Page 10 of Break Points and Face Offs

He just nods.

By the time the lunch rush starts, I realize I haven’t written anything yet and Will has disappeared into the back, replaced by another server.

5

WILL

I’m glad I got started on my review at the library. After I finish my shift at the coffee shop, I have to head over to the rink to help out with the equipment and meet the head coach.

Coach Allan greets me in his office, offering me a seat in front of a desk full of papers.

“Start of the academic year is always a bit hectic around here,” he says apologetically as I take a seat. “As you can see, we need all the help we can get.”

“Yes, Coach.”

He smiles. “Saw you play at BC last year, O’Reilly. You were pretty good.”

He’s being kind. I was buried in the fourth line behind some pretty impressive future NHLers. “Thank you, Coach.”

“You didn’t wanna take a shot at the pro leagues?”

I shake my head.

“Shame we couldn’t get you on the team here. That experience would have been great.”

“Thanks, Coach, and I was honored to be asked, seriously. But I just won’t have the time. With my studies and everything, I wouldn’t be able to dedicate as much of myself to the team as it deserves. This is already my second job.”

Coach Allan nods, taking the compliment as it was intended. “I get it. You study finance, right?”

“Yes, Coach.”

“I don’t blame you for wanting a steady income. Hockey isn’t good to everyone. I’ve seen some good kids—talented kids—come through here with high hopes and end up busted up in the minor leagues, making hardly any money.”

I know. You don’t have to tell me that.

“It’s a nice bunch of guys here, O’Reilly, you’ll fit right in. And we won’t get in the way of your studies. We don’t need you for game night or every practice. We have enough equipment managers and assistants for that stuff. Just a helping hand between games to keep the equipment maintained and organized. How does that sound to you?”

“Sounds perfect, Coach.”

“Great.” He holds his hand across the desk for me to shake. “Welcome to the team.”

I meet the equipment manager and the assistant working at the rink. They take me through the equipment, show me where it’s stored, how it’s maintained. The locker room is a lot like the locker room at BC, though every locker room has its own quirks, just like every player. This team is no different. There are players who don’t like their sticks kept in a certain place. Players with superstitions that must be respected if you don’t want the player to get the yips on game night. I take it all in. Realize I miss it—skating out onto the ice on game night in front of a full crowd.

We take hockey very seriously back home in Boston, and the Boston College hockey team are a big fucking deal. I played with guys who are lighting up the NHL as we speak. But I always knew hockey was temporary for me. And I had enough other shit going on in my life at the time to teach me that glory like that isn’t the be-all and end-all of life.

By the time I finish up at the rink and get back to my room, I’m dog-tired down to my bones. I haven’t felt this physically sore since the last time I played a competitive hockey game. Standing on your feet behind a cash register takes it out of you more than most people probably realize.

When I call the house like I promised Ma I would, Dad answers. His big, warm voice is like a familiar blanket being wrapped around me.

“Hey, Pop.”

“Son, how’s it going down there at that Ivy League school? Has anyone tried to make you join a fraternity yet?”

He laughs. I don’t bother telling him that fraternities are only for undergraduates.

“Not yet. I was at the rink today.”

“Oh yeah? How does it compare to BC?”