Chapter 11 #2
As if I wasn’t already blushing, now my skin is practically melting off. “Well…maybe, but…I don’t think I can play anymore, Coach. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry, but I don’t think I can.”
“Okay,” he agrees. “I understand. ”
“Really? I thought…I don’t know, I guess I thought you wouldn’t let me quit.”
“Would it work if I asked you not to?” he asks, eyebrows rising in question.
“Probably,” I admit sheepishly. It’s not as though I’ve got a backbone—I could probably be peer-pressured into doing anything.
“I want what’s best for you, and if that means I lose my starting goaltender, so be it. I’m not going to force anything on you, Micky.”
“I really like playing,” I say quietly. “But I also really hate it.”
“Believe me, I understand that dichotomy just fine,” he agrees sardonically. I loosen up my facial muscles enough to smile at him timidly, and he returns it.
I feel…sad, all of a sudden. It’s silly, because this is what I want.
I dread game days, and sometimes even have a hard time dragging myself to practice.
Only the draw of getting to spend time with Nate is enough to get me there sometimes.
I don’t enjoy spending so much time in the gym or monitoring every single thing I eat.
I love the sport, but if there’s one thing I know now, it’s that I’m meant to love it from the opposite side of the glass.
But hockey introduced me to Nate—without it, I wouldn’t have my best friend.
I wouldn’t have met Vas, or Desmond. I’d probably have gone through four years of university completely alone, too shy and awkward to make any friends unless they were forced to spend time in my company the way the team was.
“You are always welcome at practice, of course. And I’d be happy to provide a ticket to all home games, if you’re wanting to come,” Coach adds .
“Really?” Shocked, I stare at him. Skate with the team, still? But without the fear of failure, and the dread of upcoming games? He can’t be serious.
“Of course,” he repeats. “You’re part of the team.”
Great. Now, in addition to the cold sweat, tremor, and high blood pressure, this meeting is going to make me cry. Maybe I should faint on my way out of the door, just to top off how fucking out of control my bodily reactions to normal situations are.
“Oh.” Coach waits for me to continue, but conversations with him are hard enough for me, without adding in the fact that he’s being nice. I glance around the office. “Where’s Desmond?”
The corner of Coach Mackenzie’s mouth twitches like he wants to smile. “He had to leave early—his nephew’s school called and needed him to be picked up.”
“Parker?” I sit up straighter. “Is he okay?”
This time, Coach actually does smile. “He’s fine, just has a slight fever and a sore throat. Can’t remain at school, though, so he and Desmond are likely convalescing on the couch at home.”
I wish I was convalescing on the couch with them. Immediately, my face burns. It’s a good thing Coach Mackenzie can’t read minds, or he’d have kicked me off the team for every perverted thought I’ve ever had about his assistant coach.
“Do you know the fine print of your scholarship?” Coach asks suddenly, as though the thought just occurred to him.
“No. Well, yes. Sort of.” Coach raises one eyebrow—the one with the scar through it—giving me the sort of look that makes me sweat. Not that I need any help with that right now. I clear my throat, and wipe my palms on my thighs. “Uhm, it doesn’t cover athletics, if that’s what you’re asking?”
“So, you won’t be losing anything by not playing for the team?” he clarifies, hazel eyes on mine. I have to physically restrain myself from looking down and away. From hiding.
“No. It’s a special grant for”—I pause, hating having to say the words out loud because it always feels like I’m asking for sympathy—“foster kids.”
“Okay,” he says brusquely, nodding. “I meant what I said, Micky, you are welcome anytime at practice. In fact, I think you’ll be very sorely missed if you don’t come by on occasion.”
“Yeah, okay. I will. Thank you.”
He nods again, but it’s a small movement and I catch him wincing. He reaches a hand up to his face, circling a finger against his temple. Peering closer, I can see signs of strain around his eyes and mouth, and he’s looking nearly as pale as I am.
“You okay, Coach?” I ask carefully. He drops his hand back to the desk immediately, as though he hadn’t even meant to do it in the first place.
“Oh, just a headache.” He sighs. “I’m supposed to try Botox, so don’t be surprised if the next time you see me, I look ten years younger.”
I laugh, and Coach smiles at me—a real smile, not the pinched one he usually gives out. This one has teeth, and makes him look half as scary as he usually does.
“I’m sorry for making your job harder,” I apologize quietly.
“No need for that,” Coach replies, tipping his head to the side to indicate Desmond’s empty desk. “The best thing about being the boss is I get to designate. Desmond gets to handle the line shuffle. ”
I almost laugh again. Is Coach Mackenzie always this funny, or am I just at the point in my anxiety attack that I’m low on oxygen?
“Was there anything else that you wanted to talk about?” he asks.
“No. I thought this would be harder. I was pretty nervous.” If Nate were here, he would correct that to: you were shitting yourself. I clear my throat before I laugh out loud at my friend’s imaginary voice. Coach doesn’t need to think I’m crazier than he likely already does.
“I’m sure,” he agrees softly, looking at me somewhat sadly. “Keep my number—and Anthony’s—and if you ever need anything, call . That doesn’t change just because I’m no longer your coach. Please, reach out if you need something. Or Desmond, as I know the pair of you have struck up a friendship.”
“I will,” I promise, and it’s one I intend to keep.
In fact, Desmond is probably going to be getting a call from me the moment I leave this office.