I lick my top lip, unsure what answer he's looking for. "Fine."
Coach walks over to me, his expression unreadable. He offers me a business card on heavy linen stock. There, in an expensive-looking font, is a name.
Dr. SableSports Psychology & Performance Conditioning
Flipping it over, I find a list of ways to contact her on the back of the card. Looking up at Coach Cross, I arch a brow. "What's this for?"
"That's our sports psychologist." Coach puts his hands in his pockets, appearing relaxed. "I want you to make an appointment with her."
"What?" I'm startled. "Why?"
He studies me for a beat and then sits down on one of the trainers' rolling stools. "I'm going to shoot it to you straight. You're under a lot of pressure from trainers and the coaching staff and even fans to keep performing at the highest level, despite your body showing signs of wear and tear. Two years ago, you had an MCL sprain and a groin strain that showed up a few times. Then last year, it was a repeated wrist sprain and a concussion. Now it's your shoulder."
I rub at my right shoulder, his words landing on me like they're made of lead.
I snipe, "Are you saying I should stop being an aggressive D-man?"
"Silas." Coach's expression tightens and he heaves a sigh. "You've had an excellent career so far. Even on a team that's going through a period of rebuilding, you shine. It's clear to everyone you give 110% and leave everything on the ice. They call you Ice Man, and yeah, it's because you're willing to freeze yourself out. Ignore pain, push through injuries, sacrifice your body for the team. That's admirable. It's also unsustainable."
The Ice Man nickname. I've worn it like armor for years. Better to be called cold than to let anyone see the desperation underneath. Better to be a machine than to admit I'm terrified of being replaced, of losing the only thing I've ever been good at.
Coach sees through it anyway.
"You've had an excellent career so far," he continues. "But you have to come to grips with the fact your body can't take this kind of punishment forever."
An icy jolt hits me square in the sternum. "Are you saying I should retire? Or… are you going to trade me?"
"No! No." Coach grabs my forearm and gives it asqueeze. He's not the most affectionate guy, so him touching me at all is startling. "You should be prepared, though. You need someone who knows the ins and outs of athletic careers to help you figure out whether you want to keep playing for the Havoc or not. When the right time will be to start easing up, letting younger defenders take the big hits. And eventually, how to leave the Havoc on your own terms." He eyes me. "Assuming you get the choice. Not every player does."
That troublesome ache that lives in my shoulder has landed right where my heart beats. "You think I'm on my way out?"
"I think it would be wise for you to talk to Dr. Sable. Figure out what your priorities are. Make a plan for your life after hockey. I'm not in any hurry to see you leave, Silas. There aren't many defenders like you in the world. I'd have a hundred of you if I could. The reality is I don't control what happens out there on the ice any more than you do. Your last game could be three years from now. Or if you don't start taking your PT more seriously, it could be next month."
That scenario steals my breath from my lungs. "I won't... I won't let my shoulder keep me down. I'll work on it, I promise."
"You need to talk to a professional." Coach points at the card I'm clutching. "Make an appointment with her. She doesn't work for the team, so you have zero fear of her leaking your conversations to the Havoc. Hopefully, seeing her will give you the kick in the ass to jump start your physical therapy."
"I'll make an appointment." My chest feels tight. "I won't let you down, Coach."
"You never have." Coach stands up. "Now go take care of yourself."
After spending the next hour hitting the ice bath, getting amassage, and having my shoulder taped, I'm still turning his words over in my head. The end of my career has never seriously been part of the discussion. I wander through the locker room, shell-shocked.
What is happening to my life?
When I round the corner toward the parking lot, that's when I nearly run straight into Enzo.
He's leaning against the wall like he owns it, suit perfectly pressed, smile slick as oil. Everything about him makes my teeth grind.
"Huxley." His voice is smooth. Too smooth. "I heard Scout's living with you now. Cozy arrangement."
I grunt and move to step past him. He shifts to block my path.
"Listen, man to man." His smile sharpens into something uglier. "You don't want to get tangled up with her. She's clingy. Hovering. Smothering. It's cute at first, sure, but then it drags you down like an anchor wrapped around your neck. Trust me, I lived with her for six years."
I can't put into words exactly how much I don't care about his shitty opinions. Heat flashes through my chest and my hands curl into fists. "Back off."
He claps me on my good shoulder. "I'm your agent. It's my job to look out for you."
