He gives me an incredulous look. “More than one word answers too hard for you?”
I sigh. “Alice thinks they have a shot at the Frozen Four this year. Guess they came up short last year.”
“You don’t think they do?” Dad pipes in.
We’re only a few weeks into the season, and I haven’t seen them tested in an actual game yet. “Hard to tell.”
“How are you liking it so far? Bet the girls have been loving you,” Sierra chimes in.
“Not as much as you’d think.” I snort, thinking of Kilcrease’s smart mouth today during the scrimmage. The way her pale cheeks flamed in anger…I kinda liked it.
I mean, yes, I still feel the stares from some of the other girls, and some are bolder with their interest than others. But as the season goes on, they’ll lose interest.
“If you need any pointers at all, let me know,” Sebastian says over a mouthful of food.
“Babe, I love you, but I don’t think there’s anything you can teach Luke that he doesn’t already know. He’s the one who was in the NHL after all.” Sierra hides a smile, and I decide I’ll let her off the hook for her obvious rift she still feels on behalf of my ex-wife.
Sebastian looks at her with wide eyes. “I’m not talking about playing! I mean coaching.”
She rubs his shoulder and winks at me. The corner of my mouth threatens to rise, and I tamp it down.
“Thanks, man. I think I’m good, though.”
“First seasons can be hard. If you change your mind?—”
“Yep. Will do.”
He looks wounded at my quick denial, and Dad shoots me a reproachful look. Sebastian has been coaching for years, so I know he would have some good insight. He’s a great coach and is respected among his players, which can be a tall task with teenage boys.
It’s not that I don’t think that he can help me. It’s just that I don’twanthelp. I don’t care for tips and tricks on how to be a better coach.
But as I sit through the rest of dinner, listening to the chatter around the table while eating my first home cooked meal in I can’t even remember how long, I find my mind drifting back to today’s practice. More specifically, Lennon’s goaltending.
Alice is right. She’s talented and definitely has earned her spot as their starting goalie. But as I thought she would, when she gets under pressure in a game setting, she panics. Not all the time, but often enough to allow for mistakes. And those mistakes lead to goals. It’s clear she holds herself to a high standard because even though she took her frustration out on me today, it’s her own errors that caused it.
She might’ve thought I wasn’t paying attention, but I was marking every single time she dropped to her knees too quickly and left the slots over her shoulders exposed. I marked each time she worked herself into a frenzy when a player stood at the front of the crease and blocked her vision of the puck.
She’s capable of more. And she knows it.
I’m starting to see it, too. The potential, her hunger for the game, it’s starting to pull at something in my chest that I want to keep locked far, far away. I won’t allow it.
I can’t allow it.
Once we finish eating, Sebastian and I tag team the dishes while Sierra and Dad sip coffee in the living room. They try to convince me to stay to watch an episode of Shark Tank, but I bid them good night and head home. My social battery expired halfway through the meal, and I’m ready for the peace and quiet of my apartment.
Once I park in the underground garage and make my way up to the third floor, I almost collapse when I open the door.
The walls are empty, and the shelves are filled with a few items that the apartment was originally staged with that I never bothered to replace with more personal touches. Even the furniture are all the staged pieces, some of it more comfy than others. But I can’t bring myself to change it. It doesn’t bother me. It’s home.
For now.
I flick on the lamp in my bedroom and quickly shower and brush my teeth before climbing into my unmade bed. This room is just as untouched as the rest of the apartment, but it brings me an odd sense of comfort. The white walls, plain bedding, nightstand free of knick knacks or clutter.
One might call it empty. And sure, I guess it is.
Mylifeis empty, but that just means there’s no more room for disappointment to pull me under again.
7
