27. LANE
LANE
Fuck this week. I was hoping that once I got to play a game, wore an Otters jersey, this would stop being so hard. I’m not one to fall to public opinion when it comes to my reputation, but it stings to hear random people talk about my coach like he’s a dumbass for adding me in the off season.
And my teammates? I’ve slid backward. I’m pretty sure more people tolerated me during that first team meeting where I was introduced than they do now.
Ever since our ‘meet the team’ event, I’ve been practicing like I’ve never skated with a god damn hockey stick. It’s fucking embarrassing. I don’t know what’s going on and I don’t have anyone to talk to.
I almost texted Oliver. That’s how desperate I am.
Keyword being almost.
Practices have been brutal. It’s like the team is waiting for me to fall apart. One of the assistants asked if I wanted to go through some of the systems. Our sets. But the weird thing is that my brain knows every single one, has committed them to memory, and it’s my body that can’t catch up.
Such a weird disconnect. One that’s going to crush my dreams if I don’t get my shit together.
I’ve pretended Cora doesn’t exist for all practices this week.
She’s here exactly five minutes early, knowing I’m not waiting for her.
We’re preparing for our first home game of the season and every time I think about it, I could throw up.
This is not my vibe. I used to thrive on the nerves, eat them up, and use them as fuel to run people into the ice.
There’s a knock on my door. Who the fuck is that?
I wait for another knock, making sure I’m not imagining it. When I look through the peep hole, there stands Coach Banks.
I swing the door open and ask, “Is everything okay?”
“Woah. Didn’t expect you to answer the door that fast,” he replies, pulling his hands out of his pockets. “And everything is not okay. We’re going into our third game of the season and I think you’ve quit on me.”
He pushes into my apartment, taking a look around the space. Clean. Plain. Tidy. It doesn’t feel like a home, but to be fair, I’m not really well versed in how to do that.
“I haven’t quit on you,” I protest, closing the door behind him.
Turning to me, Coach scoffs. “You haven’t?
Because when I saw you hit the transfer portal, after everything that happened, it was like a gift.
I knew you’d been through some shit—who hasn’t—but you’ve been a menace on the ice.
There’s a lot of players who think they’re good enough for the NHL, and almost all of them are wrong.
Now, there’s one on my roster and he’s playing like he wants to sit the bench. ”
Ouch.
Coach sits on a bar stool, looking at the array of textbooks and our playbook in front of him. He spins to face me.
“I don’t want to sit the bench.” I look at him because that’s the least I can do at this point—make eye contact like a man.
“Well, what do you want?”
I don’t know how to answer him. My stomach flips; I can feel the doubt getting ready to pull me down into the darkness that’s surrounded me my whole life. For the last few years, I’ve been a few steps ahead of it, but now? It’s gaining ground. I’m losing my lead.
I cough past the lump in my throat. “I know there are people who say hockey is all they have. When I say it, I mean it.” I hate how small I sound. “It’s been that way since I was a kid. Without it, I don’t know if I’d be standing here right now.”
My voice cracks and I’m seven years old again, locked in my room during summer vacation, waiting for my mom to bring me food.
But we’re on day two and I think she’s forgotten about me.
When she finally does bring me something to eat, someone makes a comment about how all I do is take. I have nothing to give.
I shake it off, pushing the memory back as far as it will go. “This is what gave me a chance at a life. So, no, I don’t want to fucking sit the bench.” The pain turns to anger—not at Coach, but at all of it.
Coach claps his hands. “That’s what I want to see.” He looks around the room as he admits, “I called Coach Knight. Asked if he had any tips for me.”
The room spins. I bite down on my lip hard enough I taste copper. I’m frozen, and Coach notices.
“Take a breath, Lane,” he urges me. I try, but my lungs feel like they’ve got needles digging into my bones. “Nice guy. Excited to hear from me. He didn’t necessarily have any suggestions for me, but did want me to tell you to fight back—”
“But there’s only so many punches left,” I finish the sentence. The one I’ve heard a thousand times, at least. It was the phrase that had a key part in molding me.
I was always so angry before the Knights had me stay with them.
Even during the early days of being under their roof, I learned his mantra—you can fight but energy isn’t infinite.
Something has to give. Think about that.
Is it worth checking this guy into the boards as hard as I can instead of using that energy for a breakaway and potentially game-winning shot?
We turned the phrase into something literal when we were on the ice. There are always consequences, for yourself and your team, and you need to consider all of it before making that call.
“I asked him what I could do to get you to the place we need you to be,” Coach continues. “The place you need to be even for your own sake. And he basically told me not to give up on you. So, that’s what I’m here doing.”
Nodding my head, I focus on the floor, spotting a crack in the tile I’ve never noticed until now. My shoulders relax as the anxiety lessens. The thought of Coach caring enough to call a rival coach, to try and figure me out? I knew Coach Banks was one of the good ones.
“Go change. Grab your shit. And let’s get to the rink.”
Lifting my chin, I look him in the eyes, just like Coach Knight taught me all those years ago.
“Yes, Coach.”