Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
BETTSY
The media room. A place for reflecting, conversation and, usually, camaraderie. But today, it also happens to be the place where Coach seals my fate. It all comes down to the decision of a leadership team who have, likely, been watching me play for years.
Danny sits on my left, scrolling through his social media, and Greer on my right, sipping the same cup of coffee he’s been nursing for the past half hour—not that he has anything to worry about. He’s starting. He knows this and everyone else does too.
“This forum is still rife with gossip,” Danny says, slipping his phone into his pocket.
“I’ve stopped looking,” I say. “Honestly, I’ve had bigger things to worry about.”
My leg jiggles of its own accord and I nibble my thumb nail, my eyes fixed on the door, waiting for Coach to make his appearance.
“Well, I’m just saying,” Danny says. Leaning closer, he whispers, “do you think this’ll be good news?”
I didn’t tell him Vicky sort of gave the game away earlier today, probably because I don’t believe it myself. I guess I’m convinced that until I get the official notice from Coach Harris, it’s not happening. He could have changed his mind right after Vicky found out.
“I guess we need to wait it out,” I say, flashing a look at Langer.
He’s sitting on the opposite side of the room next to one of his home team buddies, and every so often, I feel compelled to tear my attention away from the door to go and flick him on the nose—enough to make his eyes water but not enough to get me kicked off the team.
He’s made this week harder than it needed to be. Snide remarks and insults forcing me to be on my best behaviour, knowing that one tiny little fuck up on my part would be enough to have my name plate ripped from my cubby faster than I can say ‘puck’.
Danny nudges me in the ribs and nods towards the door. A shadow of someone outside.
Everyone stops talking instantly and we all watch as the handle dips and the door swings open, Coach Harris leading his coaching staff inside.
“Right then, boys,” he says, coming to a stop at the media cabinet at the front of the room. He sets down the laptop he had tucked under his arm and fiddles with a bunch of cables, extracting an HDMI and plugging it in.
Torture.
This is torture.
I thought my blue balls were painful enough, but waiting for windows to finish updating features is horrendous—even more so when everyone seems to be looking either at me or at Langer.
“While this does its thing,” Coach says, nodding at the screen, “I want to take the time to thank you all for this week. You’ve given it your best and I’m hugely impressed with the talent that British ice hockey offers.
Now, I want everyone to know that our ongoing roster is always flexible.
So getting a spot, even if you’re returning, is not guaranteed long term.
I expect you to practice like you’ve never won and play like you’ve never lost—I think that’s how the saying goes, anyway. ”
The log-on prompt steals Coach’s attention for several seconds as he types in his password, and up comes a slide deck with the title ‘Upcoming Roster’, set on a Team GB corporate template.
I’m starting to feel pretty smug right about now, as Coach lists off several qualities he’s been looking for that I know describes me perfectly. But when he flicks the slides to the next screen, my heart drops out of my ass.
What the?—
“You’ll notice here I’ve got my first line forwards the same as last season, we’re planning on mixing the lines a little between second, third and fourth—with the introduction of Danny Owens—” there’s a whoop and cheer from several guys as Danny grins awkwardly, “—but it’s our defensive lines that have the biggest change. ”
I swallow, willing my dry throat to give me some grace as I watch Coach move from left to right, his arm extending as he points towards my name at first, then?—
“First pair stays the same, but our second pair is Betts and Langdon.”
I’m fucking paired with Langer.
There’s no way.
A heavy knot of dread tightens in my stomach, like I’m about to pass out. This was a scenario I never thought possible.
“I know this wasn’t what we were expecting, but I’ve had to make a few changes,” Coach says, moving directly towards the screen and pointing at a list of names on the far right titled ‘LTIR’.
Honestly, I’ve been so wrapped up in my own mess, I haven’t even considered the long-term injured reserves list .
“Unfortunately, Hill is out for an extended period, but we were lucky to have had two strong D-men on trial this week. It was a simple choice to make and even though we’re pairing you guys,” Coach looks between Langer and me, “we can see how things go.”
There’re mumbles of congratulations around the room, but Coach isn’t done.
“Just another point to note—there are some really talented players on our LTIR—should they become fit to skate, we will re-evaluate. Your spot could quickly become their spot if your performance drops. That goes for everyone in this room.”
There’s a mutual agreement of nods before Coach continues.
“Netminders then … Greer, Sutherland, and Callaghan.”
But it’s the part next that has my palms sweating. Coach flicks over to the next slide where we’re presented with a list of dates: training, media days … but worst of all, that social event he was referring to.
“Mark your calendars, boys. I’ll get it sent out via email so there are no excuses, but here’s the agenda.”
I scan the slide, trying to work out how long I’ve got until I have to come clean or fake my own death.
Four weeks.
“Right, enough of that, I think you’ve all earnt yourselves the afternoon off. Relax, take it easy and enjoy your league games this weekend. I appreciate some of you have travelling to do so until next time?—”
I tune out, dropping my head into my hands, only for Danny to nudge me merrily.
“We’ve done it, mate. Do you want to be the one to tell Cap? Or should I? Oh—or maybe we can call him together.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I say through gritted teeth as people around me file out.
“What’s wrong? Aren’t you happy?” Danny says.
“Of course I am, but?—”
I flick my eyes towards the schedule, still on the big screen .
“Ah, shit, yeah. The whole Mrs thing,” he says, dropping his voice. “Well, I guess that’s something to figure out.”
He’s not wrong.
What the hell am I going to do?