Page 132 of Slapshot Baby

There's only so much truth one night can hold.

One truth per night. That's what I tell myself. One fault line exposed while the other stays buried, rumbling quietly beneath everything I've just built with my own shaking hands.

His breathing deepens. His arm grows heavy across my waist. He's falling asleep.

Biscuit pads into the room, nails clicking on the hardwood, and collapses beside the bed with a huff.

I lie awake in the dark.

Please stay, I think. Please be the man who stays.

22

KAI

Strip Me

Brennan's film monitor is dark.

In ten years of walking into this man's office, I’ve never seen that screen off during working hours. He watches tape the way other people breathe.

The monitor runs from the moment he unlocks the door until the janitor kicks him out at midnight. It's running during phone calls, while he eats lunch over his keyboard.

But today the screen is black. His reading glasses are folded on the desk instead of perched on his face.

"Sit down, Kai."

I've rehearsed the outcome of this conversation in my head for weeks. I walk in, he signs the paperwork, I'm on the roster for camp. It shouldn’t take much time. I’ve been killing every private session the past few weeks.

"I came to talk about my roster spot for camp."

"I know what you came to talk about. Sit."

I sit, leaning back on the chair. Something cold prickles at the base of my neck.

"Your sessions have been strong. Shot accuracy from the slot is the highest it's been in three seasons. Film analysis backs it up." He flattens both palms on the desk. "You're ready."

"Then get me on the sheet."

"Can't."

"What do you mean, can't? You're the head coach. Roster decisions come through your office."

"Not this one."

He scrapes his chair back and stands then walks to the window that overlooks the auxiliary rink. "Hargrove pulled your file from my desk two weeks ago. Your reinstatement goes through him now."

The GM pulled my file?

For fourteen mornings I dragged myself to the private rink at five-thirty, ran drills until my legs burned. All of it aimed to get Brennan to reinstate me.

But I already had no chance with him.

I grit my teeth, recalling the nightly film sessions with Easton where we broke down my footage frame by frame. The way we built a case so detailed, no reasonable coach could deny it.

I built that case for a man whose results management had already dismissed.

And neither of them told me.