Pride and Pucks and Prejudice - 1. Chapter 1

Noah

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Jackson Lemaire is a fucking asshole who had somehow accumulated an entirely unreasonable amount of hockey glory, yet here I was, sulking as I watched him on the cusp of lifting the championship trophy. Adding to the insult was the memory of his Chicago Wolves team eliminating us from the competition just two weeks ago. The insufferable smirk on his face. And that playoff beard! Mine looked like a few bits of dryer lint stuck on my chin. His looked like a bear was napping on his jaw.

At every point in my career, he was one step ahead of me. He was the first overall draft pick. I went second. Rookie of the Year. MVP. League scoring title. Somehow I always managed to finish immediately behind him.

By our third season he'd started calling me "Also Ran."

It was starting to get personal.

Last season, after we won a game in Chicago, Lemaire skated over to compliment me on a goal I'd scored in the second, with such irritating sincerity that I couldn't possibly believe him. The rude arrogance of the man! Like I needed him to pat me on the head.

It wasn't just that he was a beast on the ice. Fast, assured skating. An unerring sense of how to get the puck into the net. The ability to see plays develop two or even three moves before anyone else.

Oh, no.

He also came with the face and body that landed him on every Sexiest Man list ever published apparently on the strength of those ridiculous shoulders alone. And he was just my type, as his starring role in my dreams attested. Worse, I knew exactly what he looked like when he smiled.

I'd worked hard, my legs had suffered, my practice socks had died heroic deaths, and I was still sore in places I didn't know could be sore. Yet here I was, sitting in my own home, watching Jackson Freaking Lemaire reach for another bit of hardware.

Game seven of the championship finals in overtime. Tie it and Chicago lives. Miss, and Tampa wins.

I cracked open another beer and scowled at the television, knowing fate had lined up another highlight for the Jackson Lemaire legend.

He waited for the signal from the referee, still and focused, hands knotted around his stick, intense blue eyes fixed on the Tampa goalie.

He always carried himself like the ice trusted him first and everyone else followed after.

The referee stood with one hand raised. The Tampa crowd screamed. The camera panned down the Chicago bench as his teammates hammered their sticks against the boards.

One glance as the goalie shifted toward the outside.

One sharp nod as the referee blew his whistle.

Lemaire started left, darted right with a flashy crossover. The goalie bobbed back and forth before Lemaire snapped his wrists for the shot.

The puck moved impossibly fast.

The goalie smothered it against his blocker. No goal!

The hockey fates had finally turned away from their golden boy.

My beer nearly sloshed onto the carpet as I jumped to my feet.

"Yes!" The word burst out of me before I could stop it.

The Tampa arena exploded. Players flooded onto the ice. Gloves and helmets flew into the air. Confetti cannons erupted from somewhere above the boards.

Meanwhile Chicago stood frozen. Between shots of screaming fans and the jubilant Tampa team, the camera occasionally found Jackson Lemaire's stoic face.

The pain in his eyes was deserved. I planned on enjoying every second of it. Let him chew on that memory for an offseason like the rest of us. He'd knocked my team out. He'd scored the overtime winner in game six, then spent the post-game interview talking about how Chicago had "exposed some weaknesses" in our defensive structure, which was athlete-speak for we kicked their asses.

He could suffer for a night.

I sat back down and took another drink.

The commentators were already building the narrative. Heartbreak. A reputation tarnished. A dynasty denied.

Even losing, Jackson Lemaire somehow remained the center of the story.

I told myself I hated him. It was a considerably simpler arrangement than the truth.

The fact that he looked unfairly attractive while devastated only made matters worse. Dark hair damp with sweat. A beard framing a jawline that should have been illegal.

The camera zoomed in. For one ridiculous second I found myself wanting to reach through the television and tell him it was all right.

I immediately hated myself as much as I hated him.

My phone buzzed.

I glanced down.

The team group chat had come back to life.

Stellan: LEMAIRE CHOKED.

Ben: Historic moment.

Aleksander: Someone check on Noah.

I rolled my eyes.

Me: I am perfectly fine.

Stellan: Sure you are, Also Ran.

Ben: Did you throw something at your TV?

Me: Not yet.

Aleksander: He definitely did.

I ignored them.

Another message appeared.

Ben: You know he's going to win MVP anyway.

My victory had lasted approximately three seconds.

Damn it. He probably was.

I stared at the television. The presentation ceremony had started. Tampa's captain accepted the trophy to thunderous applause. Players took turns skating around the rink with it raised over their heads. Families poured onto the ice. Children chased each other between piles of confetti.

It should have been heart-warming. Instead I was fixated on the losing captain standing near his bench. Even from a distance, there was something lonely about him.

The cameras loved Jackson when he was winning, but they loved him almost as much when he lost.

The shot lingered, a brief close-up.

His expression remained composed, but exhaustion sat heavily on his face. The sort that came from months of pressure. Months of carrying expectations. Months of everyone assuming you would save the day.

I took another drink. The beer suddenly tasted flat, maybe because I knew exactly what that feeling was like. Every player who reached this level knew it.

Every player knew the cycle. Training camp. Bag skates. Surgeries. Rehab. Hotels where you couldn't remember the city until you opened the curtains. Convincing yourself that if you worked just a little harder, next year would finally be enough.

Spoiler alert: it never was.

The camera showed Lemaire shaking hands with Tampa's players, professional, polite.

Gracious and infuriatingly professional.

I grumbled, "Asshole!"

The word lacked conviction. A few moments later the broadcast ended. The screen switched to a panel of analysts already debating free agency and next season.

I muted the television. Silence settled over the apartment.

Outside my window, summer rain tapped softly against the glass. The season was over. For the first time in nearly ten months, nobody expected me to be anywhere tomorrow. No practice. No flights.

No games. No media.

Just an empty calendar and too much time to think. I leaned back into the sofa and stared at the darkened screen. My reflection stared back.

Twenty-eight years old. Professional hockey player. League runner-up in practically every category that mattered.

I'd spent six years memorizing the shape of his smile against my better judgement.

The universe clearly had a sense of humor.

My phone buzzed again. A new notification. I glanced down.

The league had posted a photograph from the game. Jackson Lemaire skating away from the crease after the save.

Head lowered, defeated.

The caption read: Even legends fall short.

I stared at it for several seconds.

Then, despite every sensible instinct in my body, I clicked like.