Chapter 3 Dominic
Dominic
Preseason camp is important . . . for newbies and rookies.
I’m neither, yet Coach Boothe made it clear that I was expected to attend in the email he sent the day after our bar get-together.
It’s basically Blizzard onboarding, meeting their behind-the-scenes crew, getting checked out by the team doctor, and then doing drills until exhaustion.
Which I hit twenty minutes ago. Not physically, because I stay ready so I don’t have to get ready, but mentally.
This is bordering on torture, with Coach red-faced yelling at us after each round, saying the last attempt wasn’t good enough and we have to do better if we’re hoping for any time on the ice.
I’ve played for coaches with a variety of leadership styles over the years, and Boothe is my least favorite—death by a thousand cuts that are supposed to make you stronger.
Newsflash: It rarely works, and it definitely doesn’t nurture the camaraderie and support that create a team.
“Again.” Coach’s order echoes through the arena and we dutifully line up.
“Can’t believe I’m playing with the Dominic Lee,” the guy next to me says. He’s in position, his skates in perpetual motion, his stick tapping on the ice in preparation for the signal.
“I’m just a player, same as you.” That’s not remotely true. Rodney—I think that’s what he said his last name is—was drafted to the Blizzard as a late-round pick, and he looks like he turned eighteen yesterday. I drop my eyes to his stick. “Relax your lower hand. It’s not your dick.”
He laughs, but does as I advised. He’s coachable, I think.
A loud whistle sounds out and we take off, skating across the ice like our lives depend on it, our sticks slapping our pucks with each stride. Rodney gets to the farthest goal line a split second faster than I do. “Holy shit, I beat you,” he pants, his hands on his knees and cheeks flushed red.
I chuckle at his wide-eyed excitement. “None of us are going full out for drills. Especially this late in the day.” He deflates, his pride evaporating at the hard truth. “But you’re fast as hell, so keep at it.”
His smile returns. “Yeah? Thanks, Dom.” He frowns and clarifies, “Can I call you Dom? Seeing as we’re teammates and all, ya know?”
I nod. Give him his props for now. “Sure, kid.”
If he sees NHL gametime ice this season, I’ll be surprised, but if he’s smart, he’ll soak up everything around him and put it to use.
Coach makes us do a few more drills before sending us into the locker rooms for postpractice checks with the trainers.
I’ve perfected my own routine over years, so my plan is to skip out on that and get the hell out of here, but I hear my name and turn around to see Coach waving me over from the bench.
I take a steadying breath and dutifully skate over to him, praying he doesn’t want to talk about his daughter, or our friendly conversation at the bar. And definitely not about the text she sent me or my careful response of “anytime,” an invitation she hasn’t taken me up on.
“Looking good today. What do you think of the guys?” Coach asks.
Is he serious? He wants my input on the rookies after a few days of drills? I should probably play it cool and figure out what he wants to hear and spoon-feed it back to him, but I’m too grumpy about being here to strategize that clearly, so my gut instincts spill without filter.
“Rodney’s fast as fuck,” I start, “but greener than a pasture. He’s gonna beat everyone to the puck, only to get eaten alive before he can do anything with it due to his lack of situational awareness.
He needs to learn how to see the ice in order to be a center, but he’s probably the best rookie you’ve got.
Bill is clunky with his back foot on pivots.
Tomville needs to gain about ten pounds of muscle without losing his speed.
” I should stop there. I know I should, especially given the way Coach’s eyes are glazing over with disinterest, but my mouth keeps going.
“Anderson is a PR nightmare waiting to happen, which makes him dangerous for the team. What’s worse is that Sabine is a follower, so anything Anderson does, he’ll do, too, which increases their volatility and puts the team at risk.
This team’s going to be known as the Paternity Suits, not the Blizzards.
Pacholek might be okay, though he keeps bad company, which brings his judgment into question. ”
There’s more I could say—about the Blizzard’s reputation and the way Coach fosters it, unknowingly or not; about how steady home lives create a steady team while drama-seeking, lust-fueled players who fuck around, literally and metaphorically, also tend to not take their work seriously; about his daughter and how he should’ve never let her be in a situation that she had to escape from.
Thankfully, I do manage to force that back down my throat . . . for now.
He nods along with my assessments, but mostly doesn’t seem to give a shit. “And Kipson?”
“Still undecided if he’s salvageable,” I declare flatly. “He’s angry, and if he can use that fire, it could work. If he goes self-destructive, he’ll take the whole team with him.”
“Don’t let that happen.” Coach points a finger at me like that’s an order, but if it’s as easy as that, then why the fuck do they need me? Clenching my jaw, I grunt in acknowledgment.
I’ve had plenty of orders in my career, but this one sits wrong. The main thing I want to save lately isn’t the team, it’s the woman who looked at me like I was really worth something.
“Hustle up,” I tell the two guys drag-assing behind me as I check my watch. “You’ve got just over an hour before you need to be in bed. That gives us thirty minutes to eat, so that you can get home to shit, relax, and jack off before lights out.”
“Living the dream,” Rodney proclaims through a blissful smile, but he does pick up the pace to get to the door first.
He holds it open for me and Tomville to walk through first.
“I haven’t found my new usual yet, but this place will do in the interim,” I tell the guys as we get in line at a Chipotle close to the team’s practice facility.
Because once again, unlike the Hawks, the Blizzard is cheaping us out.
For the Hawks, preseason camp meant buffet meals catered with good food.
For the Blizzard? A tub of weight gain powder and free milk.
The farts alone can drive a man across the ice.
Back home, Griffin and I have a place we go to regularly for protein bowls.
But in a pinch, or when we travel, any basic rice and meat place will work.
I’ve even gone into sit-down restaurants and asked them to pile rice and whatever protein they serve on a plate and charge me however they need to.
The point is food, and food is fuel for our bodies to withstand the hell we put them through.
“What’s your usual? I’m a cheese burrito man myself,” Rodney says as he pats his flat stomach. At his age, he’s got the metabolism to handle that shit, but it won’t always be that way, so he might as well start better habits now.
“Not tonight you’re not,” I correct. “We need calories, protein, vitamins, and fat to replace what we’ve lost today. You can’t waste stomach space on a huge tortilla with no extra benefit.”
The worker behind the counter calls next and Tomville steps up. “Bowl, please. Rice, beans, and chicken.” He’s a fast learner, but still glances at me for approval.
“Double chicken. No queso. Guacamole. Salsa. Fajita veggies, heavy on the bell peppers. Lettuce.”
Tomville turns back to the worker. “What he said.”
Rodney pipes up, “Make it two.”
The worker looks at me and I hold up three fingers.
Once we’ve got our bowls and waters, we find a table. There’s no talking, not at first. We’re starving and our focus is shoveling in as much food as we can, as fast as possible. But as we start to quell the growls in our bellies, conversation starts to flow.
“What do you think so far?” Rodney asks me.
“About what?”
He chuckles. “All of it, man. I’m freaking out about everything, mostly that I’m having dinner with Dominic Lee.” He cuts his eyes to Tomville, sharing a look of disbelief with his new teammate.
“I’m just a guy.”
“Yeah, one I’ve watched play since I was a kid.”
I scoff, letting the old man allusion slide. “You are a kid.”
His smile, which seems pretty constant, fades a few degrees. “Which means I’m probably not going to get much playtime, right?”
He wants reassurance that he’ll get his turn on the ice.
It’s what we all want—our time to shine, with the crowd shouting our name as we finally get the chance to turn the dream we’ve had since we picked up a stick for the first time into a reality.
“Probably not,” I tell him honestly. “Might even end up doing some time in the minors again this season. But keep working. You’ll get there. ”
He brightens again. “Hey, I beat you to the goal line . . . once.” It’s a joke, poking fun at himself and his earlier earnest belief that he’d truly outskated me.
“I’d appreciate any tips you’re offering, though.
You know a helluva lot more than I do.” He lifts a plastic forkful of chicken in the air, silently thanking me for the advice I already gave.
I look from Rodney to Tomville, both of their eager faces bright with hope. They want direction, need it like air, and I have no faith that Coach Boothe is going to give it to them. Or if he does, it’ll come with a degradation and humiliation chaser.
I set my fork down. “No holds barred,” I warn them, and they nod in agreement, their faces going serious.
“Rodney, you’re fast. You know that.” He starts to smile, but I continue, “You depend on that too much. You get to the puck first, and in your mind, that’s a win.
But it’s barely step one.” His brows furrow as he listens closely, taking in what I’m saying.
“You’re a center, which means you need to read the ice.
Sometimes you’re able to skate away from trouble, but you also have to be prepared to fight off a pack and then have your eyes up to get the pass off to the open man.
Don’t focus on developing speed you already have.
Focus on attacking the other team the way you attack the ice.
Hard. Create opportunities, and then exploit them. ”
He nods firmly. “Heard.”
“Do me. Do me next,” Tomville pleads around his mouthful of food. He’s holding his hand in the air like he’s in a classroom back in school.
“Where Rodney has physical skill and needs to work on his mental game,” I point at the kid, then swing my finger toward Tomville, who is only slightly older, but shorter and lighter, “you’re the opposite.
You can predict the plays before they happen, you see the holes, and you have that ‘balls to the wall’ mentality that you need. ”
“But?”
I grin, glad he heard that coming. “But you need the brawn to back it up. You said you were an enforcer on your last team, but that was in the minors. The batshit crazy terrier act won’t cut it up here, this is a whole different league.
Guys with six inches and nearly a hundred pounds on you are going to be coming at you full-force, and while you’ve got the mindset to not flinch, they’re gonna mow you down.
It’s simple physics. You need muscle and power, like yesterday.
But don’t pack it on too quick, or it’ll make you slower than shit.
You need to grow steadily so your body can adjust to moving more mass each day. ”
Tomville blinks several times, and for a second, I think he’s going to argue with me. Instead, he comes back with, “You got a workout plan I can follow, or should I hit the strength coach up for that?”
“Try Coach first, but I’ll take a look at your plan if you want,” I reply, having no reason to trust the Blizzard’s strength and conditioning team so far. “Basically, make sure you pick up heavy weights every day, no excuses and no skips. Low reps only, none of that ‘sets of twenty’ toning crap.”
“Will do. Thanks, Dom.”
Two coachable rookies? The odds of this season being a complete clusterfuck are decreasing. Though they’ll be years in development to fully reach their potential. But we all start somewhere.
We finish the rest of our dinner with the two kids talking about their past hockey experience. I don’t bother sharing mine, because they could probably recite it as well as I could. By the time we leave, I think they feel a bit better about themselves and their new positions on the Blizzard.
I wish I could say the same.
Hanging out with those guys was a fun, momentary distraction that I greatly appreciate, but as I open the door to my home away from home, all I feel is empty inside, just like the house. I didn’t even decorate any of this shit, it’s as soulless as a hotel room.
I flop onto the couch, one foot on the coffee table and one on the floor as I look around. My suggestion to the guys was to handle their business and go to bed before tomorrow’s camp, but all I want to do is punch the closest wall.