Chapter Five #2
Coach clapped his hands once, the sharp sound echoing across the arena and drawing every player's attention back to the business of hockey.
Whatever lesson Caleb had learned would remain with him long after today's practice ended, but Coach clearly believed there was little value in allowing embarrassment to linger once responsibility had been accepted.
He looked around the group, his expression returning to the composed authority we'd all come to recognize during the retreat.
"Leave it behind," he instructed. "Jack accepted the apology, and so do I. We move forward together. That's what teams do."
A chorus of acknowledgments answered him.
Coach glanced toward the assistants gathered near the benches before beginning the formal introductions I'd been expecting since arriving on campus.
"You have met most of the staff you'll be working with every day.
Pay attention to what they say because these people are every bit as important to your development as the players standing beside you. "
He gestured toward the imposing man standing nearest the whiteboard.
"Assistant Coach Viktor Sokolov spent fourteen seasons playing professional hockey in Russia before finishing his career in the American Hockey League. He was a goaltender and one of the smartest I've ever worked with. Viktor is responsible for our goaltenders training."
Sokolov acknowledged the group with a brief nod, his weathered face remaining expressionless.
"If you're one of our goalies, you'll spend a great deal of time with Viktor learning how to recognize the body language and subtle tells attackers give away long before they release the puck.
He'll also work with our forwards so they understand exactly what a goaltender reads when a shooter approaches the net. "
"Roman, Harvey..." Coach's attention settled on the two new goaltenders. The program's two senior goaltenders had graduated the previous year, leaving Oscar to step into the starting role.
"You'll be working closely with Viktor and Oscar on recognizing the silent communication between opposing forwards. The best shooters advertise their intentions without realizing it. Viktor's job is teaching you how to see those signals before anyone else does."
"I'm looking forward to that, Coach," the two men responded in unison.
"One of you will be stepping into Oscar's skates full time when he graduates next year so take notice."
Roman and Harvey nodded in acknowledgement.
Coach motioned toward another assistant standing nearby, a lean man in his early forties with close-cropped dark hair and an athletic build that suggested he still trained every day.
"Assistant Coach Damien Carol oversees our offense. Damien spent nine years in the NHL before moving into coaching. Everything involving puck movement, offensive zone entries, power plays and forward combinations eventually runs through him."
Carol smiled easily.
"If you're a forward, expect me to become your biggest headache."
"I'm already looking forward to it," Ethan called.
"I doubt that very much."
The arena filled with soft laughter again.
Coach continued down the line.
"Assistant Coach Nolan Pierce works exclusively with our defensemen. Nolan played professionally for twelve years before shoulder injuries forced him into retirement. "If you're playing the blue line, you'll spend as much time with him as you do working within our defensive systems."
Pierce folded his arms across his chest.
"My job is making sure nobody reaches our net without paying a price."
Ryan muttered, "He enjoys that part."
"I heard that."
Nobody doubted he had.
Coach smiled faintly before introducing the next member of staff.
"Our strength and conditioning program is directed by Connor Hayes. Connor represented the United States in international hockey before moving into sports performance. He'll be responsible for keeping you strong enough to survive an entire season."
The broad-shouldered trainer lifted a hand in greeting.
Standing beside him was a blonde woman whose confident posture caught my attention.
"This is Lauren McKenna, our assistant conditioning coach. Lauren played professional women's hockey for eleven years before completing her master's degree in exercise science. She specializes in skating efficiency, recovery and injury prevention."
Lauren stepped forward.
"If I tell you to stretch, don't pretend you already did."
Oscar sighed dramatically.
"There goes my plan."
"It was never a good plan, Oscar."
The players laughed.
Coach pointed toward two doors leading off the side of the rink.
"Our medical staff works from the treatment rooms beside the arena. They don't operate out of the locker room because treatment, rehabilitation and medical evaluations belong in dedicated clinical spaces."
The doors remained closed, emphasizing the separation.
"Our lead physical therapist is Dr. Rebecca Sullivan. Rebecca played collegiate hockey before becoming a physical therapist specializing in elite athletes."
A woman in her late thirties stepped forward with an easy confidence.
"If you're injured, don't hide it from me. You'll only make recovery take longer and risk more serious injury."
Coach lifted his chin in approval.
"Working alongside Rebecca is our second physical therapist, Michael Anders. Michael also played competitive hockey before entering sports medicine and focuses primarily on rehabilitation following orthopedic injuries."
The tall man beside her smiled.
"I promise rehab hurts less if you actually listen."
"He's lying," Ryan whispered loud enough for only those nearest him to hear.
Michael laughed.
"I definitely heard that."
Even Coach allowed himself a brief smile before continuing.
"Our equipment department is managed by Graham Foster. Graham makes sure your gear is repaired, fitted and ready every single day. If your skates aren't sharpened, your stick needs repairing or you've destroyed equipment you shouldn't have been able to destroy..."
Several veterans turned toward Oscar.
"...see Graham."
Oscar raised both hands innocently.
"I've matured."
"No," Ryan replied.
"I've matured slightly."
"Still no."
The laughter echoing around the rink finally erased the lingering tension left behind by Caleb's mistake.
As the introductions concluded, Coach picked up his clipboard once more.
"Enough talking. We've got a season to prepare for."
Every player swung toward the locker room.
As I followed the group, I found my attention drifting toward the glass overlooking the ice.
Jack hadn't left.
He stood near the Zamboni entrance with one shoulder resting lightly against the boards, watching us with the same calm expression he'd worn since returning from the tunnel.
Even from across the rink I felt his eyes settle on me and something inside my chest tightened.
His lips curved into the smallest of smiles when he realized I'd noticed him looking.
Without thinking, I smiled back.
The exchange lasted barely two seconds before we both looked away, yet it left me feeling strangely lighter.
For the first time in my life, I found myself looking forward to a hockey practice for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with hockey itself.
The locker room settled into the familiar rhythm that existed in every hockey program, regardless of what logo happened to be stitched across the front of the jersey.
Equipment bags unzipped in unison, sticks leaned against stalls, tape appeared from seemingly nowhere and conversations veered effortlessly from one corner of the room to another.
The difference at Evergreen wasn't the routine itself but the atmosphere surrounding it.
There wasn't a trace of the competition I'd occasionally experienced at Gulf Coast, where players sometimes guarded their positions as fiercely as they guarded the puck.
Here, the veterans made a point of including everyone.
Advice was offered freely, jokes crossed every corner of the room and nobody seemed interested in reminding the freshmen or me, a transfer, that we were newcomers.
Ryan finished adjusting the laces on his skates before looking across at me. " Coach has you on the first line, right wing today. He wants to see how quickly the chemistry develops."
"Who's with me?"
"You've got me in the middle and Luca on the left wing."
On paper, it made sense. Ryan O'Connell had earned the captaincy because he elevated everyone around him, while Luca Moretti possessed the kind of speed capable of turning a routine rush into an odd-man opportunity within seconds.
Watching game film during the summer had shown me enough to know they complemented each other naturally.
My responsibility wasn't to carry the line. It was to become part of it.
Oscar commented from where he sat on the far side of the room.
"Congratulations."
"For what?"
"You get to chase Ryan around all morning."
Ryan smiled. "He'll survive."
Oscar shook his head dramatically. "Barely."
Ben looked up from taping the blade of his stick. "Ignore him."
I laughed. "I'll keep that in mind."
"You'll learn that's the healthiest option."
The laughter around the locker room faded as Coach Callahan stepped through the doorway.
"Five minutes."
The easy conversation ended. Helmets were lifted from the hooks above each stall, gloves were pulled on, mouthguards found their way into place and players gave their skate laces one final tug before reaching for their sticks.
The relaxed mood was replaced by the concentration that always settled over a team preparing to take the ice.
Coach didn't deliver a speech. He didn't need to. The expectation had already been established.
When we stepped through the tunnel and onto the rubber flooring leading toward the bench, the familiar smell of fresh ice, sharpened steel and cold air settled over me with reassuring familiarity.
Every arena possessed its own personality, yet the sensations never really changed.
The first deep breath always steadied my nerves.