3. Colin
COLIN
But Tyler is already up and moving around the room, probably heading to the gym because the kid has more energy than a golden retriever on espresso.
"Rise and shine, superstar," he says, way too cheerfully for this ungodly hour. "Ready for another day of riding the bench?"
"Fuck off," I mumble into my pillow.
"Ooh, cranky. Someone's not handling the benchwarmer life well."
He's not wrong. It's been two weeks since I got cleared for contact, and I'm still getting maybe ten minutes of ice time per game. Ten minutes. I used to play twenty-five minutes a game in high school.
"I'm not a benchwarmer," I say, dragging myself out of bed.
"Right. You're a... what did Coach call it? A developing player."
"Coach said I'm working my way up."
"Into the lineup that doesn't include you."
I throw a pillow at him. "You're really not helping."
"I'm just saying, maybe you should talk to someone about it. Like, I don't know, the cute trainer who's been asking about you."
"Savannah hasn't been asking about me."
"Dude, she literally asked me yesterday how you were adjusting to being back on the ice."
"She's just doing her job."
"Her job is asking random people about your emotional state?"
I don't have a good answer for that, so I focus on getting dressed for practice. The thing is, I know Tyler's right. I am frustrated about the ice time. More than frustrated—I'm starting to panic.
What if I never get back to being a starter? What if I'm stuck on the fourth line all season? What if choosing college over juniors was the biggest mistake of my life?
My phone buzzes with the usual morning text from Briggs.
Briggs:
How's the college hockey dream treating you?
Me:
Like shit. Still barely playing.
Briggs:
That sucks. How much ice time you getting?
Me:
Maybe 10 minutes a game.
Briggs:
Ouch. That's rough.
Me:
Tell me about it. Meanwhile you're probably playing 20+ minutes every night.
Briggs:
22 minutes last game. But man, it's brutal up here. These guys are animals.
Me:
At least you're playing.
Briggs:
At least you're not getting your face rearranged every night.
Me:
I'd rather get my face rearranged than sit on the bench.
Briggs:
No, you wouldn't. Trust me.
After practice—where I spent most of the time doing passing drills with the other guys who aren't in the top six—I'm walking to Biology feeling like garbage.
Coach pulled me aside after and said I'm "progressing well" and to "stay patient," which is basically coach-speak for "you're still not good enough. "
I slide into my usual seat next to Savannah, who's already got her color-coded notes spread out like she's preparing for the fucking Nobel Prize.
"Hey," she says, looking up with one of those smiles that makes me forget how shitty everything else is. "How was practice?"
"Fine."
"Just fine?"
"Yeah, just... fine."
She gives me this look like she can tell I'm lying, but she doesn't push it. Which is good because I'm not sure I can talk about how I'm basically the worst player on the team without losing my shit.
"So," she says, pulling out her pen, "ready for cellular respiration part two?"
"I guess."
"You guess? Colin, this is going to be on the exam."
"I know it's going to be on the exam. I just... I have other stuff on my mind."
"Like what?"
"Like nothing. Can we just get started?"
I don't mean to snap at her, but the words come out sharper than I intended. Savannah blinks, and I immediately feel like an asshole.
"Sorry," I say quickly. "I didn't mean to... I'm just stressed about stuff."
"It's okay. Want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
"Okay. But Colin?"
"Yeah?"
"If you need someone to listen, I'm good at that."
There's something in the way she says it that makes me want to tell her everything.
About how I'm scared I'm not good enough for college hockey.
About how I'm starting to think Dad was right about juniors.
About how watching other guys get ice time while I sit on the bench is making me want to punch something.
But I can't say any of that because it makes me sound pathetic.
"Thanks," I say instead. "But I'm fine."
"Right. Fine."
We dive into cellular respiration, and I try to focus on ATP and mitochondria instead of the fact that Jake Morrison—who's a fucking sophomore—is playing on the second power play unit while I'm taking notes from the press box.
"So the electron transport chain..." Savannah starts explaining, drawing diagrams that probably make perfect sense if your brain isn't completely fried from thinking about hockey.
"Can I ask you something?" I interrupt.
"Sure."
"Do you think I'm... I mean, do you think I'm playing well?"
"In hockey?"
"No, in fucking chess. Yes, in hockey."
She raises an eyebrow at my tone, and I realize I'm being a dick again.
"Sorry. I just... I need an honest opinion."
"From someone who knows hockey?"
"From someone who's been watching."
She sets down her pen and looks at me directly. "You want my honest opinion?"
"Yeah."
"I think you're playing scared."
"Scared?"
"Like you're trying so hard not to make mistakes that you're not making any plays either."
"That's not... I'm not scared."
"Okay. Then you're playing careful. Same result."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means the Colin I watched in high school took risks. He made things happen. This Colin is just trying not to screw up."
"Maybe because screwing up means I don't play at all."
"Or maybe playing not to screw up is why you're not playing more."
I stare at her. "How do you know that?"
"Because I've been watching hockey my whole life. The players who stand out are the ones who make plays, not the ones who play it safe."
"Easy for you to say. You're not the one who'll get benched if you mess up."
"You're already benched."
"Not benched. I'm getting limited minutes while I?—"
"Colin."
"What?"
"You're benched."
The words hit like a punch to the gut because she's right. I am benched. I'm getting garbage time while other guys play meaningful minutes.
"So what am I supposed to do?" I ask, and I can hear how desperate I sound.
"Stop trying to be perfect and start trying to be yourself."
"What if myself isn't good enough?"
"What if it is?"
"That's not helpful."
"It's realistic. You're Colin Grant. You scored forty-seven goals in high school. You got recruited here for a reason."
"High school was different."
"How?"
"Everything was easier. I was bigger than most guys, faster than most guys. Here, everyone's big and fast."
"So find something else that makes you stand out."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. That's for you to figure out."
I want to argue with her, but I can't because she's making sense. I have been playing scared. I have been trying not to make mistakes instead of trying to make plays.
But what if I try to make plays and they don't work? What if I take risks and they backfire?
"Can I tell you something?" Savannah says.
"Sure."
"The first time I watched you play—like, really watched you, not just because I was stuck at the rink—you scored this goal where you deked around three guys and went top shelf."
"I remember that goal."
"You were smiling the entire time. Like, literally grinning while you were stickhandling around people."
"So?"
"So when's the last time you smiled during a game?"
I think about this. When is the last time I enjoyed playing hockey instead of just trying to survive it?
"I don't know."
"Maybe that's the problem."
"Maybe."
The professor starts talking, and we both turn our attention to the lecture. But I'm not really listening. I'm thinking about what Savannah said, about playing scared versus playing to make things happen.
After class, she starts packing up her notes, and I realize I don't want this conversation to end.
"Hey, Savannah?"
"Yeah?"
"Want to grab coffee later? I mean, if you're not busy."
"To study?"
"To talk. About... stuff."
She smiles—not the polite smile she gives everyone, but a real one.
"I'd like that."
"Cool. How about after your trainer stuff?"
"Sounds good."
As we're walking out of the lecture hall, I feel lighter than I have in weeks. Not because my hockey problems are solved, but because someone actually listened to what I was worried about instead of just telling me to be patient.
Someone who understands hockey and isn't afraid to tell me when I'm being an idiot.
Someone who makes me want to figure out how to smile during games again.
My phone buzzes with a text from Dad.
Dad:
How's the ice time situation?
I stare at the message for a long moment, then put my phone away without responding. I'll deal with Dad later. Right now, I have coffee plans with someone who might actually help me figure out how to stop being scared and start being myself again.
Even if I'm not entirely sure who that is anymore.