Damn, guilt left a sour taste in my mouth. How could I have forgotten that bringing up Grant was a no-go with the bad blood between him and Zane?
Zane: Shit. Never mind, I just remembered why I started this conversation in the first place. You’re hired back. Speaking of rookies, that’s why I messaged. We’ve got another rookie, Kelly, down from North Bay’s team, and he’s already destroying my pristine rink with unsanctioned drills. You need to get your ass down there and talk some sense into him.
Zane: I would do it myself. But why would I when I have a shiny new assistant coach just begging to help me out any way he can?
Asher: Oh yeah? What’s his name? Is he less of an asshole than the head coach?
When Zane had first told me the Hammerheads had selected him for the head coach position, I’d been shocked. Not that he didn’t have a near encyclopedic knowledge of the game, because he did, but more than being considered young for such a position, his widely known reputation as an absolute prankster was something I’d never imagined the suits at head office could ignore.
Hell, he’d joked about his career-ending injury from his hospital bed, making even the most ruthless reporters uncomfortable.
Zane: Just trust me. I have a “feeling” that you’re going to be able to get through to him better than I could. Have you read the players’ files yet?
He replied, ignoring my jab.
Asher: Considering the ink is barely dry on my contract and HR sent me all my passwords about thirty minutes ago, that’s a big no.
Zane: Okay, slacker. Do this for me, please? Who the hell knows what this rookie is doing in there, trying to prove himself before we even get started? I don’t need puke on my ice before practice tomorrow morning.
Zane had to be exaggerating. There was extra skills training, and then there was masochism. I highly doubted there was a player on Earth who would skate so hard he made himself sick without some coach screaming in the background.
Asher: Fine. You owe me. It’s freaking Sunday afternoon, man.
The truth was, there was little I wouldn’t do for my best friend, as evidenced by the temporary penthouse I sat in.
Heaving myself out of the quicksand that was my comfortable new couch, I pocketed my phone and moved across the room to where I’d dumped my brand-new Hammerheads hoodie, shrugging it on.
It was going to be interesting to see what had possessed the rookie to sneak into the arena before he was even officially introduced to the team. What did I even say to that kind of thing?
I was about to get a crash course in coaching. I hoped to hell I wouldn’t fuck him up.
five
CADEN
Despite being exhausted after a full day of travel, I’d declined the captain’s well-intentioned beer offering. I knew it probably made me look like an asshole since I’d just arrived. However, the stress of meeting new people, combined with my scathing inner voice courtesy of my father, had my skin feeling like it was damn near ready to rip itself from my body if I didn’t get out of there right then.
So, I’d made some lame excuse about working the day’s travel out of my muscles when Hawkins handed me his key to the practice arena across the street, telling me where I could find the conditioning room.
I’d been so desperate to get out of any more conversation in that moment that I’d accepted his keys with a grateful nod before rushing to my new room to dump out my suitcase for a pair of sweatpants and my skates.
After jogging down the apartment building stairwell, I jaywalked my way across the street to the practice arena. Damn, the Hammerheads really lived and worked all up in each other’s business, eh? That was going to be a massive change for me. I was used to being at least one bus ride away from the rink,having always gravitated to renting a room with other post-secondary students rather than rooming with my teammates
Making my way down the dimly lit side alley beside the building, I tried Hawk’s key in the first unmarked door I came across. Once inside, I made my way to the rink rather than the weight room.
A quick tie of my laces, and I was marring the freshly Zambonied ice with my skates that needed sharpening.
I didn’t know how long I’d been skating for, but I’d been desperately trying to zone out with the repetition of my back-and-forth motion across the rink.
It must have been a while, as I was drenched in sweat and I could feel the cold arena air seeping through the damp fabric of my T-shirt.
Even if my father had beaten every positive feeling I had toward hockey out of me, I had an uncanny ability to essentially check out of my own brain once I stepped foot on the ice.
Yeah, because you spent your formative years with Frank Kelly screaming how worthless you were as your rink-side soundtrack.
Bile made its way into my throat before I could swallow it back down. Fuck, that shit burned. Thoughts of my dad had escalated to making me physically ill—such was the weight of his presence in my life.
That’s what you get for punishing yourself on an empty stomach, idiot.
