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 andgame 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.”
