Chapter 5
Chapter five
Luka
I’ve had breakfast with Reid every morning, collecting both our meals, proving over and over again that I know what I’m talking about when it comes to nutrition.
More than half of the guys on the hockey team at Boston University took the class.
It’s easier to learn a subject you can connect with, and since we all wanted to be professional athletes, nutrition is key to achieving that.
Plus, if you don’t make it, it opens up an avenue to other jobs in and around sports.
Reid uses the time to recap my previous day’s performance, which basically is a play-by-play of the stuff I did wrong and how to fix it.
He throws in a couple of praise statements, and it’s those that I cling to in order to keep me from spiraling down the “holy shit I’m in way over my head” thoughts that want to creep in.
After breakfast, I usually get in some early practice drills. Reid keeps telling me not to push myself too hard with all the extra sessions, but I feel like I need to nail down every play if I’m going to show the coaches they made the right choice, and show Reid I belong here.
It’s the last day of camp, and while my performance in the exhibition games has been good, I feel like I could have done more.
The crowd loves it when I pull off a trick play and it results in a goal, but Reid hates it when I do it.
He’s used to being able to anticipate people on the ice, and it’s a skill that makes him an amazing captain, so when I do something completely out of nowhere, he doesn’t know how to react except to get pissy with me.
Today will be the busiest day of camp, because the final roster is being revealed, and I’m praying my name is on it.
I didn’t come here to get sent down to the AHL.
I’m here for the big show. Please let me get picked.
To get out some of the nervous energy, I head out onto the ice to practice some of my trick shots.
I set my phone on the railing by one of the holes and hope to not hear it ring.
If you haven’t made the final roster, you’ll get a call from the GM telling you why.
If you don’t get a call, then you know you made it.
Guys like Reid don’t have to worry about today.
He’s contracted for another two years and is one of the best players in the league, not just this team.
Today, I’m working on what I like to call my butterfly toss.
When I was in college, Cosmo used to give the president of the frat a hard time for being a lacrosse player, forever comparing their game to a bunch of guys running around trying to catch butterflies in their nets.
I miss Cosmo. We played against him in an exhibition game a few days ago.
We caught up for a drink after, and while it wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be—sitting there and listening to how amazing his life is signed to his dream NHL team, how well he’s getting on with everyone on it, and his upcoming wedding to the guy who isn’t me—it wasn’t exactly a fun night out.
I faked a message from Mom after one drink, and after promising to catch up again soon, I headed home.
For the butterfly toss play to work, I need to gain possession of the puck behind the net, get closer to one side, then flip the puck up onto the blade of my stick and tuck it into the top corner of the net like throwing in a lacrosse goal.
It’s not easy to flick the puck up, and even harder to keep it on the blade, but if done fast enough, it fucking kills.
I finally get into a rhythm with it, pretending I’m being surrounded as I work the puck out from behind the net, get it up, and toss it in over and over. Then my eye catches the time.
Shit. It’s twenty-five past. I’ve got a special teams meeting at half past. I’ll be lucky if I’m not last in the room now. Fuck. I turned off my alarm because I didn’t want to freak myself out thinking it was the GM calling me, and now I’m going to be late. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I quickly take off my gloves and slide guards over my blades. The training room isn’t too far from the ice, but as expected, when I get there, I’m the last to walk through the door.
“Nice of you to join us,” Harris, our secondary offensive D, says from the back row of seats, but then Reid turns his head toward him, arms squarely folded over his chest.
“The rook was here early practicing, something you might want to consider if you ever want to make it off PP-two.”
How did he know I was practicing again? Was he watching me? And wait . . . Did I hallucinate, or did Reid just defend me? Maybe he’s finally starting to come around.
I take a seat two down from him, and when West is pulling up a video to show us, I lean toward him.
“Hey, thanks for that,” I whisper, and without even looking at me, he replies.
“These meetings, this team, they need to be your priority.”
“Why do you think I’ve been practicing so much?” I whisper back.
“To make yourself look good,” he replies, his gaze still straight ahead.
West clears his throat at the front of the room.
“Let’s get started, shall we?” West asks, and I don’t get a chance to respond to Reid’s last remark.
I’m not just doing the extra training for me.
It helps the team if I know what I’m doing out there on the ice, so it’s for them too.
West wasn’t even ready with the video when I got here.
I didn’t delay the meeting or miss anything.
He defended me to Harris, so why even do that if he had a problem with me being two minutes late?
Urgh, will I ever get on this guy’s good side?
Today’s videos are of us. Last exhibition game we had two power plays, and West took us through both step by step, highlighting what worked well and where things fell apart.
He always asks us what we saw and what we think we could do next time rather than just telling us, which is good, because it forces us to really look at the situation and run through in our heads what to do.
Reid has the answers for everything, but lately he’s been keeping his hand down, letting the rest of us work out the solutions.
“The weak left side needed to stay back about two feet; they were too far forward,” I say, and West smiles and nods.
“Exactly. See how even just a few feet can totally change the trajectory of the game? We missed this pass, which had a roll-on effect where they were able to get the puck up the other end and score thirty seconds later,” West adds.
“Good spot, Hart. This one happened so quickly it wasn’t easy to see. ”
I glance at Lewis in PP-two, who is paused on the screen right now so West can show where he was and where he needed to be.
Getting singled out when you messed up used to feel like the worst thing in the world, and don’t get me wrong, it still sucks, but West does it in a way that makes you feel like he isn’t so much pointing out what you did wrong, as he is helping you see what you did right and how you can do better.
The video continues, and then West pauses it after one of my trick plays that scored me one of only three goals we got that game.
“So, what did we see?” West asks, pausing the screen right when White and I are chest-bumping in celebration.
“The rook and I are killing it out there,” White says, and a few of the guys hoot and cheer in agreement. I can’t help but smile.
“Okay, yes, we got the goal, but what else did you see?” West asks.
Reid shifts in his seat, leaning back and folding his arms over his chest the way he does when he’s not happy.
“The play that was called was disregarded,” Reid says, and West rewinds the video.
“Go on,” he says as he presses play again, this time showing the video at half speed.
“Coach called for a bottom-line and I was running that play. The next thing I know the rook is lobbing the puck over the net.”
“To White, who totally baseball-batted it in,” I say, my face growing warm.
“That was pure luck,” Reid goes on to say, and I can tell in an instant that everyone else agrees.
Shit, even I have to agree. It was luck that White got the goal.
I didn’t plan for him to baseball-bat it in.
I heard the call, and then I saw White open in front of the net and thought I could get the puck to him, so I did.
“But it worked,” I reasoned.
“And if it didn’t, we would have lost the puck and our shot at a goal,” Reid adds. “When a play is called, it’s your job to follow that play. Everyone else was doing their job except you.”
West steps in front of the screen.
“Reid is right. The call was disregarded in this instance, which can’t happen in a real game.
Trust is the foundation for everything you guys do out there, and when we have just two minutes to take advantage of the power play, every decision needs to be made with complete confidence that the call will be followed.
Hart, you took a chance that paid off, this time.
And White, that goal will be on replays through the entire season, you can bet, but without trust, you may as well be playing street hockey. ”
“Sorry, team,” I say, and West moves on to the next play.
My heart is pounding so fast that I’m sure the guys closest to me must be able to hear it.
I was on a total high after that goal, White too, and now all I keep thinking is why the hell didn’t I just run the play Coach called?
If I get sent down to the AHL now, the only person I can blame is myself.
We finish the session reviewing a few more videos, and as I take one step out of the training room my phone rings.
Shit.
I answer, my hand shaking as my stomach swirls.
“Hello.”
“Hello, Mr. Hart, this is Becky James from Hockey Central News.”
Relief washes over me. It’s not the GM telling me I’ve been cut or sent down to the AHL.
“Sorry, wait, how did you get this number?”
“A source provided it to us. Would you be free to set up a time for an interview this week? We’d love to get your thoughts on training camp and what you’re looking forward to in your rookie season.”
“Umm, you should really contact my agent to arrange that kind of thing, I think.”
Reid stops walking past me and turns, mouthing, “Who is it?”
“Hold on,” I tell Becky, and I tap mute on the screen so she doesn’t hear me. “It’s some reporter. She said she got my number from a source, but what does that even mean? What should I say?”
“Just tell her you’d love to chat if they contact your agent to set up a time, then thank them and end the call. Then you block the number, and possibly change yours,” Reid replies.
“Yeah, but what does she mean by a source gave it to her? What source?”
Reid shrugs. “It probably means someone you know leaked it to the press.”
“No way one of my friends gave her my number.”
“Doesn’t have to be a friend. Have you had the number long?”
“Since high school.”
“There you go, then, it really could be anyone. Your number would be down in your college records, frat charter documents, you could even have had it publicly listed at one stage.”
“Ohhh yeah, I didn’t think of that. So I should get a new number?”
“Yeah, and I’d say sooner rather than later. When a number’s leaked, it’s usually not just to one news group.”
“Oh shit, she’s still on hold, one sec.”
I click unmute.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes, so are we good to set up a time?”
“I’d really love to chat, but I just need you to go through my agent to set up a time.
Once she does, I’ll be there. Her name is Charity Emerson.
Thanks so much for calling,” I say, then hang up before she can try to convince me to set up a time without going through Charity.
Speaking of Charity, I should probably let her know that my number has gotten out.
I shoot her off a quick text just as my phone rings again.
Another unknown number. Is this the GM telling me I’m out, or another news place angling for a quote?
“Let it go to voicemail, then switch it to silent until you can sort that shit out,” Reid says, and I do.
“Urgh, I think I’ll just leave this in the locker room today and sort out a new number after training. Shit, no, I can’t, what if the GM tries to call me?”
“Why would they do that?”
“You know, if they cut me or are sending me down to the AHL, the GM will call to tell me and explain why.”
“You think you’re getting a call today?”
“Well . . . yeah, maybe. I mean, you said it yourself in there. I didn’t listen to his call, and sure, we got the goal, but I messed up. Maybe I’m not ready for the NHL.”
“You’re not getting a call. You fucked up and pissed me off when you pulled that trick play, but you’re on the roster, rook.”
My heart is in my throat, my stomach swarming with a million butterflies.
“Seriously? You’re sure?”
“Positive. Now go shove that thing away and get down to the ice, we’ve got work to do.”
“Sure thing. Thanks, Cap,” I reply and Reid kind of rolls his eyes, but I catch the slightest hint of a smile before he turns away.
Maybe my plan to Luka-love-bomb the captain is working after all. Fuck. I’m really on the team. They really want me. That means in less than a week I’ll be playing my first real NHL game. Holy shit. How is this really my life?