Page 20 of The Do-Over Girl

NASH

THE GAME

Idon’t ever remember this much excitement about a pre-season game since I was a rookie in the NHL.

Who am I kidding?Not myself. I have fucking jitters as I stand in the newly fancied-up locker room, facing a room full of fresh young faces unspoiled by dashed dreams, with their hopes still high. I get their attention with a short blast of my whistle.

“This may be a pre-season game, but I swear if you lose, I’ll make you sprint until you cry tomorrow. If you lose, there will be no post-game parties or even so much as a bite of pizza.”

The solemn looks and slow nervous nods come back to me, telling me my message has been received. Whatever jitters or nerves I had are gone.

“We’re going to fucking win this game. And we’ll play with only one thing in mind every single fucking time we take the ice—and that is to win. To smack down our opponent as if this is war.

“Because, quite simply, men, we are in a struggle for our lives here—for the life of Andrews Point Academy and life as this town knows it.”

Murmurs rumble through the room and there’s vigorous head bobbing. I glance a Dylan, and his stare back at me is fierce, his mouth grim with determination. The same determination and grim grit I have in my soul.

“Let’s go.”

They stand and roar to life, Dylan taking over as I leave the locker room and head through the mini version of a tunnel toward the bench. Looking around, the size of the crowd surprises me—no—it shocks me. We added some seats to the arena in the corners. Zappola exceeded my expectations and put the bonus I paid him back into the rink. Though he did have a sign for his business painted along the insides of the boards, NHL commercial style, so I don’t feel bad about his compensation. He also suggested that other businesses would pay for ads as well.

I told him we’d wait to sell ad space until we have something big to sell—not letting on about the possibility of the benefit game with retired NHL stars. But if we do it, we can sell national ads and rake in a ton more money.

My team—Andrews Point Academy’s team—takes the ice as I take my place on the bench.

The head ref skates over to me. “Pleasure to meet you, Coach. I’ve followed your career.” The guy grins at me and shakes my hand. I nod, not sure what would be appropriate to say to that.

Fuck it. I say what’s on my mind. “Pleasure’s mine. You just make sure you call a good game. Don’t go easy on anyone.”

He nods, and his smile gets small but real as he skates away.

The cheerleaders file into the row behind the bench, and I hear Kali hushing their giggles. A deep wave of nostalgia washes over me, and it takes everything I have not to turn around and wink at her or blow her a kiss or—fuck it. I turn. She’s smiling, and her head turns until she’s staring straight at me with those eyes, that face, those lips still waiting for me.

I wink.

She laughs and blows a kiss. Her girls erupt into giggles. The horn blows, and the guys skate to center ice as the announcer—none other than Archie Rink Rinkowski—tells us it’s time to stand for the national anthem. He’s promised to take my side as assistant coach and let one of the local radio broadcasters fill in for the game-announcing duties. The man volunteered to do it for free.

The players huddle around me for one last time before the puck drop at center ice, and I stare into the eyes of each one of them.

“This is your time, men. Show me what you have. Team first.” We bump fists, and the game starts. Archie slips onto the bench behind me, and the tension in my shoulders loosens up as he pats my back.

“You got this, Nash.” Nothing like a good old friend to know when you can use encouragement, and knowing you wouldn’t dream of asking or hinting that you could use it. I’m too macho and confident for that, right?

Fuck. I thought I was. I have been for years. But I guess there’s something about getting a career-ending injury—and not to mention, returning to your high school where you were at your most vulnerable—to shake your confidence.

The ref blows the whistle, the puck drops, and the game is on.

* * *

When the final horn blows,the way the packed house crowd roars, and the team jumps in the air, then piles onto Dylan, who was the clear star of the game, you’d think we just won the Stanley Cup. I’d forgotten about the unbridled excitement of youth. Almost.

My excitement is up there, too, as I wait at the gate, where the team files off the ice with Archie behind me. But what I feel is anticipation for the season to come, and for Dylan Zappola, because he’s one of those rare young talents that any coach would be thrilled to take some part in ushering into his greatness. He’s that fucking good, and I’m that fucking lucky.

“I think we have a new angle to catch the interest of our NHL players,” I say to Archie, shouting over the din. The cheerleaders follow the players, pom-poms waving and singing their victory song. I remember it well. Kali follows them, smiling at me, almost the way she did when she was one of the cheerleaders, and I was a player. The disorienting whoosh that goes through my system feels too good to be nostalgia and too real for a déjà vu moment.

Archie pushes me ahead, snapping me from my moment—whatever the fuck it was—and we head to the locker room door. “What’s the new angle?”

Re-orienting myself, I latch onto my earlier enthusiasm and answer him. “Dylan-fucking-Zappola, the newly discovered high school phenom.”