Chapter 3
Jax - Time to Regroup
What the hell is with her? Ice Princess shows up, watching practice as if she’s interested in what we’re doing, but when I approach her, she’s as nippy as ever. I don’t know why that bugs me, but it does.
I wasn’t planning on staying out on the ice so long today, but after team drills, Cole Thompson, one of our most promising rookies, asked me for tips on helping him improve his face-off technique.
I was going to put him off, the doctor’s warning to take it easy in the forefront of my mind, but then that annoying voice in my head reminded me of my responsibility to the team and the legacy I hope to leave.
I skate back over to center ice to bring the practice to a close, trying desperately to hide the fact that my shoulder is now killing me.
“That’s enough for today.”
“But Frost, I can go longer. I’m not ready to quit yet.”
“Look, Cole. As a rookie, there’s something you need to understand.
A huge part of this game is mental,” I say, tapping the side of my head.
“Winning the puck in face-off does not always translate into goals. You don’t always need to be the one to take the shot and try to score.
You want career longevity? You want to make a name for yourself?
The most valuable position on the team is not the Center or the Goaltender, or even the Captain. It’s the playmaker.”
“What do you mean, playmaker? That’s not a position.”
“Oh, but it is. The playmaker is the visionary. The playmaker values the team over himself. Instead of trying to take every shot, prioritize passing over shooting. Be the assist or defender for your team mates.”
He puffs up his chest in self-pride. “But Frost, I came here as an MVP. Best scoring record in the NCAA last year.”
Man this kid has a lot to learn. “That title might have gotten you here, but it’s not enough to keep you here. Team comes first.”
The expression on his face tells me he’s skeptical.
“I’m not saying you shouldn’t strive to win every face-off.
But you need to play smart. Efficiently.
Maximize shots on goal by figuring out who’s best positioned to score.
It took me quite a while to figure that out.
I had to learn to listen to my mentors and coaches.
I’m trying to pass that knowledge on to you. Now, let’s hit the showers.”
The atmosphere in the arena tonight is electric.
We’re playing our biggest rival, Orlando, and the match is tied two all, late in the third period.
Fortunately, I’ve been pain-free for the entire game so far.
After the final media break, I line up at center ice for the face-off.
The stands are vibrating with the stomping of feet and chants of fans.
“Frost! Frost! Frost!” The pressure is on to break the tie prior to the end of regulation play.
I stare into the face of my opponent with a death glare in an attempt to throw him off, then focus on the puck in the ref’s hand, anticipating the drop. As soon as I move, my shoulder betrays me, causing me to fall a beat behind as the other team gains possession.
Fierce play ensues over the next two minutes.
Then, with only seconds left on the clock, Orlando scores, securing their win.
The crowd mood turns nasty, blaming our goalie for the game loss.
Jeers of “It’s all your fault!” fill the rink.
Honestly, they should direct their ire at me.
I’m the one who caused the loss of momentum, allowing Orlando to dominate play as the clock ran down.
The mood in the locker room is somber. Although no one on the team blames me directly for the loss, I’m taking it personally, my previous advice to Cole providing little consolation for how I’m feeling.
In reality, there was a perfect storm of missed opportunities.
But still, I have to wonder. If my shoulder hadn’t given out on me when it did, would there have been a different outcome?
This is one of the nights I regret management’s decision to allow reporters in the locker room.
I’m not in the mood and I have no time to prepare myself for the questions they fire at me before I can take a shower and change.
The local NBC affiliate sports reporter asks me straight out about a recent drop in my performance and rumors of retirement.
I hate this part of the job, having to answer unpleasant questions on the fly with the cameras rolling.
Regardless of the amount of time the PR team spends prepping me for these impromptu sessions, it doesn’t get any easier.
Before walking away, I provide the standard comment that I can recite in my sleep.
“Right now, I’m focused on winning the next game and forging a path to the playoffs.”
After showering and stowing my gear, my cell rings. Trevor.
“Stop by my office on your way out.”
Dread fills my stomach as I head toward the management offices. After what happened tonight, I’m not surprised he wants to talk to me.
“Jax, come on in.” He motions to the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
I look around Trevor’s office, taking in its contents.
Everything the man touches seems to turn into success.
His office is stocked full of trophies, plaques, and mementos from his playing days, along with a mix of souvenirs from the Golden Blades.
In addition, business and community awards line the walls.
All that aside, he tells people all the time that the most important thing to him is his family.
The photos on the bookcase behind him reflect what he proudly calls his greatest achievements—his wife and kids.
He’s truly a lucky man. I spend a moment running through what if scenarios in my mind, but I can’t picture myself with a family.
Not because I don’t want to, but because I haven’t found that person.
He turns his chair to the mini-bar set up behind him. “Drink?”
“Sure.”
Trevor pours us both a whiskey. I figure I may as well have something to ease the pain of what he’s likely about to say.
“Now then. I’d like to talk about your future. Have you thought about what might be next for you? After retiring from hockey?”
I take a swallow of the amber liquid, letting it warm my throat as I choose my words carefully. No point in pissing off the guy who has my future by the balls. Who said anything about retiring from hockey?
“What’s next for me is leading the team to the Cup. I haven’t thought of anything beyond that.”
“Spoken like a true team leader, Jax. But you do need to start planning for the future. I’ve got some ideas about how you might best serve us off the ice.”
Off the ice? What the hell? And just like that, Trevor Logan confirms my greatest fear about how management views my longevity. The rest of the conversation with him fades to background noise that I try my best to tune out.
Going home to the isolation of my condo is the last thing I want to do right now.
As I wander through the empty arena, the lights and video displays on monitors provide a false sense of activity in contrast to the vast silence, almost like the glow of a full moon on a desolate landscape during a cold winter’s night.
Even the clean-up crew has come and gone.
As I turn the corner toward the main entrance, I realize I’m not alone at the arena.
The ice princess is hard at work. She’s focused intently on a large block of ice, delicately weaving greenery into the frozen structure to create a living display.
As I move closer, she looks up from her work.
For the first time, I see a warmth in her eyes, rather than the air of indifference.
It draws me to her like a port in a storm.
If she’s been here for a while, she probably knows about the outcome of tonight’s game.
Regardless, she doesn’t make a snarky comment or press me for details, she simply offers me a spare tool and shows me how to place moss inside of a frozen panel.
The mindless but creative task is amazingly therapeutic, distracting me from all the noise in my head and the fear of an unknown future.
It’s actually comforting to work beside someone with no demands or expectations, just offering companionship as the hours slip away toward dawn.