“Want me to wait?”
“Nah. This is my mess to deal with.”
Cam nods and heads toward the showers. The locker room is emptying out now, guys ready to put this loss behind them and move on to the next game. I strip out of my gear mechanically, each piece of equipment feeling heavier than usual. Or maybe that’s just my mood.
The walk to Coach Enver’s office feels like a death march. The lower level of the arena is dim after games. Long shadows loom, casting an ominous look to the tunnel. I can hear the chatter of reporters still hanging around, probably hoping to catch someone willing to throw me under the bus.
I knock on the metal office door, the sound echoing in the empty hallway.
“Come in.”
Coach Enver sits behind his desk, still in his suit, his tie loosened. His expression is unreadable, which somehow makes this worse than if he’d looked pissed off.
“Sit,” he says, nodding toward the chair across from his desk.
I drop into the uncomfortable metal chair. Silence hangs between us, interrupted only by the hum of the arena’s ventilation system.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” he finally asks, clasping his hands together.
“Bad read on the shot. I fucked up.”
“That’s the third ‘I’ve fucked up’ in five games.” Enver leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “I’ve watched you play for four years, Barnes. You don’t usually miss routine saves.”
My throat tightens. “Maybe I’m not as good as everyone thought.”
“Horseshit.” I flinch at his tone. “You’ve got the talent. The question is whether you’ve got the head for it right now.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning something’s eating at you, and it’s affecting your game. Your save percentage is down three points from last season. You’re hesitating on shots you used to read in your sleep.”
He’s not wrong. Everything that used to come naturally now feels forced, like I’m thinking too much instead of reacting.
“I can fix it,” I say, bouncing my knee.
“I’m sure you can. But I don’t have the luxury of waiting around for you to figure it out on your own.” Enver stands up, walking around to lean against the front of his desk. “I’m bringing in some help.”
My stomach drops into my sneakers. “Help?”
“Goalie coach. A guy with experience working with players who’ve hit rough patches in their careers.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“You need someone who can get inside your head and figure out what’s broken.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “His name is Zane Christensen. He’ll be here tomorrow.”
The name doesn’t ring any bells, which is probably a good thing. The last thing I need is some washed-up former player trying to relive his glory days through my career.
“What’s his background?”
“Played professionally for several years before moving into coaching. He comes highly recommended.” Enver moves back toward his chair. “And before you ask, this isn’t a reflection on your long-term future with the team. It’s an investment in getting you back to where you belong.”
I nod, though I’m not sure I believe him. In professional sports, “getting help” is often code for “last chance before we cut our losses.”
“Meeting tomorrow at ten. Don’t be late.”
“Yes, sir.”
I start to stand, but he holds up a hand.
