Because the bed is empty.
Her bag is gone.
And the T-shirt I helped her into just hours before is folded neatly and placed at the end of the bed.
Fucking hell.
TWENTY-ONE
Joey
I knowthe guys are giving me sideways glances at practice this morning.
Not because I’m on their asses.
But because I’m smiling.
Not that I’m a hard ass normally. My coaching style is strict but fair. I don’t let the guys pull one over on me (unless it’s in the service of team camaraderie, like when they thought it was funny to replace all my pens with crayons and I went with drawing up the practice plans on a giant pad of construction paper). But I’m not screaming at them when a game goes to shit.
I’ve felt that. I hate it.
I grew up with too much yelling and I know it doesn’t help these guys play better.
They know what they’re doing.
They’re professionals—despite the pranks and sheets of construction paper with crayon scribbles—they need a guidinghand, not someone to control every single thought and movement.
Stifle all creativity and the team loses something valuable.
Spontaneity.
And some of the best things on the ice come from giving the guys the time and space to be able to react off-the-cuff.
Today, though, all the sideways looks are making me want to have them skate lines, just so they’ll stop staring at me like I’m a bug beneath a microscope. Still, I don’t acknowledge the extra attention. I know if I give them any opening, I’ll be giving them a mile, and they’ll be all up in my business.
So, amongst the ignoring of their double takes, I do what I always do: study their movement patterns on the ice, look out for anything that seems off—players who are favoring an injury, personalities that are clashing, someone who’s looking tired, chemistry or banter between guys that I haven’t noticed prior to today.
This isn’t a hard skate by any means.
But it is a good touch point.
My check-in done (and my smile still in place), I leave the guys to their free time.
Some will get off soon, others will stay to the end of the session.
Then it will be their chance to fuel up with protein and fast-acting carbs, take a nap, pack up their shit (because we’re heading to a new city tonight after the game), and come back tonight ready to play some fucking hockey.
I’ll be doing something similar, though with less napping and more prepping for this evening’s game—along with the upcoming matchups on our docket.
Though, Iwillfind a good restaurant to hole up at so I can eat some fast-actingcarbs.
I’m thinking a huge stack of pancakes smothered with syrup. I didn’t get to enjoy my last bath.
Maybe I’ll see if Damon wants to eat them with me…and then smothermewith syrup.
Perfect.
I’m thinking about that fun little epilogue to consuming delicious carbs so intently that I don’t see the man standing in the hallway.
