It was fucking addictive.
The truth was, our training sessions had become the highlight of my week. We’d had sessions every other day, like Coach Anders had planned, and I was seeing improvements in my game. What made the difference wasn’t so much the hockey stuff, though I was learning new things, but the way Coach Anders coached. He never made me feel stupid for not knowing something, never acted like the techniques were obvious. He explained everything like I was smart enough to understand the strategy behind it.
Which I was, apparently. Who knew?
Even after that disaster during scrimmage.
Our private session the following Monday had been awkward as hell. I’d shown up expecting him to lecture me about attitude or respect, but instead, he’d picked up where we’d left off, working on the same corner positioning techniques he’d demonstrated during the scrimmage. Like nothing had happened.
“You felt the difference on Friday,” he’d said, setting up the drill. “Now let’s make it automatic.”
No mention of my defensive reaction, no reference to the argument. Just hockey.
It had taken me three more sessions to stop feeling like an idiot about the whole thing.
My phone buzzed with a text from my mom.
Mom
Mucha suerte en el primer partido de la temporada, hijo mío. ¿Te sientes con confianza?
Me
Thanks, Mom. Yeah, I’m confident. Coach says I’ve been improving.
Mom
¿El entrenador sueco?
Me
Yeah, the Swedish coach. He knows his stuff.
Mom
That’s great. Estamos muy orgullosos de ti.
She never failed to tell me how proud she was of me.
And what I told her had been true. In the few sessions we’d had, Coach Anders had taught me so much about the mental side of hockey. How to read the defense, how to create opportunities for teammates, how to think two plays ahead instead of reacting to what was happening in the moment.
“You talking to your parents?” Tank asked, pulling his jersey over his head.
“My mom. Wishing me good luck for the first game. I told her I was confident.”
“No shit. You made like five perfect passes yesterday instead of forcing shots. Coach Brennan looked like he was gonna cry tears of joy.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m serious, though. You’re playing smarter. Like, way smarter.”
Even my teammates could see it, which was a comfort. Though it stung a little too.
“You ready for this, Rivera?” Martinez called out.
“Born ready,” I shot back, the usual pre-game bravado coming automatically.
“You better be.” Martinez finished taping his stick. “Their left wing’s been talking shit about you on social media all week.”
