Chapter 3 #2
The silence of the cool evening hits me as I start the short walk from The Blue Line to my place.
I think about Benji and Charlotte, about how Benji, for all his talent, is happy to stay right where he is with the Iceguard.
He likes the town, and the ability to play hockey without it becoming his whole life, without the temptations of the majors.
Benji can wax poetic about a small hockey town like Fox River Falls.
Hell, he probably knows all the local events that happen as part of the Fox River Freeze.
Plus, Charlotte’s a nurse, and they have no kids and no desire for them, leaving him with maybe an unconventional life, but one that suits him.
So of course, all this musing isn’t about Benji at all. It’s about me, selfish guy that I am.
Knowing what I wanted up to this point in my life has been easy—I had the opportunity and ability to become a pro athlete, and I wanted that, then once I was there, hockey was my life. Well, hockey and parties and bad choices.
Now I have the chance to go back to that life.
But for all my posturing, I know it’s a long shot, and a one-shot shot at that.
And even if I get there, if I make it, I’m already old by hockey standards.
Plus, on top of my age, I’m post rehab for my knee injury, with rumors of my pill problem, and a year of play practically evaporated.
There needs to be another plan—the Plan B I never wanted.
Lost in my thoughts, I find myself in front of an empty building at the corner of the town square and Main Street.
The old red brick is beautiful with age, and I realize this must be an old bakery that was then converted to the bar Benji talked about.
It’s strange to see a business dark and closed on such a vibrant downtown square.
I wonder if the story is what Benji said, or Patti, or something different altogether.
Must be something going on to keep someone from reopening the bar or starting something else here.
The location must be one of the best in town.
I chuckle. Benji showed me the Fox River Falls community page that reads like a gossip sheet. The fact that I’ve heard five different versions of why this place is closed makes me laugh for some reason, liking the idea that there’s something beyond the reach of Fox River Falls gossip.
Maybe that’s why I like it so much.
Turning toward my apartment, I wonder what that life would be like.
I can see myself behind a bar, hockey vibes strong and obvious in the décor, the games playing on the television.
Local beer on tap. Could I be happy watching others play, not being part of that world?
Or do I need to move somewhere that doesn’t play hockey?
A shiver runs down my spine at the thought. I’m not ready for a life that doesn’t include hockey at all.
Anyway, are there actually places that don’t play hockey?
The next morning, I’m at the rink bright and early, hoping to get some time in the gym before we hit the ice.
My addiction came from an injury that I tried to play through until it set me out.
It’s a classic story of me not telling my trainer what was happening and ending up with a worse injury than I would have had if I’d faced it head on.
It’s also a classic story of hiding behind the fact that the pills I took were prescribed and used by everyone—abused by many players other than me. Hell, most hockey players couldn’t do the job without it. Our bodies aren’t made for what we put them through.
But I own my part. I listened to people telling me that I had to stick it out and play as hard and often as possible to have a shot of clinging to a place in the NAPH. There were always younger players coming up, ready to take that spot.
The long clarity of rehab and a year sidelined has shown me that playing through the pain was not sound advice. Not when it got to the point it did with me. Which is why I’m determined to get back to the NAPH—this time on my terms.
Also, the meds I was taking to cut the pain of the knee injury didn’t do me any favors in the long run. They just let me injure myself more. Technically, the knee is out of rehab, but I still give it extra conditioning now that I’m back on the ice with the Iceguard.
Coach finds me in the gym and tells me to hit the showers and come up to the office.
I don’t know how to read him yet, but when I run into Benji in the locker room, he gives me a raised eyebrow and doesn’t comment. I may be new down here, but what I do know is that no matter what league we’re playing in, a call to the office is never nothing.
I haven’t been here long enough for them to decide I’m not worth the time on the Iceguard, and I’ve had no opportunity to prove myself ready to go back either.
It’s time for my own eyebrows to rise when I walk into Coach’s office and Jerry, one of the assistant coaches from the Knights, is here. We shake hands and they make some small talk, but all I can really hear is my brain asking “why is he here” on repeat.
My old NAPH team shouldn’t have any concerns about me right now. They sent me here and I’m doing everything I’ve been told to do.
Alex joins us, and I expect him to just ask a quick question of Coach and leave, but instead I see Jerry and Coach share a look, and then Jerry turns his gaze to me.
“I wanted to come down and see you,” Jerry says, which is probably somewhat true.
I was an expensive investment as a player for the Knights, and they have stuck with me, sending me here to the farm team and through rehab.
Because of rehab, I didn’t have to get a waiver and wait to see if anyone would pick me up, and part of that was because I wanted to stay with the Knights.
Jerry told me he’d put me here, and that I would have to earn my way back, and I appreciated his candor. Even if it wasn’t easy to hear.
Jerry checking on me is probably worth the hour on the train out of Chicago.
“Our first game is in a few weeks and I’m ready.” I project confidence because, to be honest, I feel confident. Practice is going well.
That choking fear from the first day with the Iceguard has stayed far away.
“I heard that you’ve been doing your recovery protocols and spending time with the team. That’s good progress, Roe.”
I nod. When things were bad with the Knights, I wasn’t playing well, and I was really using pills to cover my injury and my bruised ego. I pulled away from the team quite a bit, too.
But less than my best play was still good hockey for most players, and so it was allowed to slide.
“Been checking up on me, Jer?” I smirk.
He smiles in return. “There’s the smug guy I know. But seriously, Roe, tell me about the mentoring you’re doing.”
Mentoring?
“I haven’t—“
Alex pipes up. “He’s been working with one of our youth players—a twelve-year-old in Peewee,” he says, giving me a smile. “They’ve been staying after practices and running drills for a few weeks now.”
Does he mean Jamie? A few drills isn’t mentorship.
“Wait. I’m not really doing anything all that involved with him. He’s just got talent, is all. See, he could be a really key center, he has the mind for it, the athleticism, he just needs the confidence.”
I think I’ve explained myself rather well, but I tack on a few of Jamie’s records on the ice, from when I timed him in some drills.
Jerry and Coach share a look, and Alex positively beams.
“I spoke with Jamie’s coach—that’s the young man, of course—and he says that Mr. Monroe has made a tremendous difference in Jamie’s confidence already.”
Jerry leans back in his chair. “Well, Roe, of all the things I thought I’d hear when I came down here, I didn’t expect it to be this.” He gives me the first genuine grin I’ve had from him in a while. It makes me feel like I did when I first signed on to play hockey.
My chest rises, and something unfamiliar, like pride, starts to bubble up. It’s the same feeling I always got when I saw an approving look on a coach’s face, or when I knew that my time on the ice had helped my team secure the win.
Jerry’s face is nothing but impressed approval.
At me.
I look at Alex, a little bewildered by the exchange. “It’s nothing formal, though. It’s just hockey.”
Jerry laughs. “Of course it is. But maybe let’s see where it goes?” He spreads his hands and shrugs his shoulders. “After all, it’s the kind of story a reporter could find at the right time, and it could help smooth your way back.”
Er, what?
Something throws me off balance in what Jerry’s saying, but at the same time, we are talking about me returning to the NAPH.
Not like a maybe, but like it’s an expectation the team has for the future.
That’s a positive I’ll hang onto. The slightly icky feeling I have at Jerry’s words I’ll sort out later.
“So,” Jerry says. “Why don’t you formalize this thing with—was it Jamie? That’s his name?”
Alex and I both nod in agreement that it is.
“Right. Jamie. Create a solid schedule for working with him, set some goals with him. It’ll be a heck of a story.”
Again, something feels a bit off about this to me. It’s just, with the approving looks—fuck that’s been a long time coming—and the smiles and the talk of my career, I can’t put my finger on it.
My head’s fuzzy, swimming with all the good feelings of having my team’s approval. Again.
And then I remember the flash of anger, of heat, in a pair of hazel eyes. The way I got walked back to the boards like I was nothing by Jamie’s hot as hell father.
Gabe Thatcher is going to lose his shit when he hears I’m going to be mentoring his kid in something more formal than our practice sessions. With both Jamie’s coach and the Knights practically signing off on it, Thatcher would be a fool not to go for it.
The mere thought of how deep his scowl will turn when he finds out lights me up. Gabe Thatcher is the bear, and I want to poke him.
“Please,” I say, cutting back into the conversation. “I think I should be the one to bring it up to Jamie’s dad.” I feel my smirk rise to take over my face. “It’s the right thing to do.”