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“They’re interested?” I ask, shifting forward and placing my elbows on my knees. The pounding in my head is forgotten, but my mouth just went even drier.
“They’re interested,” he confirms.
I smirk. With everything that’s happened here lately with Oakley and Chase … my mom … it’d be nice to be thrust into a new reality. One with a big fat paycheck.
“They asked me what I thought of you,” he continues, and my chest tightens as I wait for him to elaborate.
I haven’t been a model teammate lately. With all the turmoil between Chase and me right before our playoff game, I didn’t exactly leave the animosity off the ice. Hockey is a team sport. You live as a team, and you die as a team. When one link of that is broken, it affects the entire group.
Chase and I were completely out of sync in our final game. Mostly because I couldn’t stand his ass after the Oakley situation. If I were a bigger man, I would’ve left our personal drama outside of the arena. But I’m not. I’m petty, as evidenced by the several times I kept the puck rather than passing to him in that final game. Or took a shot when I didn’t have the angle just because I was selfish and pissed and not thinking straight. Or those two penalties I racked up and the three that landed Chase in the sin bin, which resulted in three power play goals for our opponents. It wasn’t a good look for either of us. Maybe I should’ve cared a little more at the time.
But I know I’m destined for bigger things either way. A Frozen Four title would be fun for bragging rights. But at the end of the day, this college team is just a stepping stone to a bigger future.
“What did you say?” I ask with clenched fists.
“The truth,” he scoffs, “that you’re an incredible player with loads of natural ability. That you’re one of the best skaters on the ice at all times and you can handle the puck better than most of the players I’ve coached over the years. Your speed is unrivaled.”
My chest swells with pride with every word.
“But …”
My stomach sinks, the nausea returning.
“I also told them that you lack maturity at times, as evidenced by our last game. That you’re an eighteen-year-old kid and you have some growing up to do.”
“I’m nineteen, Coach,” I say flatly.
“Whatever,” he dismisses me. “The end result is the same.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on the desk while looking me in the eye. “You’re an incredible player, Sam. You have talent that a lot of men in the league would die for. But you’re wasting it. You’re late to practices. You’re late to meetings.” He looks at me pointedly. “I try to stay out of your personal lives, but I hear about the partying. The drinking. The girls. And I get it … you guys are treated like celebrities around campus, especially since we’ve had winning seasons for the past five years. But you have to learn how to control that part of the hockey world rather than letting it run you. Are you hearing me?”
I hear him. The accolades he started with fade behind the criticism. My jaw clenches as my anger boils. I’m sure I’m not hiding my true feelings well either. What really registers is that Coach blew up any chance I had at heading to the league next year. That he threw me under the bus to an inquiring professional team. I’m one of the best players on the ice—arguably the best. Partying and women haven’t changed that. It’s none of his business how I spend my free time. He’s my coach, not my conscience. It crosses my mind that he might want to sabotage my chances just so I stay another year, increasing his odds for a Frozen Four title next spring.
He sighs when he notices the obstinacy accompanying my stony silence.
“Look, they haven’t made a decision yet. But the last thing they said is, they’ll be following your season next year. You’re on their radar and, if I had to guess, on other teams as well.”
As we stare across the desk at each other, I notice the age lines across his face that have deepened since last year, the stress of coaching a successful Division 1 hockey team taking its toll on his appearance.
“I want to see you succeed, Sam. I want to turn on the television at night and watch you playing four nights a week in the league. But you’ve got to put in the work.”
“I do put in the work, Coach,” I counter.
He nods slowly. “You’re a good player, Sam—there’s no doubt about that. But the difference between being good and being great is whatever you were doing this morning and what Ollie’s doing out there right now.” He points in the direction of the ice. “It’s your choice. You have to want it more than the next guy because everyone’s talented at the next level.”
I do want it.
Coach watches me for a few moments. When he realizes I have nothing else to say, he seems done with me. He nods toward the door. “You can go. But keep in mind that if next season goes well, you’ll have endless options.”
I rise and walk toward the hallway. I can feel Coach’s disappointment in me, and it only fuels my self-righteous anger.
“Anderson,” he calls out right before I round the corner. I stop and glance over my shoulder defiantly. “Anaheim will be watching you. Prove me wrong. Show them you’re worthy.”
I nod stiffly and walk away, fuming. If this was Coach’s way of trying to motivate me, he failed miserably. I just need everyone to focus on what I do on the ice, not how my time is spent off it. Who cares if I drink too much some nights as long as I perform when I need to? Who cares if I hook up with strangers? That’s my business. And I know for a fact that I’m not the only hockey player to work hard, play hard. It’s my prerogative how I live my life. I don’t need my coaches or my teammates or any of my so-called friends putting their two cents in, kicking me when I’m down.
When I walk into the arena, I see that Chase has joined Ollie on the ice, and I ignore them both. Seeing them smiling and laughing together is a reminder of how much distance is between me and my friends these days. Ollie never liked me with his sister. Yet Chase is with Oakley now, and Ollie accepts him into the fold without question. I guess Chase has always been accepted by Ollie. Dating Oakley is apparently okay for anyone other than me in Ollie’s eyes.
I leave the arena and sit on the steps outside of it, angling my face toward the sky. The sunlight warms my skin. I pull out my phone and message Mike, asking for a ride home. He answers a minute later, saying he’ll be here in five.
I lean back with my elbows on the hard concrete and stew over Coach Hardam’s little speech. I think through the last year … the classes, the team, the parties, and the people. It’s all been fun, but maybe my time at Sinclair has run its course. It’s feeling like there’s nothing left for me here. I have an emptiness inside of me now.
