Chapter 5 Everything has a price #2
That’s why I fell in love with hockey at a young age.
It accepted me like I’ve never been accepted anywhere else.
It was a place where everything made sense.
From early on, I was told I had to fill big shoes, but they never quite fit.
They gave me blisters and made me walk funny, like I didn’t quite fit them but catching flying pucks allows me to walk barefoot.
It allows me to feel normal despite being far, far away from such a notion.
It keeps the nightmares away.
It also gave me a family. A new one because the one I was born into was more like a den of vipers. Still is.
I breathe in and out, letting my mind empty of all the chatter around me, and soon after I’m catching every puck that’s being thrown my way, while Goram, much to his dislike, plays defense.
Our coach likes to switch us all around from time to time so we can get the other players’ perspectives.
Yep, the goalies become forwards and defensemen as well.
It was strange at first, because no other team I ever played on did this, but it’s smart.
You learn a whole lot when you’re looking at yourself from another position’s perspective.
See the cracks and vulnerabilities more clearly.
Soon enough, my eyes are trained on Abel as he rushes toward me with a puck and a cocky glimmer in his eyes. The guy is young, fast, and reckless. Often it works, but he lacks concentration so when Anze easily blocks his “perfect” shot, it ends up in my glove.
“Zlatan!” The whistle pierces the air, and Anze sighs loudly next to me.
“Opossum number one wasn’t watching me again,” he mutters, and as usual with Goram, no one is sure if he’s talking to one of us or himself, but the fact remains. He’s right, and now we’re going to waste yet another five minutes on this shit.
“Yes, Coach?” Zlatan hollers, his voice too cheery, and now I’m also groaning because he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing wrong. Every. Damn. Time.
“How many fucking times do I have to tell you? One eye is on the puck while the other is on their defense!”
“It was!” Abel protests like a child he is. “I’m going cross-eyed from splitting them every time.” The idiot proceeds to cross his two index fingers in opposite directions while making his eyes twitch theatrically. “I played the puck like you said.”
“Oh, really? Well, why didn’t you say so?
” Coach Hill throws his hands up and steps onto the ice, marching toward my net like a man on a mission.
“Minaev, move out of the net,” he orders when he’s in front of me, and as I slide out he proceeds to peer into every corner, walking around it a few times, inspecting it like he’s looking for the door that leads to Narnia or some shit, all while not making a sound.
“Um, Coach?” Zlatan asks, bending over and looking into the net next to our coach. “What are you doing?”
“Oh, what am I doing?” He points theatrically toward himself, jabbing his thumb into his chest as his brows arch comically high. “I’m looking for your puck.”
Abel scrunches his forehead. “Um, but it’s not here.”
There is a beat of silence and then Coach’s booming voice bounces off every surface and right into Zlatan’s ear. “Exactly!” Zlatan slaps a hand to his ear, but the show is not over. “Now, I’ll ask you again, where were your eyes?”
“It’s not my fault! Goram is too fucking good, what am I supposed to do?”
“Jesus, I don’t know?” Coach throws his hands up again.
“Maybe play hockey? You’re in the motherfucking NHL!
What do you expect? And this isn’t even Quinn defending the goalpost. And as much as we may not like it, the other teams have great defensemen, and if you can’t make the fucking goal, what the fuck are you doing here? ”
“Look at him! He’s like a wall, even if my eyes do the fucking splits, I still won’t get past the Hulk!”
“Then become a fucking hummingbird and find a butt crack to slip into!” Coach grits out before hollering, “Again!”
“Mm-hmm,” Zlatan murmurs, “I’ll get past the Hulk, only to run into a brick wall.” He means me, and a rare half a smile grazes my lips. “What does he expect me to do? Become a freaking Harry Potter with an invisibility cloak? How is it my fault we have such a good team.”
I can’t with this guy. He’ll blame the whole world but not himself, and the thing is he’s not even doing it out of maliciousness or to make excuses for himself. He’s genuinely clueless, thanks to his golden boy upbringing.
We were born into similar families, yet couldn’t be any more different because while his was an actual family, mine was one never-ending business meeting.
We run the drills for another hour before Coach calls us over.
“Listen up.” He speaks up again and we all draw our attention to his board.
“This next game against Silver Hawks is not going to be easy. They are at the top of their division, and they are more than comfortable on the offense. So, Goram, Zlatan, Makeev you need to enter their zone faster. Same goes for the rest of the forwards. Play with their defensemen. They are empty-headed hulks so you have to outsmart them. Show them the puck.” He draws his offense lines on the board.
“Then quick pass over and it’s a done deal.
Pass, pass, pass, confuse them. Be the team I know you all can be.
I like what I saw today during practice.
Keep it up and we should see some silver blood on our ice. ”
Inspiring, I think with quiet amusement, but if it got the team going, I was all for it.
“Minaev.” Coach’s eyes meet mine. “I have the extra tapes you asked for from Balle’s games with the other teams. Come to my office afterward.”
I nod in acknowledgement, and he goes back to point out a few more things before letting us go.
Balle is Silver Hawks’ highest scoring player, but he hasn’t been with them for that long. So I asked Coach to find his previous games prior to playing with them to study his moves better. I never go into games unprepared. I like to cover all of my bases.
It’s almost a life motto at this point.