Chapter 10
TEN
SUTTON
I shove an arm into my sweater, exchanging my bag from one shoulder to the other, to pull the extra layer of warmth over my head.
Days have passed since the speed dating, and finally it’s the training rink chills my body.
There’s been an underlying warmth consuming me, a fire stoked by my brain failing me and replaying Cooper in the bathroom hallway.
It’s been easy to ignore him, it’s one of my best skills, except being paired up for my independent study. Which is the only reason I’m at his practice.
The Pond is Lakeland’s training rink for the ice hockey and figure skating teams. It’s located in the same building as the main arena, on the far side of the entrance and main concourse. Team locker rooms are between the two with hallways and entrances that lead to each.
I climb the metal bleachers opposite the players’ bench. There are only seven rows, but I select a seat in the top row where the lights are dimmer. Hopefully Cooper or anyone from the team doesn’t notice me.
Their practices are closed. Exceptions are made for scouts from the NHL, and today me.
I stopped by Coach Mathieson’s office on Monday, asking him about practice and game schedules, evaluating any rules Lakeland enforces about overtraining and student-athlete balance.
At his openness, and rather heightened interest in my study, I threw out the ability to sit in on a practice or two.
He granted me access to anything I wanted.
I tug a beanie down over my ears a little further, slip the pen out from behind my ear. Call me old school, but I love taking notes by hand. My laptop is tucked in my tote bag just in case of hand cramps or smudges—perks of being left-handed—or if I need the gloves I last minute stuffed in my bag.
A shiver rakes through me, and I swear I can see my breathe.
Memories surround me, a blanket to the cold. It’s been two years since I’ve set foot in this building—at least before the other week. But it’s been even longer since I’ve watched him play live.
Cooper’s talented. Raw and natural, you can tell it’s in his DNA.
There’s always been late nights and extra hours spent on his game because he loved it. Practicing in the street in rollerblades when it was warm, and out on the pond in his backyard as soon as it was safe enough to skate on.
Nothing changed when I started playing, except instead of me sitting on the sidelines watching him, I was out there skating with him. We wanted to be the best. We wanted each other to be the best.
The player I’m watching on the ice isn’t him though.
Of course he’s still one of the best out there, anyone could see that.
But knowing Cooper how I know him, much to my chagrin, you can see the tiny hesitations in a face off, the faintest pinch in his shoulder blades, the frustration in himself if he’s beat in a drill.
They finish practice after focusing on defensive power plays.
I have one note written on my page. Circled, underlined, and highlighted.
Does Cooper love hockey still?
That’s my biggest question at the end of the two-hour practice. Thirty minutes in and I was questioning my belief in what, or who, he was playing for.
“Great practice, everyone. Hit the showers,” Coach Mathieson’s voice carries. “We have morning skate tomorrow followed by film review. Then be back at the arena at four ready to go. Greene, don’t forget to show up in a suit or everyone is skating seven extra down and back next practice.”
The freshman next to Jaxon nods frantically, completely terrified of his coach.
Coach Mathieson can be scary. His exterior is more German shepherd, but the inside is like a golden retriever. He’s tough when he needs to be, but compassionate and a total softy most of the time. His heart is too big. These players, even the women’s team, are his family.
He used to attend our practices when he could. Makes the guys attend our games if they weren’t playing at the same time.
Cooper skates over to the bench first once they are dismissed, opening the door for everyone to file off the ice, knuckle-bumping their gloves as they head in. He rolls his shoulders back, inhales sharply, and as his first teammate reaches him, a forced smile is slapped on his face.
Once the area clears, I creep down the bleachers slowly.
I walk around the boards, dragging a finger over the lip. New paint, navy to match our school’s colors.
There’s a harsh, grating noise that has me turning over a shoulder. Cooper pops out of the entryway, unbuckling his helmet and setting it on the bench next to where he sits down.
Slowly he exhales a dragged-out breath, eyes shutting.
He repeats this a few more times before pulling up his practice jersey to wipe sweat and a lock of hair off his forehead. His brown hair is dark with sweat and wavy because it’s overgrown.
“You could use a shower.” I cross my arms in front of my chest. “You’re stinking up the arena.”
He doesn’t laugh at my joke.
I open the side door leading into the team bench. Straddling the silver bench, I sit close enough to him that my shoe bumps his extended skate.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, eyes still closed, head tilted back.
“Coach said I could come.”
He looks forward, eyes opening, and chews on his cheek.
“Do you miss it?” he asks, looking out over the scratched-up ice. Cooper drags in a lung full of air.
“Every single day,” I say softly. “It was the biggest part of my life for a long time. I didn’t know who I was going to be without it.”
I stare at him, my resolve getting the better of me, crashing down. Spending time with Cooper lately has me questioning why I’ve been so mad at him all this time. The further I remove myself from the grudge I’m holding, I realize it seems petty and stupid.
But then I blink, and I can hear their laughs, the names I was called, how lonely I felt after he betrayed me. My game that night and crashing into the boards, being told I’ve done the impossible tearing my ACL, MCL, and meniscus.
“You figured it out though.” He says it more like a question.
“Took some time…and therapy.” I add that because I want him to know I had to ask for help too.
He takes a glove off, pausing before taking the other.
“Do you love it?” I ask him after another beat of silence.
This drags his attention from the ice to me.
The skylights in the roof let in enough sunlight that it helps offset the bright white of the overhead lights. A ray is hitting his brown eyes just right. They’re bright and broken. Sparkling, but it’s like the last few seconds of a sparkler before they burn out.
I scoot closer to him, still awaiting an answer.
“Yes,” he whispers as if he doesn’t want anyone to know the truth. He checks over his shoulders to make sure we are alone. “But not like I used to.”
I stay quiet, seeing that there’s more to this, hoping that it gives him the space to elaborate and get this off his chest.
“Playing’s lost its magic touch. Going out there every day, I’m not playing for me which I hate. But if I do, it feels wrong, like I’m failing my dream or the player people expect me to be.”
“And who’s that?”
Cooper pulls at the Velcro on his glove, tongue running along his bottom teeth. “My dad. Perfect. Who even knows.” He throws his head back. “Ask a different person on a different day and they’ll tell you who I am.”
“Who do you want to be?” His laugh is humorless, as if I’m joking but I’m not. I use his words from the other night with a slight modification. “There’s nothing wrong with the player that you want to be.”
Cooper stares at me. Deep brown eyes muddy, a fight in them to believe what I’m saying.
“When’s the last time you skated for yourself?” I ask.
“Winter break freshman year of college.”
He doesn’t need to recall that afternoon, but it plays in my brain like a movie—it was one of the last times I played.
It was shortly after that I tweaked my knee again and needed another surgery.
Jordan and I were outside on the pond in their backyard messing around.
She had just committed to Lakeland University.
Cooper and our dads came outside, joining us on the ice.
We played three-vs-two till our older sisters and moms came home from last-minute Christmas shopping.
They joined us. The nine of us switching on and off the ice, sipping on homemade hot chocolate till the sun set, painting the sky in an electric ombre. Pinks and oranges with a dark, moody purple.
It was easy that day, just like it is now, to forget about everything. Reverting to our old friendship. Bickering like an old married couple, and gifting smiles like it was a Christmas miracle.
“You didn’t win,” I remind him, “I blocked the shot.”
Cooper shakes his head, mouth fighting a smile. “It hit the inside of the post and bounced out after hitting your stick.”
“It did not.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Dave.”
“What changed after that?” I bring us back to the present, carefully dancing on thin ice.
“After my game winning assist in the Frozen Four and receiving the Tim Taylor Award, people took more notice to me. I wasn’t just Ryn Carmichael’s son who had inherited his hockey genes.
I became ‘is Ryn Carmichael’s son going to be better than him?
’ and ‘can Cooper Carmichael fill his father’s skates?
’ or ‘Carmichael is fast, but is that good enough to land him a spot on a team or will his last name carry him again?’”
I remember the goal. I remember when the reports and videos went viral. He’d already received attention when being recruited in high school, but this was different.
“Have you talked to your dad about this?”
“He’d be ashamed, or try to step in and say something. What am I then? The boy who needed his dad to handle his business for him? I’m handling it.”
“And look where that’s getting you.” I scoot closer to him, leaving a sliver of safe and comfortable space between us. “The stress you are putting on yourself is causing your panic attacks.”
“How do I stop stressing?” he asks me as if I have all the answers. To that specific question, I wish I did.
Hearing him speak about our first love cuts me deeper than it should. It was taken away from me unexpectedly, but he’ll lose it all on his own. If he continues at this rate, Cooper will burn himself out.
“I don’t have all the answers,” I tell him truthfully and cautiously, “but I’m going to help you. Case study or not.”
“That sounds awfully like something a friend would do.”
“Don’t push it.” I tilt my head, brow arched playfully. “I’m doing this for our mutual love of the sport.”
Or because deep down he is my friend. Shoved away in the back of the closet that you stick junk in, tell yourself you are going to organize but never get around to, and somehow ten years later it has accumulated enough stuff that if you open the door it’ll cause an avalanche.
That’s where our friendship is. I didn’t throw it away, only put it in a place I’d hopefully forget about it.
Except Cooper never let me forget about it, or him.
“For starters, I don’t think you need extra ice time. Your schedule is already jam packed with classes for your major—and everything else you said yes to.” Like me, my case study, and being my dating coach. “The extra what? One…”
He makes a thumbs up, motioning it upward for me to increase the number. Is he serious? He can’t be.
“Two.” Cooper doesn’t do it again. “Three?”
“Depends on the day.”
“When has that ever been healthy?” I scold him. “Maybe an hour, but Cooper, you have to cut back. Your body needs rest.”
“Okay. Yeah, okay. I’ll try. Coach is meeting me in thirty minutes to work on a few skills with me. I was going to skate around till then, maybe run some drills, but…” He pauses and his eyes dip to the ground, then back to me. “Would you want to skate with me till then?”
I gulp, tug at the top of my sweater. My PT hasn’t cleared me to skate again yet, but I want to. Especially right now. The pull to get back on the ice has never been stronger. I feel stronger. Running, cycling, and staying consistent with the stretches and workouts she’s given me has helped.
“No.” His face immediately falls, and for the second time today Cooper Carmichael cuts me a little bit deeper. “I haven’t been cleared yet,” I quickly add, like it’s helpful.
“Right, your knee.”
I fiddle with a curl, tugging on the end and wrapping it around my finger. Swallow heavily. Cooper fidgets, jaw flexes, and if I didn’t know better, he’s wearing his remorse.
I spot Coach returning. “I’ll see you Thursday. Seven, my place.”
“It’s a date.”
“Not even close.”