Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Cole
I laced up my skates, shaking my head at the wild conversations that filled our little locker room. Moms and dads helped with equipment and fixed braids while the girls chattered in pitches so high they had me wincing on occasion.
Never had I envisioned myself coaching children. Mainly because it was something grown-ups did. Men and women who were mature, who had their shit together.
Who possessed patience, wisdom, and the ability to teach life lessons while also reminding the kids three hundred times to keep their sticks on the ice.
Not me. I was not coach material.
But yet, the youth hockey league had wanted me.
And I was still whittling away at my community service hours.
My court-mandated community service had taken many turns. First, I was assigned to volunteer at town hall, but even after the intensity of that experience, only part of my time qualified for my community service hours. It was ridiculous, really, since I’d worked nonstop for weeks planning the festival.
Arthur, the manager at the local rink, had texted me in September, mentioning that they were down a coach for the upcoming youth hockey season. I owed the guy for all he’d done for me throughout my years practicing here, so I told him I’d be happy to help.
I assumed they were looking for a coach for high school boys, or maybe pee wees.
But no, I was coaching the mites. Seven- and eight-year-old girls.
“Coach Hebert,” Kali Farrell whined. “Please don’t make us skate.”
“Sorry, kid.” I stood and headed to the door that led to the team bench. “We didn’t have practice last week because of Thanksgiving, so we gotta hit it hard tonight. We’re playing Lakeville this weekend.”
“They are so good,” one of the other girls complained.
“Yup,” I said, turning and gesturing for them to follow me. “We’re working hard today, ladies.”
The grumbling was only slightly less high-pitched than the chatter. The girls were hilarious.
Soon we were gliding around the ice, working on edges, turns, and stops, and after twenty minutes of hard skating, I brought out the bucket of pucks.
The whole group broke into cheers, more than one girl losing her balance and falling on her ass.
“Finally,” Goldie Gagnon said, putting a hand on her hip. It was hilarious in full hockey equipment, but the sass shone through. She had a lot of talent and led our team in penalty minutes.
“Two lines on the goal line,” I shouted. “Give and go, then shoot.”
They quickly got to work, the sight filling my chest with pride. The first few weeks had been rocky. There were vast skill differences, but I’d put my head down, done some studying, and stepped up to the challenge of making them a cohesive team. And to their credit, they worked hard and had fun.
“Why don’t you ever bring your wife to practice?” Kali asked.
“She’s busy.”
“We know her,” Goldie said, stopping sharply behind me and deliberately spraying me with snow. “She gave me shots.”
“She’s nice,” another girl said.
“Then why’d she marry him?” another one sassed.
“Okay, okay,” I said, hiding my grin. These kids never gave me an inch. “We’ll finish with sprints, then we’re going home.”
The rink echoed with groans, making me grin.
“I’ve got good news and bad news.”
I toed off my boots and hung my coat on the rack by the door. Willa had beaten me home, which was rare, so the moment I’d seen her car, I was on high alert, worried that someone had called her out on our lie.
“Hit me.”
“The bad news is, we’re finally out of Thanksgiving leftovers.”
Susan had cooked a feast for twenty, even though it had been the four of us eating turkey and watching football together. We’d brought home a mountain of leftovers and had been living off them for almost a week. If I never saw another mashed potato, it would be too soon.
“But the good news is that I made a healthy dinner, because pie is not a food group, and we could both use a serving or two of vegetables.”
“Thank fuck, and yes, I agree. I’m all for vegetables. What did you make?” I tried to hide the hesitation in my voice. Willa was always going on about how she couldn’t cook. And I’d fallen into a groove the last few weeks, prepping dinner for us most nights.
Her smile widened and she straightened, causing her oversized U Maine T-shirt to slide down one shoulder, exposing a purple bra strap. Why I was so fixated on that strap was beyond me, but it was damn near impossible to look away.
“Salad,” she said with triumph. “But fear not, husband. This is not some basic-ass salad.”
I took a step farther into the kitchen, inhaling the delicious scents. Okay, that was a good sign.
“This,” she said, theatrically gesturing to two plates overflowing with colorful foods, “is fancy salad. Beets, toasted quinoa, roasted chicken breast, and dried cranberries.”
I leaned in and surveyed the dish, impressed. “You said you couldn’t cook.”
She raised one eyebrow. “I found instructions on YouTube. I’m learning. I can’t let my husband show me up every night.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Goddamn, she was adorable. When she was in doctor mode, she was all business, focused and intense. But at home, she was a goofball, shouting answers at Jeopardy , dancing while folding laundry, and curled up reading her fantasy dragon books.
“So you’re competitive, wifey.”
“You have no idea. Now grab your plate so we can watch Jeopardy .”
We’d fallen into a routine, exercising, making dinner, and hanging out. We were rocking this roommate thing. The gossip around town had died down, and though I still felt guilty about lying, I’d found it surprisingly easy to settle into life with Willa. We enjoyed each other’s company and had discovered a few commonalities. Despite my initial impression of her, she was one of the least nonjudgmental people I knew, and probably the most supportive. With Willa, I didn’t have to be anyone but myself. She was always appreciative of any small act, like picking up her favorite shampoo or taking out the trash barrels on Monday nights. Though it might have seemed silly to most, the recognition felt good. It made me feel useful.
During the commercial break after an extremely challenging Potpourri category, we ran to the kitchen to load the dishwasher and clean up.
“How are the girls?”
“Brutal,” I admitted while I rinsed my plate. “They are fierce as hell.”
She held out her hand. “Is being back on the ice difficult?”
I shook my head and passed the dish to her to load. “No. It feels normal to be out there. The last year of my life was what felt abnormal. When I lost hockey,” I swallowed thickly, suddenly feeling choked up, “it was like losing a limb. I knew it was gone, but the phantom pain remained, nonetheless. I dreamed about hockey. My body still went through the motions, and my hands would itch to hold a stick.”
“Wow,” she breathed. “That’s really powerful.”
Of all the talents I could have possessed, in Maine, hockey was one of the best. Up here, people loved the sport. And they loved hockey players.
Once I’d made a name for myself, things came easily. My high school teachers congratulated me on goals I’d scored, and I’d never paid for blueberry pie at the diner.
But then it all came crashing down.
The Jeopardy theme song started up, calling us back to the couch.
“ This element has the highest atomic number that occurs naturally .”
“What is uranium,” Willa said casually, turning her attention back to me. “I’m happy that you enjoy it.”
“I know it sounds ridiculous,” I said. “I love hockey so much. But I struggled to stay focused, to stay the course. I let my love for it and my ambivalence for everything else fuck me up and turn me into a person I didn’t recognize, only to then ruin any chance at a meaningful future.”
She elbowed me hard. “Stop that.”
We sat silently while the final Jeopardy question was read.
Often called the “voice box,” this organ in the human throat plays a crucial role in speech production.
“What is the larynx,” Willa called out before the contestants even began to write. “Now, back to the absurdity you were spewing. Radical honesty?” she asked, though she didn’t wait for me to respond before she gave it to me. “You did not ruin your future. I think you might be catastrophizing.”
I ran my hands through my hair and huffed a breath. Willa didn’t hesitate to call me out on my shit—radical honesty pact or not, I suspected. Often, it was refreshing, knowing she was speaking the truth. But between her and the girls on my hockey team, I did not get a break.
Lowering my focus to the table in front of me, I searched for a way to explain this to her. Why it all hurt so badly. “For most of the guys, hockey is a job. They’re focused and determined, and they push themselves every day.”
She nodded.
“But hockey was more for me. It was a friend, my sole source of self-esteem, the only constant during a chaotic childhood.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“Like everything else I’ve ever loved, I pushed it away. I punished myself for loving it too much, and I fucked it all up.”
“That’s a lot to unpack,” she said. “First, let me state for the record that getting injured is not fucking things up. That’s a medical event and was probably outside of your control. Second, as your friend, I’m going to remind you that you have a lot to offer. Also, you have to know that if you want hockey in your life, you can choose to keep it.”
She was right, of course. She always was. It wasn’t the injury. I rubbed my hip absentmindedly. That was the result of not taking care of my body. Not investing in the kind of training, physical therapy, and nutrition required for the physicality of my job.
“I wasn’t strong enough. Mentally,” I admitted. The thing I wasn’t prepared for when I was drafted to the minors? The boredom. Bus rides, plane rides, endless practices, and weightlifting sessions.
And then the downtime. Sitting, waiting, playing video games in a strange, shitty hotel. The game was my life, and every part of my day was structured around it.
“In high school and the three years I spent in college, I lived and breathed hockey. But that was my choice. I still had to go to class, do homework and laundry, all the normal stuff. But back then, hockey was the bright spot in my day. The motivation I needed when I had to be out of bed at five a.m. to deadlift.”
“In Florida, though, I was bored out of my skull. Things were different in the minors. Every day, you’re up and you’re down. You’re traded and moved from place to place. It’s not worth getting attached to anyone or anything, because it’s all temporary. Mentally, it wore on me. Day after day, month after month.”
A long winter of travel, practice, weights, stretching, protein shake, game tape, repeat.
I got numb.
“Because my mind is the problem. Yeah, I officially retired because of a torn labrum, and yes, it was painful as fuck, and I’m still recovering more than six months post-op. But my mind left the game long before my body was forced out.”
I craved stimulation and novelty. I fell into bad habits, like partying far too much, which was something I’d never done. My father had been strict, and I, his perfect hockey star son, never wanted to disappoint him.
I was twenty-four when I started drinking. And I really liked it.
It helped the days and nights pass, and it lifted my mood, made things funnier, more interesting, easier to deal with.
It quieted my brain.
Dulled the restless buzz and calmed my itchy fingers.
And sometimes, it even silenced the voice in my head telling me that I wasn’t enough, that this life would never be enough.
So I kept drinking. I stayed out late, neglecting my training, my nutrition, and my relationships.
So it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that my life went straight to shit.
I didn’t tell her that part. I was embarrassed, and I was still working through it. I hadn’t had a drink since our wedding night in Vegas, and come to think of it, neither had she.
And, more importantly, I hadn’t wanted to. I hadn’t even thought about it. I’d been busy coaching, learning to cook, and working out. I was sleeping better, and overall, my days had seemed to level out.
“You don’t have to give it up,” she said again. “You call the shots. This is your life.”
“You may have a point,” I conceded. Since my injury, I’d assumed that I’d lost hockey forever. But Willa had a point. Coaching was different, but still a lot of fun. Maybe it wasn’t the NHL, but lacing up my skates still sent a thrill through me.
“Of course I do,” she said, lifting her chin. “You could coach or scout or run clinics. Or you could sit on the couch and cheer on your favorite team. You get to decide what your future holds.”
It was easy for her to say. She’d been the valedictorian, the superstar. She had a lifetime of hard work and achievement to fall back on.
“I have no professional skills,” I admitted, my voice thick. It was the first time I’d said it out loud, but the connection Willa and I were building was a solid one, full of trust. I was closer to her than I had ever been to another person, even my brothers. “I have no degree. I’m thirty years old and completely washed up, with no prospects.”
We had long since abandoned Jeopardy , paying no attention to the responses to the final question. It was long over by this point, and another game show, one I didn’t recognize, was playing.
“You are so stubborn,” Willa said, her tone stern, no-nonsense. “You are literally the town hero right now. You brought back RiverFest. You know, the event that boosted the economy in a way nothing has in decades? People have hope again. There’s talk of a buyer for the inn, and the old flower shop is being turned into a trendy pizzeria.”
“It wasn’t a big deal.”
She scowled. “Now you’re pissing me off, Hebert. You have massive potential. You’ve got an entrepreneurial mind and a knack for problem-solving. And you’re a great leader.”
“It’s the height. People always follow the tall guy.”
“Okay, get up.” She stood and yanked on my arm.
When I was on my feet, she tugged again, dragging me toward the front door, and grabbed her snow boots.
Brow furrowed, I shoved my hands into my pockets. “What are you doing?”
“Get bundled up,” she ordered.
“Why?”
“Because you showed me yours, and now I’m showing you mine.”