perpetual hardass, Owen Dobs, grinning from ear to ear, pride radiating off his usually militant demanour. Not even watching Leith Shaw in his natural element with all eyes on him as he hoists the silver trophy over his head, skating his lap around the ice.  

But the excitement from my guys sure comes fucking close.

“We fucking did it!” Tyson Poulin slings his arm around my padded, sweat soaked shoulders, jostling me. He’s feeding off the unmatched energy in the arena. Everyone is hysterical and it’s fucking phenomenal.  

“I dibs her first.” Tobias Martell, our team’s golden player joins us on my other side, sandwiching me between my guys.

I couldn’t fight the grin even if I tried. “No shit bud, you’re team captain. You obviously get the cup first.”

“If you can’t play nice, I might keep her all summer.”

“Hog the cup and I’ll throw you in the net under The Beard.” Dobs’ death glare has already returned. Wow, longest record ever. A whopping five minutes.

Aaron ‘Chipper’ Cherniavsky, more affectionately known as The Beard by the fans, scratches his long golden namesake for emphasis. “I don’t mind showing the captain who’s boss.” He winks, his deep Ukrainian accent coming out thick.

Chipper might be the largest and highest paid goalie in the league. A terrifying concoction of rage with a goalie stick on the ice, but for us, he’s just one of the guys. Part of the family.

His shitty girlfriend is not.

Fucking Tina saunters onto the ice, her best friend a step behind. Unsurprisingly already taking a video for whatever social media bullshit she’s into this week. Tina’s clad in gold jewelry that rivals the cup and for the first time ever, wearing Aaron’s jersey. She leaps onto Aaron, dramatically wrapping herself around him like a love-drunk koala.

“Didn’t she-”

“Tell him to win the game or else she isn’t going home with him? Yep.” Tyson finishes for his best friend, Tobias.

“She does know we’re all on the same flight home, right?” I cross my arms as much as possible in the hockey pads and immediately feel like Dobs.

“Yep.” Tobias Martell deadpans while Dobs silently nods.

With any luck she can feel us all glaring. 

  Leith joins us after passing off the cup to a teammate for their spin around the ice. “Hey! You watched me, right? How good do I look holding Lord Stanley? Best one here if I do say so myself… What?” He whips his head, following our line of sight. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. How the hell is she still around?”

“He wants to be loved man, give him a break.” I huff. Hell, we all do. It’s easy to see the difference between our group and the rest of the team as their loved ones continue to filter onto the ice. Crowding around to celebrate.

Proud parents and excited children who don’t realize the magnitude of what’s going on other than getting to be with their dads on the ice. Wives and girlfriends congratulating their guys on a win well earned. A hot slice of shame twists like a knife to my gut for being jealous of the families my teammates have.

There’s a special sense of pride at being your son’s favourite hockey player, or your kids wanting to grow up to play hockey because ‘daddy does’—or so I’m told. Watching the guys I play with—who take punches just as good as they give them—lift up their little daughters parading them around the ice like their own personal Cup, is a sight I envy.

I’m aching to have that moment of my own.

Holy Stanley is the hardest earned trophy in sports. Which is why we all nursed injuries the entire playoffs but pushed through so long as we played today. Anything to get our names etched in history. That’s the shitty thing about history and the rings on the cup; they come and go. The Stanley Cup goes up for grabs next year all over again. Someday, when the rings are too full of names to bear any more, they get replaced with new ones waiting to be filled.  

What stays is family, the one thing all around us that I can’t drag my eyes from. The one thing I don’t seem to have, other than my guys. They’ve always been enough before, but with this hollow feeling in my chest, I want more.

The beaming smile on little Aurora’s face while her father, Shane Whyte, hoists her on his shoulders around the ice, is next level gut wrenching.

“Anyone else jealous?” Leith tips his head to the celebration in front of us where Aurora looks like a cake topper perched on Shane’s shoulders.

Dobs takes two strides over to him and shoves his head to the side. “Shut up. You wouldn’t even know how to take care of a little one.”

That’s as playful as Owen gets. As Leith’s defense partner, they have a weird dynamic but somehow, it’s fucking golden.

Thank God for those two being our enforcers out on the ice tonight. It was a brutal, dirty game. But it always is where, left winger, Ethan Colby is involved.

He’s a dirty fucking player and a piece of shit off ice too.

We’re on Florida’s ice tonight and the refs should be unbiased, but they clearly didn’t get the memo with all the missed calls in favour of the Florida Suns. It’s a miracle we won and not just because we were tied for wins, going into game seven. Last game of the last round.

This game, this fucking win, is a celebration I would love to share with someone. Someone other than my guys, even though they are family. I love them, but I also want something of my own. Someone of my own. I swore at the beginning of the season that once we won the cup, I would take the time I dedicate for hockey and use it to find someone to settle down with.

My teammates, especially the younger ones who have it all—the cup, the wife, the family—forcefully remind me that I don’t. I have my guys, and now I have a cup win, but I want the rest.

“Alright guys. Shut up and look alive.” Tyson Poulin calls to us, mostly aimed at Martell and Shaw talking about which bars to hit up in Edmonton when we get home. “Parents are incoming.”

We all straighten up and remember to check our swearing. Tyson’s ‘Aunty’ isn’t a fan and she’s a hardass. She was technically a kinship guardian, but she’s had full custody since Ty was six. Once he got drafted into the league, she’s moved with him to every city. His chosen mother.

“My boys! That was amazing! My heart still racing!” Marie Poulin pats her chest, overtop her heart, before reaching up to squeeze us all into a tight bear hug. Her Quebec-French accent is stronger that Tyson’s. The soft endings to words that almost trail off and the missing ‘s’ sounds. We’re used to it. “Fix your hair Shaw and trim that moustache while you’re at it. Thank God those playoff beards can go.” She orders, moving to give me the last hug, like the afterthought I usually am to everyone. “Yours can stay.” She whispers in my ear.

“Was my hair messed up the whole time?” Leith’s shocked face is laughable. So is the playoff beard he’s grown out for good luck that needs to be shaped back to its normal size, two inches shorter.

Only Chipper can pull off that much facial hair.

Owen flashes his usual disinterested glare, slowly coasting away to greet Leith’s younger sister Kaitlin, who is our younger sister by association. Kait is decked out in Edmonton Enforcers blue, green and purple and even has the Rocky Mountains painted on her face with two bold E’s on her cheek. It’s mundane compared to her outfit and face paint last week in the Moss Pit in front of our home arena.

“Dobs, was it messed up the whole time?” Leith yells, skating after him like a puppy.

We spend the next half hour surrounded by ecstatic family members, mostly our parents who the team flew out to be here in case we won. We sit through the speeches, the trophies, the end of season awards all while trying to be on our best behaviour when we just want to get the hell out of here with the cup and start our off season.

“Dobs, Martell and uh… Stoerkberg, you three are headed to press so get changed and get in there fast. Make us proud.” Coach Grant calls to us as we’re hopping out of the showers post game and post alcohol celebration in the dressing rooms. Everywhere in there is soaked and half the guys are already drunk.

Which is exactly why he picks us instead of Leith.

Martell, Dobs and I share a look then kick our asses into gear to get into that press panel ASAP. Everyone, besides Leith, hates the redundant interviews, but when Coach Grant, or Dobs asks you to do something, you do it.

Fast and without hesitation.

They’ve earned that respect and then some.

“What do you think they are going to ask?” Martell shakes out his arms like he’s readying for a fight.

It’s Dobs who keeps us both level-headed and calm. “The normal, how we feel, how proud we are, who do we think should have gotten MPV that kind of stuff. Answer the questions fully and then we can get the hell out of here.”

“Hell yea. Straight to my back yard for the first BBQ of the season.” Martell pumps his fist in the air.

“I heard it’s pouring rain in Edmonton.” Dobs deadpans, winking at me.

“Forecasted for the next week. Sorry man, no barbeque.” I join in, trying to keep my voice as serious as possible.

As expected, Martell deflates, shoulders slacking to the point where Dobs and I struggle to hold in our laughter.

“You two are fucking with me, aren’t you?” Martell gives us both a shove. “Dicks. You know,” He whirls on me, leading us onto the platform for the press panel. “I expect that shit from Leith, but not you Perry. I’m disappointed you’d stoop so low.”

Instantly the reporters launch into a frenzy asking why our team captain is disappointed in a team as dedicated as ours. It’s almost comical. Almost. Until the interviewers start homing in on my entire second line being the possible disappointment. It’s what spurs our usually tight-lipped team Sergeant, Dobs, into answers the most questions for the first time in his life.

I’m trying not to laugh at the vein bulging out the side of his neck when two annoying reporters ignore his answers and take the opportunity to badger him about his love life. Or lack of. And then get creative with their questioning about his longstanding rivalry with Ethan Colby.

“As I was saying about the Enforcers; our efforts are continually poured into our focus and dedication for the cup. For the team. For the win. Becoming the best team in the league and maintaining that spot for the future season is our goal.”

“Can you tell us what you plan to do now that your teammates and yourself, all have free time this summer? What vacations or celebrations you all have planned? How will you reap the rewards of this season?” A shorter man in a grey shirt, which drastically highlights his receding hairline asks Dobs, completely missing the point that Dobs is the kind of guy to put one hundred percent of his efforts into hockey.

Off season or not.

His dedication is admirable, but not how I want to spend the rest of my life. We all belong to the team. Though, I can’t help but dream about the day where I belong to someone off the ice too.

The day where I’m someone’s first choice.  

Not second anything.