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 family meal and celebration 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 grumpiest on-ice goalie, who earned—undeniably—the most difficult shutout in playoff history. Or our perpetual hardass, Owen Dobs, grinning from ear to ear, pride radiating off his militant demeanour. Or Leith Shaw, in his natural element—all eyes on him—as he hoists the silver trophy over his head and skates 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 sweat soaked, padded shoulders, jostling me. He’s feeding off the untamed energy in the arena. Everyone is hysterical and it’s fucking phenomenal.  

“I dibs her first.” Tobias Martell, our team’s captain and golden player joins my other side, sandwiching me between them.

I couldn’t fight the grin even if I tried. “No shit, Cap. You obviously get the cup first.”

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

Dobs’ death glare returns in full force. “Hog the cup and I’ll throw you in the net under The Beard.”

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

Aaron is the largest and highest paid goalie in the league. A terrifying concoction of intimidation and rage with a goalie stick. Off ice, he’s a gentle giant.

His shitty girlfriend is nothing like him.

And speak of the devil…

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. Clad in silver jewelry that rivals the cup. For the first time ever, she’s wearing Aaron’s jersey. She leaps onto Aaron, dramatically wrapping herself around him like a love-drunk koala.

Annoying and nauseating.

“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, giving someone else 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 dad on the ice. Wives and girlfriends congratulating their guy on a win well earned. A hot slice of shame twists like a knife in 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.

Lord Stanley is the hardest earned trophy in sports. Which is why we all nursed injuries the entire playoffs but pushed through so we could play today. Anything to get our names etched in history. But 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, 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 daughter. Or two.”

That’s as playful as Dobs 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 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 incredible win, is a celebration I would love to share with someone. Someone other than my guys. I love them, but I also want something more 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, a cup win, but I want the rest.

“Shut up and look alive, guys.” Tyson calls to us, mostly aimed at Tobias and Leith talking about which bars to hit up when we get home. “Parents incoming.”

We all straighten up and lock our swearing down. Tyson’s ‘Aunty’ isn’t a fan of foul language and she’s a hardass. She was technically his kinship guardian, but she’s had full custody since Tyson 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 is still racing!” Marie Poulin pats her chest, overtop her heart, before reaching up to squeeze us all in a tight bear hug. Her Quebec-French accent is stronger than Tyson’s. Soft endings to words that seem to trail off and missing ‘s’ sounds. “Fix your hair Leith and trim that moustache while you’re at it. Thank God those playoff beards can go.” She orders, hugging me last, 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 that needs to be shaped back to its normal size, two inches shorter.

Only Aaron can pull off that much facial hair.

Dobs flashes his usual disinterested glare, slowly coasting away to greet Leith’s younger sister Kaitlin. She’s 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 reserved compared to her outfit and face paint last week at the Moss Pit outside 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; parents and partners flown in for our possible win. We wait through the speeches, the trophies and the end of season awards trying to be on our best behaviour.

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 alcohol celebration in the dressing rooms. Everywhere in there is soaked but thankfully, they tarped the equipment. The light-weight guys are already tipsy.

Which is exactly why he picks us instead of the already loose-lipped Leith.

Tobias, Dobs and I share a look before kicking 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 are they going to ask that they haven’t already heard us say before?” Dobs rolls up his sleeves like he’s readying for a fight.

Tobias has always had a way of keeping us level-headed and calm. “The normal, how we feel, how proud we are, who do we think should have gotten MVP that kind of stuff. Answer the questions fully and then we can get the hell out of here and straight to my back yard for the first BBQ of the season.” Tobias 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, Tobias 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?” Tobias 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 all the second liners being possible disappointments. It’s what spurs our usually tight-lipped team Sergeant, Dobs, into answering the most questions in his life.

I try 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. We’re after a legacy here. This win is only going to make us hungrier.”

“Can you tell us what you plan to do now with your free time this summer? What vacations or celebrations you all have planned? How will you reap the rewards of this season?” A short man in a grey shirt—which drastically highlights his receding hairline—genuinely asks, completely missing identifying Dobs’ drive.

He’s 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, but I can’t help dreaming about the day when I belong to someone off the ice too.

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

Not second anything.