Rachel Gibson: True Love and Other Disasters

She thought of her hand in his warm, firm palm as he offered his help. Like a lot of men, Ty Savage said all the right things but he hadn’t meant them. Men seldom did. Virgil had been the only man she’d ever known who had kept his promises. He’d never lied to her, even when it would have been easier. He’d shown her a different way to live her life, other than the way she’d been living. With Virgil she’d been safe and happy. And for that, she would love and miss him forever.

Thousands of booing fans marked Ty’s return to the General Motors Place arena in Vancouver. Dozens of banners hung from the stands, the sentiments ranging from “Fallen Saint” and “Saint’s a Traitor” to Ty’s personal favorite, “SUCK IT, SAVAGE.”

For seven seasons he’d worn a Canucks jersey. For the past five there’d been a C just below his left shoulder, and he’d been treated like a conquering hero. Like a rock star. This season he still wore a C , only he’d traded a killer whale for a salmon swatting a puck with its tail. Players were traded all the time. At least he hadn’t waited until right before the deadline to accept the offer of more money and-something infinitely more valuable than gold-a better shot at the cup.

For more than a season it had been known that he wasn’t happy with Vancouver management and the direction of their coaching staff. Then, shortly after Christmas, Seattle’s captain, Mark Bressler, had been involved in a horrible car wreck and the team was left without its leader. The Seattle organization had made Ty an offer he didn’t feel he could refuse and he’d made the trade. There were a lot of people in the press and the entire country of Canada, including his father, who thought he should feel bad-like a traitor. But he didn’t.

At least the fans weren’t throwing things at him tonight, which was a shock considering how betrayed they’d felt by his defection 120 miles south.

A smile twisted one corner of his mouth as he jammed his helmet on his head and skated toward center ice to face off with his former teammate, Markus Naslund. He skated past the face-off circle twice for good luck and then stopped in the middle.

“How’s it Nazzy, eh?” he asked.

“Suck it, Saint,” Markus said through a grin.

Ty laughed. He liked Nazzy. Respected his skills on the ice, but it was his job tonight to make him wish he’d stayed home. Ty knew the opposition better than he knew the players on his own team, had played with them longer, but the Chinooks had the best 5-on-5 team in the league while their power play unit accounted for one quarter of the team’s extra-man goals. When the Chinooks were on fire, they dominated the ice with speed, brute strength, and hockey sense.

But that night in Vancouver, there was something weird in the air. Ty didn’t believe all that much in being jinxed. Sure, he always skated past the face-off circle twice before entering it, but he really wasn’t a superstitious guy. He believed in skill more than some intangible bad luck. He was one of only a handful of players who shaved during the playoffs.

There was definitely something hinky about this game though. From the drop of the first bouncing puck, things did not turn in the Chinooks’ favor. The defense had a hard time moving the puck up to the offense, and like the rest of the team, Ty couldn’t find a cohesive rhythm. He crashed the net but had difficulty getting the puck into scoring position.

Shots ricocheted off the pipes and the game deteriorated into old-time hockey by the middle of the second period. Sam Leclaire and enforcer Andre Courture spent most of their time in the penalty box for “innocently” tripping, elbowing, slashing, and roughing in the corners.

In the last seconds of the game, Ty finally felt in his zone and tore across ice with the puck in the curve of his stick. He knew the Vancouver goalie caught left and he deked right. The shh-shh of his skate was drowned out by the pounding in his head and the screaming crowd. He brought his stick back and fired at Luongo’s five-hole. The blade slapped the ice and shattered. Ty watched in disbelief as the puck slid wide and the final buzzer sounded. The score: Seattle-1; Vancouver-2.

A half hour later, Ty sat in the guest locker room staring at the carpet between his bare feet. He had one towel wrapped around his waist and one around his neck. His teammates stood in front of their lockers, toweling off and getting dressed for the flight home. The only good thing to come out of that night was that Coach Nystrom had banned the press from the locker room.

“We’re going to put that game behind us,” Coach Nystrom said as he walked into the room. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his dress pants. “The other coaches and I will take a look at the game tapes and try to figure out what the hell happened tonight. When we meet Vancouver again Saturday, we’ll be better prepared.”

“Game waz jinx,” Vlad “The Impaler” Fetisov said as he stepped into his pants.

Forward rookie Logan Dumont crossed himself. “Felt like it to me, too.”

Ty stood up and pulled the towel from around his neck. It was too early in the playoffs to get spooked. “One bad game doesn’t make a bad playoffs season, and it doesn’t mean we’re jinxed.” In practice they worked like a well-oiled, unbeatable machine. On game nights, they didn’t jell quite so well, and Ty could think of only one way to turn that around. “Poker night,” he said. “I’ll get back to you all on the time and place. Bring cash and be prepared to lose.” The Chinooks loved poker and there was nothing like their love of poker to inspire a little male bonding. When Ty was a rookie, the guys had taken him to a strip club to initiate him. When he was traded to Vancouver, they’d bonded at Mugs and Jugs. Ty had never particularly liked strip clubs. Ironic, given the current owner of the Chinooks.

He dropped the towel and ran his fingers through his damp hair. He had heard that morning that the Widow was planning to sell the team to Virgil’s son, Landon. The little Ty knew of Virgil’s son, he pretty much figured that Landon was a massive tool. But he also figured it was better to be owned by a tool than a clueless trophy wife.

“Who’s gonna bring the cigars?” defenseman Alexander Devereaux asked as he buttoned his dress shirt.

“Logan,” Ty answered and lowered his hands to the towel knotted at his waist. “And make ’em Cuban, eh?” The thick cotton fell to his feet and he opened his sports bag sitting on the bench. He pushed aside an old issue of Playboy that Sam had given him and grabbed a pair of clean underwear. Even though he really didn’t have a burning urge to see Mrs. Duffy in the buff, he’d probably take a look at it when he got home.

“Me?” Logan shook his head. “Why me?”

“’Cause you’re a rookie,” Sam answered the obvious.

Ty pulled on his black boxer briefs and adjusted his junk. The Vancouver press would be waiting for him and he wasn’t looking forward to the walk from the locker room to the bus. The sportswriters had been brutal when he was traded. He didn’t expect that they’d go easier on him tonight.

And he was right. He got three steps out of the locker room before the first question was fired at him.

“The Chinooks only had sixteen shots on goal tonight. What happened to ’The Firing Squad’?” a reporter from the Vancouver Sun asked, referring to the forward line of Ty, Daniel Holstrom, and Walker Brookes.

Ty shook his head and kept on walking. “It wasn’t our night.”

“With the organization in so much turmoil and up for sale,” another reporter commented, “that has to affect your play and your chances at the cup.”