10. Hendrix
HENDRIX
T he pucks clatter as I dump them onto the ice, but my mind's not on practice prep. All I can think about is last night - the way Colette's eyes sparkled under those Christmas lights, how close we were standing, the slight parting of her lips when I leaned in...
"Focus, man," I mutter, skating lazy figure-eights while setting up the orange cones. But who am I kidding? The memory of her vanilla-scented perfume is way more interesting than drill formations.
I'd almost kissed her. Almost. Right there on her front porch, with Grannie's elaborate light display creating this perfect romantic moment. But something held me back. Maybe it was the way Colette's shoulders tensed when I moved closer, or how her fingers nervously played with her scarf.
The thing is, I know Colette McAllister. She's not the kind of woman you can win over with just a kiss and a charming smile. She needs more than my usual playbook moves. Hell, she probably has a color-coded spreadsheet of relationship expectations tucked away in that teacher's planner of hers.
I take a few practice shots at the empty net, each puck hitting with a satisfying thwack. "Shakespeare needs wooing," I say to no one in particular, grinning at my old nickname for her. "Real, proper, sweep-her-off-her-feet wooing."
The echo of my skates scraping against ice fills the empty rink as I collect the pucks.
Colette deserves the full romance treatment - flowers, candlelit dinners, the works.
Not some impulsive porch kiss from the guy who used to tug her pigtails in high school.
Metaphorically speaking. Her hair was always too perfectly styled for actual pigtails.
Besides, the look on her face when she gets flustered is half the fun. Why rush things when making her blush is this entertaining?
My mind is filling with ideas as I set up a line of pucks on center ice, and I’m slapped back into reality when the doors to the rink swing open.
A group of teenagers shuffle in wearing matching red and green sweater vests, Santa hats tilted at awkward angles.
I recognize them from Colette's pageant - the ones who chose singing over skating.
"What's this about?" I lean on my stick, trying not to laugh at their serious expressions or the way they wobble on the ice in their street shoes.
They form a semi-circle around me, and a kid with glasses steps forward, raising his hand like a conductor. They exchange meaningful glances before breaking into song:
"Deck the car with all your luggage,
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-leave!
I cross my arms, eyebrows raised. "Really?"
Time to pack up all your garbage,
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-leave!"
These teenagers are actually caroling me out of town. I bite my lip as they launch into their next number.
"On your one horse open sleigh,
please just go away!
O'er the fields you go home,
back to the Blizzard Dome.”
Not a bad rhyme. They’re actually pretty good. The lanky conductor waves his arms with dramatic flair, and they sway in perfect unison. I have to give them credit - their harmonies are spot-on.
"Jingle bells, hockey smells,
please just go away!
Oh what fun when you are gone
from Brookking Sound today, hey!"
"You know what? That's... actually pretty creative." I give them a slow clap. "Did Miss McAllister put you up to this?"
The rink door slams open as my actual hockey players start filing in. They stop dead in their tracks, staring at the caroling squad.
The drama kids exchange glances but keep singing.
"Joy to the world, you’re going home!
Let Brookking Sound rejoice!
So pack your bags and go
So pack your bags and go…”
I’m impressed despite myself. "You guys really committed to this, huh?"
The conductor drops his arms with a huff. "We practiced for three hours."
"I can tell. Good job."
The boy in front pipes up: "You're supposed to feel bad and leave town!"
"Sorry to disappoint, but it'll take more than some modified carols to chase me out. Though I gotta say, the luggage one was catchy."
"Miss McAllister says we're expressing ourselves through the power of song." A tiny freshman girl with braces grins. "We wrote these ourselves!"
They take deep breaths for another round, but I hold up my hands in surrender.
"Okay, okay! Message received. Now scram - I've got a practice to run.
" I wave them toward the door. "And tell Miss McAllister that if she wants me gone, she'll have to do better than weaponizing her students against me.”
The hockey team have their skates on by the time the last drama kid files out.
"Alright, show's over! Let's get moving!" I clap my hands, while my players shuffle onto the ice. "Five laps, then we'll work on passing drills."
The team groans in unison, but they start skating. Well, most of them do. Jake Miller, our starting center, stays put, arms crossed.
"Something on your mind, Miller?"
"Yeah, actually." He glances at his teammates. "How're we supposed to take advice from someone who won't even play for his own team?"
"What was that?"
"My dad says you're holding out for more money," pipes up Danny from the blue line. "Says you're probably getting traded anyway."
"Saw on Twitter you're getting traded to Vancouver.” Jake says, crossing his arms. “Or was it Montreal? Hard to keep track when you're holding out for more millions."
"Yeah," Danny chimes in. "Bet you're just killing time here until your agent calls with a better deal."
I toss him a puck. "Less gossip, more skating."
"My dad says you're just another greedy NHL player." Brenden Lee stops at the boards, his stance challenging. "Says guys like you forget where they came from."
The words hit harder than any check I've taken. "Your dad's entitled to his opinion. Now get moving."
"Why bother? You'll be gone in a week anyway," mutters Todd Jensen, a lanky defenseman who reminds me way too much of myself at that age. The rest of the team stays silent, but their faces say it all.
My throat tightens. These kids don't understand - can't understand - the pressure of professional sports, contract negotiations, trade deadlines. But something in their tone, that mix of disappointment and judgment, takes me right back to being seventeen and desperate for a shot at the big leagues.
"Look, contract stuff is complicated-"
"But you're making millions already, right?" Jake's voice echoes though the rink. "Must be nice to just sit around waiting for an even bigger payday while the rest of us are trying to get scholarships."
I grip my stick harder, knuckles white against the tape, trying to find the right words to explain.
But how do you tell a bunch of teenagers that sometimes the game you love becomes a business that breaks your heart?
These kids think I'm just some entitled pro who doesn't care about their dreams or development.
The worst part? I can't even blame them.
From the outside, that's exactly what this looks like.
I watch these kids staring at me with disappointment; these kids who remind me so much of myself at their age. They've got that same fire, that same desperate need to prove themselves. And here I am, their supposed mentor, looking like exactly the kind of sellout I used to hate.
My thoughts drift to the caroling squad, their Santa hats bobbing as they sang. Those kids put in three hours of practice just to tell me off. That's the kind of dedication I used to have, before agents and contracts complicated everything.
And Colette... brilliant, beautiful Colette - probably sitting in her classroom right now, thinking she's won this round. But she doesn't know me very well if she thinks I give up that easily. Neither do these kids.
Something within me clicks. I've been going about this all wrong - with the team, with the drama kids, with Colette. Time to stop playing defense and make a real play.
"You know what?" I call out, my voice bouncing off the empty stands. "Extra practice tomorrow morning. Six AM sharp."
The team groans.
"And the next morning. And every morning until you're ready to put your blood, sweat and tears where your mouth is." I skate to center ice. "You want to judge me? Fine. But do it after you've seen where I can take you as a team. After we win the Winter Classic tournament."
I've never wanted anything as badly as I want to prove myself right now - to these kids, to this town, to Colette.
Maybe especially to Colette. That spark I felt for her in high school never really went away.
It just got buried under years of NHL contracts and road trips and trying to be the fun guy everyone expected.
"You want the truth? Here it is: I love hockey more than anything. It's not about the money - it never was. But sometimes in the NHL, things get complicated. Politics, negotiations, all that boring stuff that has nothing to do with what happens on this ice."
The team inches closer, their faces skeptical but curious. Jake scoffs.
"But you know what isn't complicated? Being here, coaching you guys. Teaching what I know."
Jake's shoulders tense, but he holds my gaze.
He's got a big chip on his shoulder, and it's got to do with more than just hockey.
Kind of reminds me of my brother, Liam, except Liam would tend to keep things bottled up.
But that never stopped him from making a name for himself as the best defenseman the Nebraska Knights have ever known.
Maybe I'm biased because he's my big brother. That's okay.
"You think college scouts care about your feelings?
" I go on. "You think NHL coaches are going to pat you on the back and tell you everything's okay?
" I skate closer, my voice sharp against the cold air.
"They're going to push you harder than you've ever been pushed.
They're going to expect more than you think you can give.
And if you can't handle it, there's always someone else waiting to take your spot. "
Jensen shifts his weight, his earlier bravado faltering. "But-"
"But nothing. You want to play at the next level? This is what it takes. Early mornings. Late nights. Pushing through when your muscles are screaming and your lungs are burning. And yeah, sometimes dealing with coaches who aren't going to sugarcoat things."
I tap my stick against the ice, the sharp sound echoing through the rink. "I'm not here to be your friend. I'm here to make you better players. To prepare you for what's coming. Because trust me, what you're dealing with now? This is nothing compared to what's waiting for you out there."
Half the boys are listening intently. The other half are scowling at me. Tough crowd.
"Right now, you're mad because I'm not living up to your expectations. Good. Channel that. Use it. Because when you step onto that college ice or into those pro tryouts, no one's going to care what you think you deserve. They're going to care what you can do."
I tap my stick against the ice, pointing at each player in turn.
"Miller, your crossovers are sloppy. Jensen, you telegraph every pass.
Lee, you're scared of getting hit so you pull back on checks.
I see all of it, and I'm calling it out not because I'm mean, but because everyone else will see it too. "
The rink falls silent except for the hum of the cooling system.
"I'm here because this is where I started. Same rink, same dreams. And yeah, maybe I'll get traded. Maybe I'll sign a new contract. But right now? I'm your coach. And I'm going to prepare you for what's coming, not what you want to hear."
The team exchanges glances, and I can see it sinking in. Even Jake, who's been the most vocal critic, straightens his posture.
"So here's the deal - you can waste time worrying about my contract situation, or you can focus on becoming the kind of players who'll have their own contracts to negotiate someday. Your choice."
Danny raises his hand tentatively. "Six AM? Like, for real?"
"For real. And anyone who's late runs extra drills." I gesture toward the goal. "Now, are we done with the therapy session, or do you want to actually practice some hockey?"