“I’m sorry,” I tell him. He hasn’t let go of my mask yet, probably knowing that the second he does, I’m going to look back down at the ice. “I’m sorry.”
“Take a breath,” he says calmly. I try, but it hurts so much and it feels like I can’t expand my lungs all the way. Two goals in three minutes. Desmond gently shakes my mask. “Stop it. Take another deep breath.”
I stare at his brown eyes, and do as he says. It gets easier each time. Somehow, the buzz of the crowd fades and the light doesn’t seem quite so bright. To the side, I can hear Coach Mackenzie talking to my teammates, but I keep my gaze locked on Desmond.
“Tense your stomach,” he says, and pauses to give me a second to do so. “Now relax those muscles. Another deep breath.”
The time-out seems to stretch for minutes as Desmond has me tense and relax different muscles. By the time the whistle blows, and we’re sent back out on the ice, I realize I feel better. Alotbetter. I share one final look with Desmond, who smiles and tips his head to the side in the direction of my net. Vas taps me with his stick as I skate past.
“One at a time,” he says quietly.
Mimicking the way I’ve seen Carter Morgan do it, I slide my gloved hand along the crossbar and knock my stick on both pipes. Maybe if the practice does Carter Morgan good, it’ll bring me some luck as well. Getting into position, I watch center ice as the referee waits for the centers to get into position.
One at a time, I remind myself as the puck is dropped.
Desmond is waitingfor me after the game, leaning casually against the side of my stall and looking at his phone. He glances up at my approach and I blush, very aware of the fact that I just came from the showers and am partially naked. I’ve never been particularly self-conscious about my body, not having placed much importance on it beyond what is needed to maintain the athleticism for playing hockey. I don’t have a burning interest in dating, so what does it matter what I look like? Now, however, with Desmond’s eyes on me as I walk toward him—admittedly, on my face and not my stomach—I’m wishing I spent as much time in the gym as Nate. Desmond might like ripped guys, and I’m just…not. I’m sort of soft and doughy, while Nate has a stomach I could grate cheese off of.
The thought sends another round of heat burning down my neck. It doesn’t matter what Desmond likes or doesn’t like because he’s my coach, and that means no matter what, it can’t be me.Stop it, I tell myself firmly.
“Hey,” I greet him softly, one hand clenched on the towel and the other reaching for a shirt. The room is ridiculously warm—would it kill them to turn the AC down?
“Hey, Bluey,” he replies pleasantly. I relax a bit. Desmond calls everyone by a nickname, but somehow I’m lucky enough to have been gifted two. “How’re you feeling?”
“Fine. You?”
He ignores my attempt at redirecting the conversation, tucking his phone into his pocket and crossing his arms casually. The locker room, filled as it is with my teammates, is loud enough that we’ve got a fair amount of privacy to talk.Nobody would care enough to listen in anyway. They probably assume he’s over here telling me how badly I played.
“You played well,” he says. I shake my head. Just because we ended up winning doesn’t mean I played well. It means everyone else played great and they carried me. Winning doesn’t cancel out my abysmal performance. He adds, “Got pretty nervous though, huh?”
I catch a glance of his face as I pull my shirt on. He doesn’t look mad, but some people are good liars. And even if he isn’t, Coach Mackenzie might be and that’s a scarier thought by far.
“Yeah,” I admit. There’s no sense in lying about it. Anybody with eyes can see I get nervous.
“Did the muscle relaxation and deep breathing help?” he asks, still talking in that calm, measured tone.
“Yeah,” I repeat. “Actually, yeah, that helped a lot. Thanks.”
He nods as though he suspected the answer, and stands silently while I pull on boxers underneath the towel. When I chance a look at him, he’s staring pointedly away from me, giving me as much privacy as he can manage. When I toss the towel into one of the hampers pushed to the center of the room, he meets my eyes again and smiles.
“We can expand on those techniques,” he tells me, picking the conversation back up. “Maybe try some meditation with you, as well. It’s all right to be nervous—good, in fact, in some cases. It’s not all right if you’re so nervous you’re going to pass out.”
“I just…” Nate, who watched the game from the stands before joining us, says something I can’t quite hear, and the room erupts into laughter. When I look over at him, he grins atme and winks. “I just hate being the one bringing the team down. Everyone would be better off if Roman was in goal.”
I keep my voice pitched low, since Roman’s stall is right next to mine. Desmond cocks his head and surveys me.
“You don’t bring the team down,” he tells me, which means he’s lying right to my face. I know I do. Everyone in this room knows I do. Apparently, only Coach Mackenzie and Desmond haven’t figured out the obvious yet.
“I’m the worst player,” I mutter, face red and chest burning with shame.
“All right,” Desmond says, punctuating the words with a clap of his hands. “Let’s have a chat on Monday—we’ll figure out a way to incorporate muscle relaxation, deep breathing, and some meditation into your training plan. We arealsogoing to work on some positive thinking, okay, bud?”
I laugh, thinking he’s joking. He doesn’t join me, but raises his eyebrows as if in question.
“Oh. Okay. Sure,” I agree. Honestly, I’d agree to anything he asked of me ever.
“Don’t knock it until you try it,” he says mildly.
“I just don’t think positive thinking is going to make me a better goalie,” I admit. “No form of manifestation isthatpowerful.”
