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?”
