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Returning to a place of familiarity usually didn’t come with so many jitters, but Tomas couldn’t shake his nerves as he walked into Van Andel Arena after more than a year’s absence. Not since mid-May of last year had he played a game in Grand Rapids, and while it was nice to see and play with familiar faces, it was under less-than-ideal circumstances.
Tomas was glad for the opportunity, of course. Getting approved for a conditioning stint in the American League was his best shot at getting some real game time that wasn’t under the pressure of performing on the NHL stage. He’d get to play significant minutes and be specifically trusted to provide offense instead of preventing it for the other team. He was expected to be more like the driving force that he’d been in the latter half of his time as a Griffin before his permanent call-up.
He’d felt okay at practice that morning, and got to talk with Kase afterwards; he said all the right things about staying in shape and being excited to play again. He went through the same gameday routine as he would in either Grand Rapids or Detroit, went out with the boys for their pre-game meal in a familiar restaurant.
And yet, when it was time to head to the arena to get ready, his nerves hit harder than he’d expected. True, it had been eighteen months since he’d laced up his skates as a Griffin, but it had also been eighteen days since he’d last played a game, period. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said he was working hard to stay in shape, but when you go three weeks with nothing more than practices and optional skates, you’re bound to need a bit of adjustment time. And this conditioning stint was kind of a big deal; do well and his odds at getting another chance to make an NHL impact were greater, but struggle and his ass would be benched even more permanently than before.
Tomas didn’t want to think about the possibility of being waived. Blash had told him, in several of their long sit-down talks in the head coach’s office, that they had a long-term plan for him. That meant they wouldn’t be taking the chance of another team snapping him up from the waiver wire. It also meant, and they’d really emphasized this part, that they needed Tomas to get back to game shape before they played him again, so as to give him the best chance at success in his return.
Part of it had been his skating. Tomas couldn’t deny that it had suffered once his back had started to flare up. The spasms had been a warning of things to come, and Tomas had been terrified for a long time of feeling that too-familiar tightening of muscle that indicated his bulging disc was getting inflamed again. He saw Z play through way too much pain before getting his surgery, and how hobbled his captain had looked for weeks afterward, and was afraid of getting to that point himself.
The back had been good for a while now. His on-ice confidence was another story entirely. He didn’t like to look at his performance numbers from the previous year, because as much as he had been told by Babs to not worry about scoring, seeing that pathetic number ‘3’ in the goal column was as frustrating as it got. It was a product of every shot he’d taken in sixty-three games that hadn’t gone in all rolled into one.
Tomas remembered the pure relief that he’d felt last year when he finally scored his first goal, in his fifteenth game of the season against Columbus, and his second only five games later. But then it wasn’t until March that another goalie let the puck behind him off of Tomas’ stick. He’d benefitted from being in front of big Ben Bishop in the first game of the playoffs when Pasha had sniped a goal between Tomas’ legs, when it had barely caught his pants and therefore officially became his tally. It counted on the scorer’s sheet, albeit four days after the fact, but Tomas hadn’t felt the effects of scoring a playoff goal like he would have if he had shot the puck himself.
Tomas sat in his car for a good five minutes after he’d put it in park. The music coming from his radio had long since cut off and it was starting to cool down now that the heater had stopped running. He stayed put, though, not quite lost in thought, until someone rapped sharply with their knuckle on his window. He jumped, startled, and looked up to see Lash grinning at him in the fading light.
Lash’s voice was muffled slightly through the glass, but Tomas could hear enough to know that he was being waited on. He opened his door at last, the brisk wind hitting him squarely in the face, and he shivered a little.
“Ah, come on, it’s not that cold out yet,” Lash teases. “You ready for tonight, Jurcs?”
Tomas shrugs. “Guess so,” he replies as he shuts the door and locks his car behind him. “Just nervous, I think.”
Truthfully, there was no uncertainty about that. Tomas had gotten over the initial chill of stepping out into the evening air, but he was still shivering. He felt jumpy, the muscles in his chest twitching of their own accord as though he was desperately trying to get warm. He could feel the shakiness all the way up into his throat, and he keeps his jaw shut tight to prevent his teeth from chattering together or his voice from trembling, if he decided to speak again.
“You’ll be fine,” Lash says, clapping Tomas on the opposite shoulder as he threw an arm around the young forward and guiding him across the parking lot.
They walk to the arena together like that before Lash lets Tomas go through the door first, down the same halls and past the same faces. It feels achingly like home, all the memories of past successes rushing back when he sees the championship logo plastered across the doors to the locker room and all their names on the wall above the stalls inside. It feels too distant at the same time, though they get a chorus of greetings when they enter, because Tomas knows his time here is limited to two weeks at the very most before he’s sent back to a dogfight for a roster spot.
His seat was in the corner between Rechlicz and Zengerle, two guys Tomas barely knew, let alone had ever played with. He’d be on the ice alongside Tangradi and Nosek on the so-named second line. Tomas knew a little of how Nosy played - quick and skillful - and he had to be ready for what was going to be set up for him as well as make plays the best he can.
Tomas let himself get sucked into taping his socks just right, effectively shutting out the noise of his teammates around him for the time being. He’s already got his shoulder pads on and his sticks prepared, and warm-ups aren’t due to start for another seven minutes or so. He can only tie and re-tie his skates so many times before someone asks him if he’s crazy, so Tomas sits with his hands on his knees as his legs jump involuntarily.
The last minutes tick by slowly, moving like molasses in winter, until it’s sufficiently close to warm-ups to pull his jersey on and head out to the hallway. Tomas almost forgets his stick in his stall, but fortunately only gets three steps away before he remembers.
Getting out onto the ice clears his head a little. He does his warm-up routine like always and starts to feel a little more normal. He’s not a starter tonight so he won’t be in any sort of literal spotlight, but he saw at least two signs with his name on them along the glass, and they don’t go unnoticed.
Hoggie gives his captain’s speech before the game, and then Tomas is on the bench and getting called for his first shift before he knows it. Before he’s quite ready for it, really, and that was the whole point of being back here, wasn’t it? To be prepared to play as soon as the puck drops and regain his lost scoring touch?
Tomas takes the game one shift at a time, focusing on the little things he needs to do to play effectively, the finer details that allow him to think offensively rather than defensively.
He’s on the bench when Miels opens the scoring in the middle frame and on the ice when Tango puts them up 2-0.
He groans when a bad play by X ends up in the back of the net inside of fifteen seconds left in the period, shakes his head when Rockford ties it up halfway through the third.
He comes in for hugs on Roos’ eventual game winner less than forty seconds later, and gets in line for helmet taps when the final horn sounds on Rozie’s third win of the season.
It had been another welcome relief when his name was called overhead for the secondary assist, especially when the Van Andel crowd voiced its pleasure in support of their former alumnus come home.
He sets his stick in the hall rack and is stopped by Bernie, who asks how he’s feeling now that he’s got a full game under his belt. Tomas tells him he feels good, which is accurate in the physical sense - his back was fine and his legs weren’t any more fatigued than they should have been - and his mental load was feeling lighter already. The locker room was in a normal flurry of activity once he turns the corner. The laundry cart was near the middle of the room for when they stripped themselves of their jerseys, and some of the guys were completely undressed and already headed toward the showers.
Tomas isn’t at all surprised to see Hoggie still in his stall, talking with some of the guys around him as they unbuckled their pads but clearly in no hurry himself. The team had struggled mightily out of the gate so far, so getting the win meant the atmosphere was more relaxed than it had been in a week.
Jeff catches Tomas’ glance from the doorway, saying nothing but shuffling his skates further apart on the carpet, still leaning forward with his strong forearms resting on his thighs. Whatever feelings of belonging there that Tomas had been lacking settled back into place then, and once he pulled his jersey over his head and laid it neatly in the pile with the others, moved with purpose to the center stall and sank to his knees.
Tomas didn’t sit fully back on his heels for the sharp blades still strapped to his feet, but he had his knee pads to give more cushion than the flat carpet of the dressing room. He rests his hands at his mid-thighs, fingers splayed, and his chin falls almost to his chest protector as he closes his eyes.
They had never done this in front of teammates, though Tomas was sure not a single person in that locker room would be surprised when they came back from the showers. No, this had always happened in the privacy of their hotel room, the then-34-year-old captain paired with the still-teenaged rookie by an astute new coach who could see already that Tomas’ development might be hindered if he got too caught up in himself and his struggles. Blash had never made him feel bad about being an emotional player; he’d called it one of Tomas’ strengths, actually, because he said it made Tomas very serious about the way he conducts himself and plays the game.
Tomas feels Jeff’s hands at either side of his head, just holding him in place, fingers pressing lightly into the base of his skull. Jeff doesn’t say anything to him, but lets him kneel in silence as the last of their teammates undress and leave the room. Someone above Tomas quietly says, “Two Dogs,” in acknowledgement - he thinks it’s Paetscher - and Jeff’s fingers flex slightly in Tomas’ hair and at the back of his neck.
Footsteps retreat from Tomas’ left and he thinks they must be the only two left in the room now. His suspicions are confirmed when Jeff’s hands turn palms up around his face and tip his chin up. Tomas keeps his eyes closed even as Jeff speaks in his low, rumbling voice.
“How you doin’, kid?” he asks. There’s a hint of his captain tone coming through too, but just like in his first year as a Griffin, Tomas found that it was lessened when it was only the two of them.
Tomas sighs, because it’s a complex question with a complicated answer. There were eighteen months between games the two of them had played together, a year and a half since Jeff had settled Tomas at his feet and reassured him after a tough final loss in the Western Conference Semi-Final that he couldn’t score the team past a ridiculous Texas squad all by himself, nor should he be expected to.
A lot had happened in those eighteen months, and Tomas was positive that Blash had filled Jeff in on most everything he knew, from what had trickled down to him when Tomas was up in Detroit under Babcock and then what had come out in conversation between the two of them as player and coach.
Tomas sighs, because he doesn’t know exactly how he’s doing right now. He didn’t have a great game that night, only managing two shots on goal, but he’d gotten an assist on the game winner. He wasn’t flat-out awful like he was in his last game against Ottawa, but nor did he set the world on fire to say, Look at me, baby, I’m back!
“Seems about right,” Jeff says when the silence stretches out. “There’s a lot going on in that head of yours, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Tomas nods, hearing the rasp of the little bit of stubble he’s got against Jeff’s hands.
“You’ve had a real tough year,” the captain continues. “And I know how you get on yourself after just one game. I’ve got an idea of where you must be by now.”
Tomas doesn’t mean for his eyes to well up with tears, but hearing the validation from someone not determining his ice time is enough for all his built-up frustration to come bubbling back up to the surface. He bites the inside of his lip until he gets a flash of copper on his tongue, but his face stays dry for the moment.
“Blash let me know how you were doing this year, and told me he’d be sending you here once the physical side of things got fixed up,” Jeff keeps speaking through Tomas’ wordlessness. “This is just another step in the process of getting you back to the Jurcs that scores game winners in a Game Seven.”
Tomas laughs despite the tightening of his throat, and finally a tear falls, leaving only a short trail down his cheek before landing on the back of his hand. Jeff cups his left hand under Tomas’ jaw, brushing through Tomas’ sweat-damp hair with the thick fingers of his right.
“That Jurcs is still in here,” Jeff murmurs, and Tomas nearly chokes on a sob this time. “That’s the same Jurcs that scores playoff hat tricks and the same Jurcs that doesn’t put up with the other team fighting him for it.
“That Jurcs isn’t gone, kid.”
Tomas can’t stop tears from falling now, spilling over his cheeks and making his lashes stick together when he squeezes his eyes shut tighter.
“I know,” he manages to say, voice thick. He sniffles loudly, then repeats himself, “I know.”
“You’ve got a good start to build on,” Jeff says. “It’s not going to happen overnight, but you’re gonna get there because you’re going to get yourself there, and you made that first step here tonight.”
Tomas nods, tears still slipping down his face and shoulders now trembling with the effort of keeping his noise to a minimum.
“It’s been s-so hard,” he near-whispers. “S-so fucking f-frustrating, H-Hoggie, I couldn’t… n-nothing, for months—”
“I know, Jurcs, I know.” Jeff’s thumbs are brushing at the wet streaks under Tomas’ eyes. “You’ve gotta put that all behind you, you hear me? Just focus on what you’ve got to do to get back to being you .”
Tomas sniffles again and nods, and Jeff swipes away the last of the tears that fall as Tomas finally looks up at him. Tomas knows his eyes must be red and his face blotchy in a way that doesn’t normally come from hockey, but he couldn’t care less in this moment what he looked like. Jeff drops his hands from Tomas’ face and instead reaches around his shoulders to pull him upward. Tomas stands, and so does Jeff.
Tomas has about two inches of height on his captain, so he has to duck his head slightly when Jeff brings him into a tight embrace in order to hide his face in Jeff’s shoulder. It’s less intimate than it would have been without both of them still in their pads, but Jeff holds one hand tight to the back of Tomas’ neck while the other rubs reassuringly across his back.
Tomas refuses to let himself cry anymore, so instead he focuses on his breathing, on slowing and settling it until the involuntary hitches are almost completely gone. Jeff releases him then, clapping Tomas on the shoulder when the younger forward finally cracks a grin.
“Good work tonight, Jurcs,” Jeff says, voice almost in full captain mode again.
Tomas nods and takes one last deep breath before stepping away from Jeff, back to his own stall to finally get undressed. He doesn’t even notice that the room has slowly started to fill up again until he’s hung up his shoulder pads on the hook behind him and is pulling off the last of the tape on his second sock.
The rest of his equipment follows in short order and then he can finally wash the game and all its dried sweat from his body. Paetscher and Lash both clap him on the shoulder as he winds past each of them on his way through the chaotic mess of the room, and a ball of tape goes whistling past his left ear just after Cally’s voice rings out behind him, “Look out!”
Tomas showers quickly, scrubbing the salt from his limbs and what Jeff couldn’t get from his face, and dresses quickly to get out to answer questions he knows he can’t dodge tonight.
Tomas knows Jeff is right, that it’s going to be a process getting himself back to the hockey player he knows himself to be, and that each little step he takes forward is part of it.
The hat trick he scores two nights later feels like a huge step in the right direction.