2. Colby
TWO
Colby
Out of all the teams in the NHL, it had to be LA who headhunted me to join their coaching staff.
Because of course. They’ve promised me big things, and sure, I’m starting at the bottom of the ladder, but my goal is to be a head coach of an NHL team one day.
Starting out as an assistant video coach is paying my dues.
I almost turned it down. Not because I believe I should at least be head video coach or that winning the Frozen Four means I’m better than anyone else here, but because of one reason.
Him .
Seventeen years is a long time to go without talking to someone I once considered a friend, but it was one season we spent together. A million years ago. Novicov—Novi, now—probably doesn’t even remember me.
Where his career took off, mine stalled.
Flatlined really. I only made it one more season, bouncing between the AHL and ECHL before neither of them wanted me for a third.
I played in Europe for a bit after that, but what started as a slump became a real slap in the face when I realized: I just wasn’t good enough.
My worst fear had come true. My professional hockey career was over.
The surprising part of it all was that I had no regrets. Disappointment, sure, but I thought my world would end if that happened, and it didn’t.
And as much as I dreaded the thought of having to become a coach back when I was playing, it didn’t take me long to fall in love with it.
I started with Bantam, then after a few years of that, applied for a job at a prestigious hockey academy in Boston.
Getting that position was the catalyst of my coaching career trajectory, which has only soared since then, moving up to NCAA, and then winning the Frozen Four my first year as head coach for Penn State.
My coaching resume is impressive, but getting a chance to coach for an NHL team?
It’s almost as good as being out there on the ice.
Which is why I couldn’t turn it down. Not for any reason. Especially not a homophobic ex-teammate I mistakenly thought might have been interested in me. I was nineteen years old and naive as hell.
I hope that he won’t let one tiny mistake seventeen years ago ruin this opportunity for me.
Since being pulled up in front of the team, I’ve refused to look directly at him.
I can sense him though. His large, domineering presence takes up most of the room.
It was the same back then. Wherever Novi was, my body knew.
Even though I tell myself to stay strong, to keep looking at everyone else but him, there’s a moment where Coach Whelan draws everyone’s attention to some motivational poster like he’s taking a page out of Ted Lasso’s book, and we can succeed if we all believe we can.
And in that moment, I can’t help myself. I take a peek.
Fuck my fucking life.
Not only is he as drop-dead gorgeous as he was back then, albeit now with a sprinkling of gray through his brown and now longer hair, but those whiskey-colored eyes are on me too.
If I had any hope of him not even remembering me, it’s gone now. Especially when I fake confidence and throw him a half smile, but all he does is avert his gaze and pretend he was paying attention to Whelan the whole time.
I’ve seen him on TV countless times, watched him in press conferences, but there’s something about being in his presence that hits me in the gut like a sucker punch. It’s a weird mix between nostalgia, a stupid crush, and then topped with a healthy dose of fear.
He has the potential to ruin everything for me, so I have to do what I should have done seventeen years ago and talk it out with him.
Apologize. Though I remember trying to do that back then. He didn’t let me get anywhere near him after that night. Not alone, at least.
I’m not going to hold it against him that he rejected me—that happens.
A lot. Especially with straight guys. He needs to know it wasn’t a big deal, and I’m not going to tell anyone, and that just because I’m an openly gay man now, that doesn’t mean people will assume anything about him purely because we shared hotel rooms for one season way back when.
No one will even make the connection if we don’t tell them.
It’s sad I assume he’d make that leap, but from what I’ve seen in his career—the way he refuses to wear Pride jerseys, the comments about it being against his beliefs—I’m assuming that’s the kind of thing that runs through his head.
I want to yell at him that he’s been in the States for almost eighteen years. It’s time to let the brainwashing from his Russian upbringing go, but hey, who am I to talk about childhood trauma? I don’t have any.
My parents are still together, and they’re happy.
It’s gross, really. I can never blame any of my actions, faults, or regrets on them.
It makes for boring therapy. I’m the reason I’m so fucked-up?
Sounds like a scam. Then again, it’s not like I’ve had it totally easy. Not when it comes to my sexuality.
Novi isn’t the only friend I’ve lost because of my orientation. Working in an industry known for toxic masculinity means some colleagues have distanced themselves from me in the past, said some borderline homophobic things like “I don’t care if you’re gay, but I’m not interested.”
Thanks, Gary, like I’d ever want to have sex with your balding-ass self. Your forehead probably looks like your ballsack. Where do I sign up to get on that?
Now, I’m heading into inner rambling and ranting territory because I’m nervous. I’m nervous I’m going to try to talk to Novi, and he’s going to ignore me or run straight to management to get me fired.
Maybe I should’ve made the effort to reach out before today, but I didn’t want to be that guy. The one who assumes he’s important enough to be remembered from almost two decades ago.
Novi’s someone who has gone on to play for three different NHL teams, had countless other teammates, and is known as one of the great hockey players of our generation.
I was sure he wasn’t going to remember a guy he played with in his first year.
My ego might have been inflated all those years ago because I let being a top ten draft pick go to my head, but I’ve learned humility since then.
Apparently, I was wrong though. Novi remembers me, and with one look, I know he wishes he didn’t.
Whelan releases the team and tells them to go get ready to hit the ice for the first round of drills we have for them.
With it being training camp, we have not only veteran players here but prospects as well. It’s my job to review all the tape from these practices and see if I can spot anyone with potential who can fill the spots of those who were traded or retired after last season.
I’m excited to get into it, but I won’t be able to enjoy it if I’m worried about my future with this team. Which is why, when the room begins to empty and players come up to shake my hand and give a warm welcome to us new faces, I hope to stop Novi before he can walk out of here.
I have obviously underestimated his hatred for me, though, because he doesn’t approach. He slips out behind everyone.
Other guys have done it too, so I’m trying not to take it as a complete snub from him, but …
yeah, total snub. If he remembers me, the bare minimum he could do is say hi.
Other than the disastrous moment that ended our friendship, we were fucking close, so this freeze-out, after seventeen years, seems like dramatic overkill. We’re grown-ass adults now, damn it.
I shouldn’t chase after him, but in the same way I shouldn’t have reached for him that night, my body doesn’t listen.
I make my escape politely, doing a big no-no, which is leaving with the team instead of after them—the talent always has right of way in these corridors—but I move quickly toward the locker room.
Novi is about to enter it when I call out, “Novicov!”
He freezes. His back tenses. I think he’s going to ignore me and keep moving, but then he turns his head and glances back over his shoulder.
It’s like he’s contemplating whether or not he should come and talk to me or walk away and risk me yelling out again.
If it wasn’t putting the final nail in my career’s coffin, I’d yell out, “I’m sorry I hit on you seventeen years ago and made you feel uncomfortable, but there’s no need to avoid me. I promise I will never try to touch you again.”
Instead, I make up an excuse to get him to come to me. I take my phone from my pocket. “You dropped this on your way out.”
His brow creases, and he puts his hand in his own pocket, realizing I’m lying.
This is the test. Will he accept my excuse as a cover for those around us and come talk to me? Or will he do the opposite and?—
“Not mine.” He holds up his phone and enters the locker room.
Opposite it is.