Chapter 3
THREE
COOPER
“Carmichael!” Coach Mathieson yells from across the ice. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose before planting his hands on his hips.
Staring at him, even from the other side of the rink, I get why the girls on campus fawn over him.
Coach is in his early forties and—I have no shame admitting it—hot.
Light brown skin, a tight jawline that’s always sporting a well-taken care of beard, broad muscular shoulders, and I quote ‘biceps for days.’ Plus, a smile that is as ruthless as it is bright.
There’s a big question mark around why he never played professionally. Coach was drafted to play for Toronto, but never made it to training camp. A year later, he was hired by Lakeland as a GA, then assistant, before taking over as head coach seven years ago.
I’ve always wanted to play for him. I’ve always wanted to be a Lakeland Bear.
When I was being recruited, it was blatantly obvious when a coach wanted me for the name stitched into the back of my jersey. The attention and money they thought would come to their program if a Carmichael played for them was at the center of the way they interacted with me.
It took Dad one visit centering on him to suggest that Mom take me on the rest. He deflected questions the best he could without coming off as an asshole—he has a reputation to hold up too.
It never change his involvement at home though.
He sifted through my film, putting together highlight reels or offering to make calls.
But I didn’t want that help. Didn’t need him to do anything on my behalf.
I love my dad. He’s my idol, but I didn’t want, or asked, to be compared to him. I didn’t want to be tied to him as a player. Much to my chagrin, I am.
All I wanted was a school to want me for me. Want me how I want this for myself—or at least how I thought I wanted this.
It’s not Dad’s fault. He’s not asking or telling teams, media, or random people in the grocery store to treat me this way. He’s never asked or expected me to be more than I am.
I’ve hidden it, never wanting him to know that my chest would get tight periodically. Sometimes my head would spin out like a spinning top, and my shoulders felt heavy because of him.
Coach Mathieson was different, though. He never cared about the name on my back. He cared—cares about me. His tone and motives have never changed. Coach saw a boy who loved the sport and wanted to carve out a legacy and path for himself.
I knew it the moment he called out my mistakes in my film. Followed it up by asking if I brought my skates, and then taking me out on the ice to fix them.
He’s like this with everyone on and off the ice.
I skate over to him. Chest heaving and out of breath. There’s a slight twinge of pain in my back that stings with each pass of my skate over the scratched-up ice.
I need an ice bath and an hour with a massage gun.
“Off the ice. They need to get it Zambonied. Girls have a game tonight.”
I nod, my exhaustion is internal too.
Coach sighs, mumbles under his breath about taking away my key to the arena if I keep pushing myself too hard.
“See me in my office after you shower.”
I knock on his door thirty minutes later.
“Hey.” I shut the door behind me. “Is that for next week?” He’s standing at a whiteboard writing names and drawing lines between Xs and Os.
“I’m thinking of moving Scott”—a sophomore who was out with an injury at the start of the season—“to Jones’ pairing. Thoughts?”
“We need speed getting back to the net. Adams has been getting beat at least seventy-five percent of the time. Chase has been trying to pick up the slack, but it ends up leaving the backside open. Scott is one of the fastest defensemen we have. Have you timed him?” I scan the board a second time. “Do you want me to—”
“Add another thing to your plate?” He turns to me, features set sternly. “You don’t need to do it all, Carmichael.”
Even before being voted captain, I’d say yes to anything Coach or another teammate asked. But as captain? I don’t feel like I have a choice. If the team needs something, or someone, I take care of it. Doesn’t stop the guilt that races parallel to the need of taking care of my responsibilities.
“But I’m the captain,” I still say.
“And I’m the coach. I have assistants who are paid to help. Anyways, Jaxon is faster than you.”
“He is not,” I scoff.
Coach lets out what I think is a laugh—I at least get him to crack a semi-smile.
“Sit.” He gestures to a large leather armchair in front of his desk. There are two of them, but he doesn’t take the other. With how cozy his office is, you’d think he lives here.
He leans against his desk, arms crossed in front of his chest. Biceps straining against the team-issued green and navy quarter zip.
“Have you thought about moving Horváthski back to defense? He used to play in high school.”
“Good thought, and yes, I have. He’s needed on second line, though.” Coach takes a deep breath. Unfolds his arms, gripping the desk next to his legs. “I didn’t ask you in here to talk lines and plays.”
“Look, about earlier. I know you said I can only be on the ice for an hour after practice. But—” I almost confess everything to him.
“This isn’t about your ice time—well, actually, it could be. I didn’t want you to work with Scott because I’ve already added something to your plate this semester. Do you know who Dr. Manning is?”
The name sounds familiar, but nothing rings a bell. I shake my head no.
“She’s a psychology professor here who reached out to all of the coaches looking for a student athlete for an independent study, and I volunteered you.”
“Why?”
He ignores my question. “You are expected to do this, Cooper. Full participation. No bullshit, no loopholes.”
“Am I off the team if I don’t?” I clinch my jaw, fear squeezes my heart.
“Do I look like I want to lose the Frozen Four this year?” I don’t either. “I’ve already forwarded you the details. Due to the length of the project, you’ll be starting prior to the semester beginning.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
The next morning, I rinse my plate and put it in the dishwasher before telling my roommates goodbye.
“Where are you going?” Jaxon says around a bite of soft scrambled eggs. I love my best friend. He’s truly a genius, probably the smartest out of all my roommates, except when it comes to street smarts…and table manners.
A piece of egg falls out of his mouth, hits the table, before he picks it back up and shovels it into his mouth along with another bite.
“Out. Maybe on a run.”
“I’ll come with. Let me finish and go change.”
“Oh. Uh. That’s okay.” I half smile. Tight, the kindest fake smile possible. “Remember the last time you ran after eating? You coined it Mt. Pukevious.”
“That was like two years ago.” He leans back, fork raised in one hand, the other rubbing his stomach. “Made of steel now.”
“It was four months ago.”
Jax rolls his eyes at me. “Fine,” he blows out. “But how long will you be? I need to go to the bookstore and pick up a few things before classes start next week.”
I don’t know how long today will be. Coach’s information was minimal, basically nothing but a time and a place to meet this morning.
“What time does the campus bookstore close?” I ask.
“Seven.”
“I can take you,” Beck offers, walking into the kitchen. His onyx hair in disarray, and rubbing at his cerulean eyes.
Jaxon rattles on about somewhere else he needs to go, and I use the distraction as an opportunity to sneak away.
I googled Dr. Manning last night after finding her on the school’s web directory. Coach failed to mention she has an extra twelve letters next to her name, was a sports psychologist for an NBA team, and now teaches because she thinks it would be ‘fun to influence today’s youth.’
If my nerves weren’t already enough, I’d be slightly intimidated by whoever this mini-me in the making is.
Parking out front of the student library, I glance around. There are three other cars in the parking lot. The designated meeting location was a coffee shop on the second floor. It’s in the farthest wing of the library, past the silent working spaces.
Rounding the corner, I…
Absolutely not.
Her back is to me, but I’d recognize those deep auburn curls anywhere.
The ringlets shift against her lower back. Half of them pulled back into a loose bun with a pencil holding the hair together.
On the chair next to her is a floral patchwork jacket she got for Christmas from my mom. I was with Mom when she found the vintage piece and almost burst into tears, exclaiming it was the perfect gift and only needed a little bit of TLC.
I approach her the same way you’d approach a wild animal—who am I kidding, I’d never approach a wild animal.
Our family dog is friendly and Jordan used to try to bring home any injured animal she found outside, but I was still the kid at the back of the group during animal demonstrations at the zoo.
Would pretend to touch the snake and encourage my classmates to be the ones to feed a baby animal.
My approach is slow, not wanting to startle her.
The galloping of my heart fast enough for the both of us.
Does she know I’m the student? Or was she only told a meeting location also?
I’ve done a lot of idiotic, borderline pathetic things intentionally to stay in Sutton’s orbit. Is this my karma?
Her focus doesn’t waver from whatever she’s working on. Sutton’s computer is to her right, a notebook to her left. She’s tapping a pen to a beat against her color-coordinated notes.
Inhaling, I give myself a moment to compose myself.
I fail.
The same weird waves of uncertainty and doubt crash over me.
I should have pushed Coach for more details.
Sutton drops her pen. It rolls off the table. She turns and bends down to reach it at the same time I drop to my haunches to pick it up.
Hazel eyes flare wide, parallel to mine.
My gaze flicks to her throat and her slow swallow.
“Th-thanks,” she stutters, taking the pen from my hand. Sutton straightens, back stiff.
I stand and walk around the table to the chair opposite her. My hands curl around the top.
“What are you doing here?” she bites out. “You need to leave. I’m supposed to be meeting someone.”
“I know.” My eyes bounce to her notebook, to her, back to the notebook—picking out a few bullet points on stress and sports—and then back to her. “I’m the someone.”
“What?” So she didn’t know it was me. “I’m meeting a student-athlete who’s supposedly struggling with—” Sutton stops speaking. Picks her chin up, and recognition registers all over her. “You?”
“Me.” I nod.
Sutton bursts out laughing, clapping a hand over her mouth.
“Yeah, right. Come on, Cooper. This isn’t funny.”
“You’re the one laughing, Dave.”
Her eye twitches at the nickname.
“You just can’t let me have one thing, can you? Is this supposed to be a joke?”
“I didn’t know it was your project.”
“I find that hard to believe. You always do this.” The whites of her eyes show. “You’re telling me you, mister golden boy, captain of the hockey team, is supposedly struggling with stress and anxiety?”
My eyelids flutter.
I pull off my beanie in an attempt to cool off.
This means Coach knows, must have mentioned it in his response.
“Yeah.” My voice is unsteady. “Surprise.”
I can’t tell if Sutton believes me. Her facial features are stoic. Jaw slowly dropping open, and it sort of feels like I’m the animal on display at the zoo.
Before she has a chance to respond, I take off.
I’ll tell Coach I can’t do this. Ask one of my roommates if they can work with her. Find another team captain.
I don’t know, but it can’t be me.
It already hurts that the girl I love hates me.
Now she knows my biggest secret, too.