“My career is extremely important to me—the most important thing to me. Staying healthy is the only way I get the longevity I want.”
“That’s true for most professional athletes, isn’t it?”
“I can tell you with one hundred percent certainty that a long, healthy career is what most professional athletesshouldwant, but few are willing to doallthe things necessary to get that.”
“I can see how the current situation would be less than ideal—”
“There’s not a single person on this island who seems to be taking the team’s move seriously. My comment last night was dead serious.”
“People on the island are invested. They just aren’t necessarily knowledgeable yet.”
“Forgive me for not wanting to be Bellerive’s guinea pig when it might fuck up my career. This team isn’t some cute lark for me. It’s my life.”
“I can do the job you need,” she says again, more firmly than before.
“How much do you know about the game?”
“Ice hockey?”
“No, break dancing. Yes, ice hockey.”
“Absolutely nothing. I’ve never even seen a game.”
“Jesus Christ.” I close my eyes.
“I’m a fast learner.” This is said with slightly less certainty, as though there’s something she’s holding back in that statement, or some recollection that makes her question her own claim.
“I need strength, endurance, power, speed, agility, and flexibility training that’s geared toward what I do on the ice. If you don’t know the game, you’re basically useless.”
Her eyes widen, and she seems taken aback by my bluntness, which immediately makes me regret how I said it.
“That was harsh,” I say, my voice gruff. “You need to know the game to train me. The two go together.”
“The team must already havesometraining.”
“Basics that everyone has to complete, yeah. I’ve never been looking to be the same as everyone else. I want to be better. Fuck it, I want to bethe best. Always. At everything. To me, there’s no such thing as too competitive, too driven.”
“Win at all costs?” She suggests, eyebrows raised.
“No,” I say, carefully, “which is why I want a trainer. When all this is over—which is inevitable—I want to be able to have a real future outside hockey. I don’t want to be crippled up, brain full of CTE. But when I’m in a game, I’m only focused on winning, which is why I need to be certain I’ve done everything I canoffthe ice to prepare for those momentsonthe ice.”
“You don’t want me?”
Her words cause that same twinge in my chest, as though some part of me longs to protest in some way. “Being forced to come to Bellerive has probably damaged my career. I can’t mess with my life too.”
She takes a deep breath and releases it before standing. “I can understand that. If you ever need a physiotherapist, I’m your girl.”
“Look,” I say, suddenly not so sure I want her to leave, “I’ve got some old game tape. If you seem to pick up the basics, andif you’ve got some training ideas, we can do a trial. A few weeks. It’ll take that long to fill the position to my satisfaction, anyway.”
“I appreciate that your natural instinct might be to speak to people who don’t know hockey like they’re idiots, but if that’s how you’re going to be while you teach me, I’d really rather not. We can just let this go here.”
Our gazes lock, and I see something in the depths of her eyes that reminds me of how I felt as a kid—before I found hockey—a little untethered, and ifI’vedone that to her, it makes me feel like a total piece of shit.
“You don’t think I can keep my inner asshole in check?”
“Inner?”
I can’t help the grin that rises at how hard she came at me with one word. “Fair,” I say with a bit of a laugh.
