Chapter 9
nine
. . .
Mason
You would think my distress tolerance would be much higher after years of playing in the NHL. Yet here I was, unable to stop fidgeting with the watch around my wrist or the zipper of my bomber jacket, leg bouncing up and down restlessly. Turns out, staying levelheaded when you have a one-point lead with sixty seconds left in the third period to defend your net doesn’t translate to staying calm before my weekly check-in meetings with Coach Jameson.
Today we decide whether to follow through with some of the ideas I proposed to him. It was a risky move to pitch switching up the lines that had managed to keep Westchester a top playoff contender for the last two seasons. I knew better than most how hard it could be to build chemistry and trust between players. The longer you stay on a line with certain people the more you pick up on their subtle quirks and tells. You start thinking, moving, even breathing as one. That’s what it felt like when I was playing alongside Connor, or even with Mikey when we were both playing for Westchester. Jesus when was the last time I’d spoken to him?
Like me, Dalton Michaelson— or Mikey to those who were close to him — was born and raised in Castle Harbor. We’d met at a peewee hockey tryout when we were 10 years old, instantly clicked, and bonded over our love for the Boston Bruins. It felt almost poetic that our two favorite players, Bergeron and Marchand, were not only linesmen but also best friends. When we both received offers to play for Westchester, it felt like a dream. The various championship wins and parties after were just the icing on the cake. Not many people got to spend their college years playing hockey with their best friend. After graduation, Mikey opted to move back to Castle Harbor instead of trying his shot at the pros. It was one of the few times in my life where I didn’t understand what he was thinking, why he wouldn’t at least try to secure a spot on a minor league team. I’d confronted him a few times about it, but each conversation was met with a shrug and a few words about how he loved hockey, but he loved being close to his family more.
When I got injured, he came to visit me a handful of times and reached out a few times after that. I could never bring myself to respond. It wasn’t fair, but I was in such a low place that every time I saw Mikey, I felt a pang of resentment. He was perfectly healthy and able to play for the NHL at any given moment, yet he never wanted that. I was willing to give up anything, and frankly did sacrifice more than I should’ve, yet I was stuck in recovery and forced to retire.
Once the resentment faded, the guilt suffocated me. Mikey was a hot head on the ice, but he was always the more responsible and practical one. He never once waivered in his morals or his beliefs nor did he turn his back on his family as I had. Monroe assumed I wouldn’t step foot in Castle Harbor because of the fight I had with Dad when I was still active on the Rangers, but other ghosts of my past haunted me. Ghosts I wasn’t ready to face yet.
“We’re still good to meet now, Mason?” Coach Jameson came barreling in with his clipboard and Dunkin’ iced coffee in hand.
“Yup, I was just waiting for you.” More nervous fidgeting. “So any consensus on what lines we’re going with against UCONN?”
The game was a little over two weeks away, and the more time we had to test out the new arrangements, the better. Just because I had a hunch that certain players would be good together doesn’t mean it would pan out on the ice. Better to test that out during practice than against one of our toughest opponents.
Coach says nothing for a few minutes and instead flicks his eyes between his clipboard and me. Over and over again. The suspense is going to send me over the edge.
“The other coaches are split on whether changing up the lines is a good idea. On one hand, we clearly need to ramp up our game if we’re going to stay alive against teams like UCONN and Bolton this year. On the other hand, splitting up guys who work well together is a risky move.”
“And what do you think?” It was Coach Jameson’s decision that mattered the most in the end. Both when it came to implementing my changes and whether this job turned into something more permanent.
“I think that I brought you in so you could shake things up, so I’d be a hypocrite to not give you the chance to do that. We’re gonna run these new lines starting today.” He stands to exit my office. “And you get to be the one to break the news to the players.”
I can’t even contain the groan. “I’m going to piss off a lot of people, aren’t I? ”
“Definitely. Better you than me though.” He lets out a soft chortle. “Welcome to the joys of being a coach.”
If looks could kill, I’d be dead five times over. I knew moving some of our star players down to the third and fourth lines wasn’t going to do me any favors, but they didn’t need to be so hostile about it.
“Listen, I know a few of you are upset right now—” That garners a few eye rolls and snorts. I look around the room for Adam, our team captain. If I can get him on my side, I know everyone else will follow suit. At least for today. He gives me a look that tells me he’s almost convinced so I keep going. “But we need to do something that’s going to up our game and give us an edge. We can’t keep playing like we have for the past few seasons and expect to make it past the first round of playoffs.”
Adam gives me a small nod before backing me up. “C’mon boys he’s right. We’ve been coasting for the past two seasons and I’m sick of it. Don’t we want to be something more than the team that’s good but not good enough?”
“That’s easy for you to say Cap. You’re not the one who’s losing his first line spot for no reason other than ‘let’s try something new.’” Jake retorts against his best friend, and the locker room, unsurprisingly, turns against me again.
A part of me hoped Coach Jameson would speak up and tell them they could either follow my instructions or keep the bench warm, but as I felt his presence hovering behind me an even bigger part of me wanted to show him I could handle this. I knew all too well how line changes can sour relationships. Kallum Donovan and I had never been best friends, but once I took over the veteran’s spot when I joined the Rangers, anytime we were on the ice together, it felt like we were playing against each other .
I try to think back to that time, to how my coaches had handled the often-one-sided tension between Kallum and me.
“Do you want to know what sets apart a good team from an elite team? The difference between a team that makes it to the Stanley Cup finals and wins, versus one that gets close enough and chokes in the end?” A wave of silence covers the room at the shift in my tone. “On the elite teams, no one cares about what line they’re on. They set their egos aside and focus on two things: how to stay on top of their game and how they can help build their teammates up. You think Patrice Bergeron or Brad Marchand cared that they weren’t on the first line when they were hoisting up the Stanley Cup?”
I wish I knew whether my words resonated. Most of my players look less upset, but I can’t guarantee they don’t hold some resentment toward me. Maybe they always will, and I will just have to deal with that.
Coach Jameson finally steps up from behind me. “Alright enough wallowing. We’re running the new lines today in practice, and from there, we’ll figure out what to do next. Boys, I want all of you on the ice in 15.”
He says nothing to me as he heads down the tunnel toward the ice, but I manage to catch his lips twitch upward slightly. It’s enough to settle my heartbeat for the remainder of practice where we put my plans to the test.