Chapter 11 #2
We head down another hallway-spoke that leads to both of our offices. “Some of the coaching staff are heading out for a drink soon. You wanna join us?” Jake asks at his door.
Sleeping in tomorrow is an attractive proposition, but I guess I can still do that. Plus, I should really take my own advice. I’m liking my job a lot so far, but it never hurts to have friends. It’s crazy to think that I used to be the life of the party on and off the ice.
And now? I rap my knuckles on the door, making the decision. “Yeah. Where are you heading? Give me fifteen minutes to finish up my game notes, and I can meet you there.”
I didn’t have downing Coors Light at a Chili’s on my Friday night bingo card. Even so, I’m actually really enjoying myself.
We’ve been here for about thirty minutes, and so far, it’s just me, Jake, and another assistant coach, Luke. We all played college hockey, and now we work in college hockey, so you can probably imagine what we’re discussing at our high top table in the bar area.
Luke, who’s in his forties and has a no nonsense crewcut along with what has to be a completely fake set of slightly too-white teeth, signals for another round before he turns his attention back to us. “God, we were a mess tonight.”
“Defense did its job. Offense wasn’t where it needed to be,” Jake disagrees, situating his baseball cap. “I can count at least half-a-dozen plays that we ruined all on our own. The score should have been eight-to-one and not a tie.”
I’m listening more than talking. It’s good to get the perspective of the other guys away from the ice. Everyone’s a lot less tight-lipped. Still, I don’t want to accidentally shit on something that either of them are sensitive about.
“What are your thoughts?” Luke asks me. Guess I’m joining the fray whether I want to or not.
I wrap my hands around the cold beer that’s just been dropped at our table. “It was a tough night,” I hedge. “Teams are a living, breathing thing. Just because we went to the Frozen Four last year doesn’t mean that we’re that same team again this year.”
Jake takes a long draw of his drink. “Losing Kellan O’Reilly sure hasn’t helped. I know a team isn’t built around one player but damn do I miss that kid. He put up the single season scoring record last year.” Excitedly, he adds, “I can’t wait to see what he does on the Nauticals.”
The New England Nauticals are Boston’s pro hockey team. Kellan was drafted last year, and along with the Frozen Four finals appearance, it was a bright spot on the season. I haven’t met him personally, but I’ve only heard great things about him.
“We’re really missing Dutch out there, too,” Luke says, and my ears immediately perk up. Which, for the record, I hate myself for.
“How’s his rehab going?” Jake asks, looking at me. “I feel awful for him. He looks like shit, too.”
Luke interjects. “He’s been looking better, thank god. I even saw him crack a smile in practice this week.”
My throat is dry, and I take a drink. I know that smile well, and a flutter has started to work its way through me whenever it’s leveled in my direction. “His rehab got off to a bumpy start, but he’s made huge gains in the last few weeks.”
And that’s putting it mildly.
Therapeutically, I can already see significant changes in Asher’s road to recovery.
His balance is possibly better than it was pre-injury, since we’ve been doing a ton of stabilizing exercises in our sessions together.
His core strength is improving so fast that it’s like tracking a newborn’s milestones–there’s something for me to update in his documentation every single workout.
The rest of it? The parts that have nothing to do with his physical ability to play hockey and everything to do with how he gets me going in all the most inappropriate ways?
Well, those are also hard for me not to notice, too.
So sue me. I’m only human, and I have absolutely no plans of doing anything about it.
But I can’t help that I’ve started noticing that he gets excited when I engage him in conversations that he’s passionate about.
His cheeks have filled out and are usually rosy and flushed instead of the dull pallor that used to make him look tired all the time.
A couple of days ago, I even saw him with Trevor, running through the plays to make sure that his replacement for the game was up to speed.
“How’s he looking for the season?” As the offensive coach, Luke has the most skin in the game when it comes to Dutch returning to the ice.
I don’t envy the job he’s been tasked with–making it work with the absence of two solid players.
Plus, another seven guys graduated and a few transferred to other schools through the transfer portal.
College sports have really become the wild west these last few years with the new rules that the NCAA implemented.
“If,” and I emphasize the word strongly, making eye contact with both men, “everything goes according to plan, the goal is a return for the second half of the season.”
I’m glad that Luke takes the information on the chin, giving me an accepting nod.
Obviously, coaches want good players back on the ice as soon as possible, but it’s clear that Radford isn’t running its program like a chop shop, trying to get as much out of players as they can and then throw them to the wolves.
“I don’t envy you,” Jake says pointedly. “Working with players who have serious injuries is a whole different ball game.”
“I feel pretty equipped to handle the challenge.” I grin half-heartedly. Everyone in the world of hockey knows about my injury and my untimely departure from the NHL.
The term for what I have, the loss of peripheral vision in my left eye, is–most simply put–an invisible disability. Though, besides not being able to do something that only a small percentage of the human population could ever achieve anyway–being a professional athlete–my life is pretty normal.
I made peace with people’s pitying looks, especially in the sports world, a long time ago.
I wouldn’t have been able to pull myself back together if I hadn’t.
And, I have Lyla to thank for me finally getting my head out of my ass and accepting that I needed to build a different future for the both of us.
“Well, we’re glad to have you here,” Jake says, raising his glass to cheers. “Even if it took you too goddamn long to come out for a drink.”
I raise my glass in response.
Over the next beer, my last for the night, I learn that Jake is recently divorced, hence his desire to go out with the coaching staff as much as possible.
Luke, who’s actually a lot older than he looks, has two kids who are already grown and off at college or living their adult lives.
He’s still married, but his wife is a travel nurse who’s also on the road a decent amount.
After a little over an hour at the restaurant, I’m glad that I came out tonight. It’s helped me take my mind off–
“God damn,” Luke says, looking toward the restaurant entrance.
I follow his stare. A group of Renegades players–at least five–just walked in.
It’s not until they’re led to a table in the restaurant area that I’m able to see that Asher’s with them. And suddenly, my relaxed night getting to know my co-workers better just got a whole lot more interesting.