Page 9 of What We Knew Then
This first team meeting makes it clear how different my old team was. Some of it feels so out there, I keep waiting for the punchline. There isn’t one. The guys just nod along like everything was normal.
What I still can’t wrap my head around is how they run pre-season. The players handle everything. Schedule, plans, how it’s laid out, even expectations. Coaches are around, but they only step in if things get out of hand.
At my old team, everything came from the coaches. Some of the guys were close, sure, but not like this. Not enough to run the whole thing themselves.
Afterward, the captains kick the coaches out and everyone gets to work planning pre-season. I hang back and watch, completely out of my element. No one jokes or half-asses it, and it has me itching to get on the ice.
Less than an hour later, everything is mapped out, and the guys split into groups while I head to the weight room. If there’s one thing I miss, it’s having go-to people. The guys you fall in with. The ones who want to lift, grab food, or just bullshit after.
Here, I don’t have anyone.
Thenextmorning,Iwalk the hall to Coach’s office, my watch flashing 7:50 AM. Dick or not, Troy was right. Coach Banks is taking a chanceon me, and it’s my last one. If I want a shot at the NHL, I need him on my side. He needs to think I’m worth something.
Getting here on time wasn’t hard. Last night, I wrecked myself at the gym, walked back to my apartment, and was in bed earlier than the retirement community.
Coach is reading at his desk when I knock. One of his jerseys is framed on the wall, covered in signatures. Maybe from his last NHL season. Fuck, that’s cool.
“Lane, grab a seat.” He probably gestures, but I drift toward the jersey and bump into it.
Coach laughs. “You don’t think it’s stupid? Hanging it like that?”
“No. I think it’s one of the coolest fucking things I’ve ever seen.”
He tilts his head when “fucking” slips out. I shrug an apology, and he waves it off.
“Just wanted to check in before things get going. The team might be tough on you, but I brought you here because I know you can take it. They’ll warm up eventually.”
I don’t know if that’s true, but I appreciate the effort.
“I’m not worried about it. I can be the bad guy.” I rub my hands on my pants, needing something to do.
“You’re not the bad guy. Or at least I hope not.” He stacks the papers on his desk and sets them aside. Leaning forward, he braces his forearms, hands clasped. “There’s no shame in needing a little help. Do you need any… support? We can keep it between us.”
His eyes are soft, a sharp contrast to the wear in his skin. Years in a brutal sport will do that to you.
“No, I’m good.” My voice comes out smaller than planned. “If that changes, I’ll let you know.”
Coach leans back in his chair. “I want you to do what’s best for you. I know you’ve got your eye on the NHL, and I’ll help you get there. But you have to help yourself first.”
“I appreciate that.”
“My door’s always open. If you need me, don’t hesitate to call. Transferring your last year can be tough.” He slides a card across the desk. “Follow the rules and we’ll have no trouble getting scouts to take a look. Might even beat your old team for a championship.” He laughs, and I match it.
It’s not like I’m on a revenge tour, but the idea of beating my old team pulls a smirk from me.
We stand at the same time and shake hands. His grip is firm, like he’s saying “don’t fuck this up” without saying it.
His eyes light up when someone stops in the doorway.
“Ah, Cora. What a surprise.”
A woman hurries in, her dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail.
“Morning, Dad.” She kisses his cheek. “You forgot this.” She holds up a folder, then turns toward the desk.
My blood runs cold, freezing my body like a fucking statue.
There stands Lee. Or Cora? My brain tries to unravel the strings but they’re flying off the spool.
