Chapter 38
WYATT CHASE
My stomach is in my throat. I’m waiting outside of Coach’s office for the meeting that I set up with him after morning practice. It’s Friday, and the countdown in my head that’s been ticking faster since last weekend is now a blaring alarm. I can’t think of anything else.
Last night, I felt like I was existing in a moment that I’d never get to experience again. At least, not in the same way. Asher and I were on the sofa, with Lyla nestled in between us. We had spaghetti for dinner, and then Lyla regaled us with what her Barbie dolls got up to during the day.
Being home with her during break has been great, and this was the second Friday night in a row that we got to spend together.
Maybe in the future, if I get a steady job at a physical therapy practice, we’ll get to do it more often.
I’m sure that I’ll get grief from my mom if I disrupt the Friday night routine that they’ve been building this year, but we’ll figure out a path forward.
Because that’s what I do. I figure things out.
I figured out how to be a single dad. I figured out how to be a former pro hockey player. I figured out a future that allows me to wake up every morning and look myself in the eye. Most days, anyway.
And most importantly, I figured out how to love again. Because of Asher.
So even as I stand in front of the door, waiting to knock, a part of me wants to get this over with as fast as possible, but the other part of me wants to drag out the inevitable for as long as I can.
I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t absolutely hate the idea of leaving this job. Leaving this team. But I can’t be the type of man that I want Lyla to admire as she grows up and also sit idly by while Zane puts people at risk.
And let me be clear–I’m not talking about falling in love with Asher. I’d do that again in a heartbeat.
But seeing Zane at practice yesterday made it glaringly obvious that this is the path forward. He was more focused on watching me than watching the players. And he had this smarmy smile on his face like he just knew that he had me boxed in. Today, he hasn’t even bothered to show up.
After I texted him yesterday afternoon to schedule a time to meet up later today, I blocked his number.
But I’m not even surprised that he isn’t here.
He thinks that his debts are going to be cleared and, believing that he’s succeeded in his race to the bottom, he probably went out on some bender, drinking and betting himself into oblivion.
And that’s his problem–among his many other problems–and not one that I’m going to correct.
Because even though he’s the reason for this meeting with Coach, I’m not thinking about him. I’m thinking about Asher and how he’ll get to play out the rest of his final season. I’m thinking about Lyla and how she deserves to have a parent that she can be proud of.
I’m thinking about myself, too.
I want to be able to know that even though the world is a chaotic, frustrating place sometimes, that I’m doing what I can to leave it a better place than I found it. And kowtowing to people like Zane would be the exact opposite of that.
I also know that Asher’s worried beyond belief. He thinks that we won’t survive this change. He thinks that once we aren’t together as often or if I struggle to get another job at a university, I’ll grow resentful.
What he doesn’t understand is that he’s changed my whole life.
My whole world. And maybe the pieces of my day-to-day will change, but I have this steady, intense feeling of contentment in my heart that I’ve never experienced before.
It’s anchoring me in the best possible way–like a north star that I can follow no matter what.
He’s the reason for that feeling. So even if the variables are going to change, the math always nets out to the same place. Which is us, building something together.
It’s something that I never thought I’d be excited about again.
I look down at my watch. It’s time.
I knock on the door, two quick raps to alert Coach of my presence. I won’t lie, I’m glad we have some privacy. I specifically waited until practice was over and the guys all showered and left to talk to him.
Whatever happens, it doesn’t need to be a public affair.
“Come in,” I hear his voice from the other side of the closed door.
I take a seat across from him, trying to gauge his mood.
Coach Donovan excels at his job because he’s generally a really steady, no nonsense guy, but I’m hoping to grasp onto any extra information that I can glean.
No one’s been fired or has left the team since I joined, which means that this is really uncharted territory for me to see how he behaves.
But, I remind myself, it doesn’t really make a difference. Regardless of how he responds, we end up at the same place. Me resigning from the team and letting him know about Zane.
“Asher looked good out there,” he says, looking up from the taped practice footage that he was watching on his laptop.
I know that’s what he was staring at because I can hear Coop in the video, saying, “Bow chicka wow wow,” which I heard in real-time about an hour ago when Asher deked the goalie and slammed a beautiful shot into the top right corner of the net.
“Maybe even better than last season,” Coach adds, staring at me.
“He put in the work, that’s for damn sure.” I clear my throat and adjust in the plastic chair. Now or never. “Anyway, I need to talk to you, so thanks for fitting me in.”
Even though the Coach generally has an open door policy, his office, which adjoins the locker room, has been closed all morning. And I haven’t thought much about it because we have a lot to prepare with games starting back up next week, along with integrating Asher back into the team.
I feel the same pang of guilt that’s been hitting me since I made the decision to leave.
He clasps his hands together, giving nothing away. “What can I help you with?”
I hate how hard this is. That my own hands are clammy and that I have sweat on my back and that I’m worried that my voice is going to crack like I’m a pubescent teenager.
I make myself think about Asher and Lyla and why this is the right decision, even if it’s so fucking difficult. “I’m resigning from the team, Coach.”
One of his eyebrows lifts, barely. “And why is that?”
I clear my throat. I practiced what I was going to say dozens of times in my head, but now, the words all seem flat and stupid.
So, I guess I’ll just have to go with my heart.
I’ve been doing a lot of that these days, so I’m well-practiced.
“I’ve had concerns about Zane this season and his effectiveness as our trainer.
And I didn’t level them up to you as soon as I should have.
That’s completely on me. But I’ve become aware of at least one specific instance where he hasn’t been documenting injuries, which meant that they weren’t surfaced to me.
” I hold my hands up and add, “That isn’t an excuse on my side, just an explanation. ”
He doesn’t respond, so I assume that’s my cue to just get it all out. At least it’ll be over, then. Now that I’m in the thick of this, getting it over with definitely seems like the preferable option.
I run my sweaty hands down my khakis, not caring if it leaves a mark. “I can’t in good conscience sit here and tell you that I’ve shown up for this team like I should have. I wasn’t putting player needs first, which is why I’m resigning.”
So, maybe I’m not going to explain that it’s because of Asher that I waffled on reporting Zane. I never said that I was a saint.
Plus, it doesn’t actually matter. Regardless of the reason, I didn’t do right by the guys on the team. And that’s what I’m here to own.
Coach is still staring at me, and I have no fucking idea what he’s thinking because his face is giving nothing away. I’m even more confused when he says, “I don’t accept your resignation.”
And let me tell you, out of all the things that I thought may be said in this meeting, him rejecting my resignation isn’t one of them. I don’t even think that’s something he can really do.
“Coach, it’s not–”
He holds his hand up, and I stop talking immediately. He is not the kind of guy that you interrupt or talk over.
He leans forward, bracing his meaty forearms on the desk that now seems too small for his imposing presence. “Let me tell you about my last twenty-four hours, Chase. How about that?”
Coach could tell me he’s going to read me a list of plants native to Massachusetts and I’d shut up and nod with enthusiasm. “Sure thing.”
“Yesterday afternoon, Dutch showed up at my house with a stack of signed statements from the team regarding their interactions with Zane this season. He had names. He had dates. He had injuries. Hell, he brought at least four guys with him to corroborate his story.”
My flabbers are ghasted. That’s the only way that I can describe the feeling coursing through my body.
Dutch showed up for dinner at five-thirty last night and didn’t say a word of this to me.
He sat at the kitchen island, slurping up spaghetti with Lyla while they raced to see who could inhale a noodle the fastest. Which, in my defense, I did try to veto multiple times.
I don’t know what to think or feel. I definitely don’t know what to say except, “I wasn’t aware of that.”
“He can be very persuasive–and argumentative–when he wants.” I think I see the small hint of a smile on Coach’s face, but it’s hard to tell. All I really know for sure is that his last day has probably been a complete shit show.
Still, I can’t stop the smile on my own face. “I have been able to experience that during our sessions.”
“You must have made a pretty big impression on him,” Coach says, and I’m trying not to read too much into his tone. “Because he was adamant that Zane has been doing all of this without your knowledge. Hiding it from you, specifically.”