Chapter 29
WIDE DRIVE ENTRY: ENTERING THE ZONE ALONG THE BOARDS TO CREATE SPACE
The athletic director’s office smells like burnt coffee and a lemon-scented air freshener that fails to cover it up.
There are framed photos of athletic teams lining the wall behind his desk—the last ten years captured in glossy smiles and stiff postures.
Kids mid-laugh. Arms slung over shoulders.
Bodies still unbroken by time or expectation.
I notice it because it pulls me back in time to recalling the first rink I skated at in Dublin.
That was nothing like this—no trophies, no banners, just cold air that bit through your clothes and boards patched more times than anyone could count.
But the school coach had photos, too. Every team he’d ever trained, taped or framed wherever there was space.
Some were crooked. Some were faded. None of us looked polished.
We looked hungry.
He used to tell us skating wasn’t about speed. It was about balance. About knowing when to lean and when to pull back. About trusting the ice even when you thought it failed you.
I heard the words, nodded at the right times, but what I absorbed was different—win, push, don’t slow down, don’t look weak. I chased the parts that got applause and ignored the parts meant to keep me whole.
He tried to teach us patience. Longevity. To be players with honor. To treat our teams like family.
I wonder if he would take my photo off the wall if he knew about the way I treated Amy.
Looking at these photos now, I wonder who I might’ve been if I’d listened better. If I’d learned that compassion wasn’t failure. That asking questions didn’t mean doubt. That slowing down could actually keep you stronger.
Because I’m the guy who knows how much bullshit is really captured in photos.
“Appreciate you coming in, Brennan. Take a seat,” Coach Collins gestures to the chair in front of him before leaning back in his chair. He’s got the kind of tired eyes that come from juggling budgets, parents, and kids who think they’re invincible. “The kids really like having you around.”
“I like being here,” I reply honestly as I sit down. “They listen. That matters.”
“It does,” he agrees. “Especially coming from someone who’s lived it.”
The polite way of saying I paid the price for it.
He slides a folder across the desk toward me. It’s thin. Too thin. I don’t open it yet.
“I wanted to talk to you about something the school’s been pushing for but can’t get the funding for,” he continues.
“What is it?”
“Better baseline screenings to avoid injury. Access to specialists. Someone who understands head injuries beyond ‘shake it off and drink some water’ for all of our athletes.”
My jaw sets as I recall a time not too long ago where I’d do just that. “You’re right. It’s needed.”
“I know,” he replies, rubbing a hand over his face. “Believe me, I know. It’s on our department list. Has been since I took over.”
I can appreciate that. School sports budgets are notoriously ill funded except for the ones that draw the biggest crowds.
“But,” he adds, and there it is, the word that always shows up like a body check you never see coming, “We don’t have the funds for a full-time athletic physician. Or a nearby neurologist. Or even a dedicated sports trainer, let alone a physical therapist.”
I finally open the folder. Budget numbers. Red ink. Grants that didn’t come through. Requests deferred to next year—that mythical season where everything is supposedly better.
“How much?” I ask.
He names a number. It’s not astronomical. It’s worse than that. It’s just out of reach.
“We do what we can,” Collins says quietly. “Local urgent care, ER when it’s bad. Coaches do their best. But it’s not…comprehensive.”
I nod slowly. I’ve seen those gaps even in college. I was covered by hockey, but even though I was taken care of, others weren’t. “I know the kind of things that happen when injuries aren’t treated.”
“We also want to talk to the kids about education,” he continues. “Teaching them how to advocate for themselves. What pain is normal, what isn’t. Why rest matters.”
My mouth twitches despite myself. “That sounds like my trainer for the Kings.”
“Does it?”
“You have no idea.”
“We’re grateful for you.” He looks at me directly now. “The time you’re spending with them—talking about safety, recovery, what ignoring injuries actually costs? That’s making a difference.”
My chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with old injuries.
“I wish someone had done that for us,” I admit.
An idea starts forming at the edge of my mind. It’s not complete. It’s not ready. But it’s there—persistent. The kind that doesn’t go away once it shows up.
“I’ve got doctors,” I say carefully. “Specialists. People who know this stuff inside and out.”
His brows lift, cautious hope flickering.
“I’m not saying anything yet,” I add quickly. “I need to think. Talk with them. Make sure it’s feasible.” Because the last thing these kids need is a half-solution that disappears when things get complicated.
But the idea keeps building anyway.
Rotational clinics. Telehealth consults. Baseline cognitive testing. Education sessions that don’t talk down to them. A system that treats them like athletes and kids with futures.
And if I involve Amy? Hell, my queen would tear through the logistics like a force of nature. But first, I need to lay out what these kids need.
“I don’t want to get ahead of myself,” I finish. “But…maybe there’s a way to bridge the gap.”
Collins doesn’t smile. He doesn’t push.
He just nods, slow and steady. “Whatever comes of it, I appreciate you even considering it.”
I stand, shaking his hand.
“And Brennan?” he adds. “As athletes, we don’t always realize how much weight we carry alone. It helps to let other people in. Happy to be a sounding board if you need one.”
I think of everything I’ve shared with Dr. Halvorsen and immediately wonder if there’s anything similar for the students. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “Thanks.”
Stepping out into the hallway, the echo of gym lockers and distant laughter wraps around me. Kids race by, arguing about being late for their next class because they had to change out. Some discussing practice drills they just endured; others homework.
But what it boils down to is they deserve better.
Coach knows it. I know it. Maybe, I can help make it real.
But first, I need to be sure.
Because if I bring this to the table, it won’t just be an idea.
It’ll be a commitment to the kids, to this town.
To Amy.
In my heart, I know it’s one I’ve already made.