36. Ash
Rationally, I understood why Olivia stayed away for the remaining games against the Hurricanes. I would have done the same. But the crushed, selfish part of me I tried to bury needed her there.
With a sick sort of fascination, I turned on ESPN in the hotel room, listening as the commentators tore apart my performance. Again.
“And how about the Knights, last night, Ted?”
“Roy, the Knights won’t be known for their chivalry this season, that’s for sure.”
“Was that a pun, Ted?”
“Sure was, Roy. And while we’re at it, let’s talk about Asher ‘The Basher’ Wilder’s ludicrous display last night.”
They had a field day ripping me apart, but I didn’t have the energy to turn it off. They weren’t wrong, and I deserved to hear again what I’d done. Nothing was right on or off the ice these days.
“That’s right, Wilder really lived up to his moniker again. I asked myself what year it was because it was like watching him in his early days, when he was really embodying Asher the Basher.”
“That’s right, but you know, all his bashing didn’t get numbers on the board for the Knights.”
“Well, they got penalties. Those numbers are on the board.”
“You’re a real comedian tonight, Ted.”
At least they didn’t throw me out of the game. Coach Olsen would’ve ripped the C right off my jersey and tossed it in the trash if that happened. Still, my idiocy earned a tongue-lashing.
But throwing punches, feeling the split of the skin on my knuckles, and hearing the crack of my fist against someone’s jaw, it was like someone else controlled my body.
I hated it.
And right now, I hated myself more.
Coach said not to get distracted, but I sank into the fight, needing the ache in my bones to forget.
* * *
Unfamiliar rinks always twisted like a rabbit’s warren, with all the hallways and doors.
Finding Coach Olsen was nearly impossible, and the prickling anxiety in my limbs grew steadily worse as I searched.
Eventually, I deposited myself outside a meeting room hoping Coach would appear.
Twenty minutes, and six levels of Candy Crush later, he did.
“Coach,” I called, “got a minute?”
“Sure, Wilder, but you’re going to have to walk and talk. I have a hole in my khakis, and I’m going to fix it in the locker room.”
“Uh. Sure, okay.” I blinked, nonplussed, frozen like an idiot as Coach Olsen walked away. “So…” I hurried to catch up. But my mind went blank as freshly Zamboni’d ice.
“What’s on your mind, Asher?”
Best to spit it out and get it over with. “I’m not so sure I’m cut out for this, Coach.”
“Cut out for what, exactly? You’re a hell of a defender.”
The compliment was a small thing, really. But it nearly blew me off my feet, it was so unexpected. “Th—thank you. But…” I trailed off, wondering how to tell Coach he’d made a mistake in putting his trust in the wrong place. In me.
“Well, spit it out, we don’t have all day. Unless you’re going to sit with me while I mend the hole. And I can’t guarantee my undies don’t also have a hole.”
Wow—just—why?
“I want to rescind my bid for captain,” I blurted to avoid the mental image.
“Shock factor. Always works,” Coach tapped the small sewing kit against his palm. “And don’t worry, my boxers don’t have holes. But there’s a fifty-fifty chance I’m not wearing any.”
Bleaching my brain wouldn’t be enough to rid myself of the visual. I tried to stop a shudder.
He chuckled. “Kidding again, Wilder. You are so gullible sometimes.”
We needed to get on track. Somehow, Coach Olsen’s belief in me made letting him down so much worse. As much as I thought I could lead, maybe I couldn’t. Everything I’d done in the last game was wrong.
“Coach—”
“Wilder. I’m not making a final decision until I see what all of you do with your chance.”
“We lost two games. I was supposed to be the leader, and I fucked up.”
“Do you know how long I’ve been coaching?”
“No, sir.”
“Neither do I. Been so long, I lost count. Probably longer than you’ve been alive. And in all those years, do you know how many games I’ve lost?”
“No, sir.”
“Neither do I because I lost count. But I’ve lost plenty. Made mistakes, too.”
It wasn’t the encouraging speech I expected, but Coach went on.
“Look, Ash, to quote my personal idol, Herb Brooks, ‘Success is won by those who believe in winning, and then prepare for that moment’. You’ve got to prepare , son.”
How, though? “I don’t know how to prepare myself, much less a team.”
“Kid, it was never just you. And that’s what you forgot.”
“You’re not playing like Asher the Basher, right now.
You’re not even playing like Ash Wilder.
You’re playing like a freaking mouse out there.
To quote Herb Brooks again , ‘You'replaying worseevery day and right now you're playing like it's next month.’ You’ve got to find your inner basher again but keep him on a leash. It’s not about bashing heads, but you can’t stop playing, either. ”
“Wasn’t Herb Brooks a baseball coach?” My sad attempt to lighten the mood soured it more.
“You know he wasn’t, but that’s not the point.”
Mentally flipping through my career brought forth images of me playing with my team but not playing with my team. Which made no sense yet somehow made perfect sense. “I don’t know how to make decisions for myself as a player and the team as a whole.”
“Risk something or forever sit with your dreams.” More Herb Brooks. Someone must’ve gotten Coach a book of hockey quotes for Christmas.
It wasn’t helping. I hated when people who were supposed to be wise were all cryptic instead of saying outright what I needed to hear. “Oh, Babe Ruth said that one, right?” I couldn’t help the joke, even if I didn’t feel like making it.
My smartassery earned a glare and a light shove into the wall as the coach passed me on the way into the bathroom. “I should bench you for that.” Coach scowled, the deep brown skin around his eyes crinkling as his brows furrowed and he headed back out.
Maybe he should. If I was benched, I couldn’t fuck anything else up.
Without clarification of his Master Yoda pronouncement, I still didn’t know how to find my lost…
basher -ness while managing to keep my head on straight to tell other people what to do without bashing them.
If I were being honest with myself, I’d been listless for a while, my inner fire already dwindling.
I thought I was settling down, but maybe instead of losing my hotheadedness, I was losing my edge.
None of the leadership books I found helped.
Even one about Herb Brooks. Most were variations on the same theme.
“If you want to succeed, you have to succeed,” which was utter bullshit.
I needed an instruction manual, not platitudes.
And I didn’t know how to reconcile my position with the new, additional weight of being the man in charge.
Picking up heavy things and putting them down usually helped clear my head, so I hit the gym.
Or I tried, but the usual mindless calm during the repetition bench presses and squats didn’t quite come to me.
At least the movement gave my limbs a release for the nerves; I’d been tapping my fingers or jiggling my foot for hours.
Glancing in the mirror didn’t help; the sight reminded me of Olivia bent over a bench, taking everything I gave her until she?—
And I put a pin in that train of thought—I could not get hard in the fucking gym.
Mindlessly, I gathered my stuff and went to hide somewhere to think. An icy shower should help temper the suddenly raging lust licking through him. If only it would help the spinning hamster wheels in my brain, too.
The shower did not help, and now we were five minutes out from the final game on the East Coast, and I still didn’t have my head on straight.
Dante joked around to lighten the mood, but I snapped, cursing my friend up one side and down the other. I apologized as soon as my vision cleared again, but I still made a complete ass of myself.
Great way to start the game, Cap.
Ugh. Shit. Fuck .
The game was a disaster. I still hesitated, second-guessing every shot, unable to pass or score, leaving myself open all night with nothing to show for it. No magical solution presented itself at the breaks, so instead of encouraging or inspiring my teammates, I beat myself up.
We lost. Again.
It wasn’t entirely my fault; we were all professionals.
But the balance of the entire team was off due to my poor leadership.
And I still didn’t know how to be better.
Logically, I knew nothing would change overnight.
If I didn’t improve over the course of three games, maybe I wouldn’t get better at all.
If Trip were still around, I would ask him how he did it. But if Trip hadn’t broken his leg, I wouldn’t be in this situation. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to ask for advice.
With new resolve easing my mood enough to get back to the hotel without snapping at anyone, but not enough to feel like any less of a failure, I went through my new routine of lying in the dark and mentally flagellating myself over every mistake.
* * *
Trip invited me over within thirty seconds of me sending a message. He must’ve been lonely in his convalescence. Probably bored out of his mind without hours of training and games and travel.
Nana sent me to Trip’s with a pound cake, still warm from the oven.
Trip opened the door on crutches, and I stood there on the threshold, frozen, suddenly grateful I never had such a serious injury.
Then I mentally knocked on wood, threw pretend salt over my shoulder, and crossed my fingers so I didn’t accidentally think it into being.
“Don’t mind the Barbies,” Trip said, sliding a few errant dolls aside with the rubber tip of a crutch as we passed a room filled with drawings and toys.