Chapter 5
The plane bumps roughly as it lands, and my already nervous stomach lurches, and I fight to keep the pretzels I'd eaten down. Milan is in the seat next to me, apparently undisturbed by the landing.
It's sad; I don't really know him all that well. I don't really know any of my old teammates that well. It served as a protection. I never had to explain the bruises. I never had to tell them how much I deserved them, and none of them knew me well enough to ask.
Johan knows me.
I swallow hard, my hands shaking as the plane stops at the terminal. What am I going to do without him? I'm going to be lost here without having him to guide me, to mold me, to remind me. I'm not strong enough to do this on my own.
I walk slowly, shakily down the aisle to the plane's exit, nervous because I know who is waiting inside. Steve, my new captain, is there to greet us, to welcome us to Detroit.
I don't want Steve Yzerman to see me fail.
There are cameras and a few reporters when we get inside, and I want to run back to the plane and just go home to Pittsburgh. My eye is still swollen and purplish, and the gash over my eye is still scabbed. I know that I look terrible, and the tears stinging the back of my eyes threatened to betray me once again. I swallow them back, forcing a deep breath into my lunch as I extend my hand to my new captain.
"Hello, Andrew," he says, smiling warmly at me. The friendly smile makes me want to grin back, and I find myself a little bit calmer than I was a moment ago. "Welcome to Detroit."
"Thank you," I reply quietly, startled when a microphone is thrust towards me. In Pittsburgh, I hadn't seen reporters this concerned about hockey since we were in the playoffs in 2001.
"Andy, welcome to Detroit. How does it feel to come to the defending Cup Champions?"
Questions come one after the other, and I answer them all absently, unable to really focus on anything before another inquiry is fired at me. Eventually, Steve gets my attention and leads Milan and me away, "Enough for right now, everyone," he tells the media, "These guys have a game tonight."
We drive to the hotel first, dropping off our luggage but not having the time to unpack anything, and then we get back into the limo and head to the Arena. Steve explains that while I will definitely be in the lineup tonight, it hasn't been decided if Milan will. My number has been changed, because mine had been retired long ago.
Once inside the Joe Louis Arena, I find my stall easily. Kirk Maltby will be to the left of me, and Curtis Joseph to the right. My new jersey, white with red lettering, hangs in the stall, along with new gloves. They're the same ones I used in Pittsburgh, but now they're red, not black. I run my fingertip over the letters of my name, then I trace the double fours of my number.
I haven't worn 44 since I was in Portland. When I was still successful, before I needed the reminders. I loved playing in Portland. It may have been the juniors, but I'd enjoyed every minute of it.
The locker room itself is bigger than at the Mellon Arena, and there are recognizable names lining each wall. Not just one name over the biggest stall, like it had been in Pittsburgh. I'd noticed in the car that the city lived and breathed hockey. Even the arena, though it's mostly empty, is full of anticipation for the game tonight. I take a deep breath of the charged air and sit in my stall.
Everything is different here.
I'm not sure if that is a good or bad thing.
