Coach knew he was dealing with dumb hockey players, most of whom were from North America and couldn’t find Moscow on a map, so he liked to shout things at them when they were acting like dickheads.
Things like, ‘You think this is hard? In Russia, we had to build hockey rink before we played every morning!’And other winners included, ‘In Russia, we don’t cry. Tears freeze to face, and then everyone knows you are crybaby bitch,’and ‘Oh, you want a break? In Russia, I started working at four years old. Never had day off.’
He wasn’t cruel, but it was an interesting way to show tough love.
Callahan insisted that the man would go to bat for any guy if he believed in them, and maybe that was the problem when it came to August; no one believed he could be anything more than a scary defenceman on the ice. If he tried to exceed his own expectations, he knew he would only end up disappointing himself and his team.
August’s thighs were burning so badly that he could barely make it to the bench to sit. He reached for his water bottle, choking down the bile that threatened to rise from his empty stomach.
Nothing like suicides on a Saturday morning to motivate everyone.
Someone slid to a stop on the ice in front of him, and August didn’t have to look up to know it was Coach.
“I don’t get it,” the older man said, his voice making his accent sound gruff. “You have potential to be top defenceman in the league, but you refuse to push yourself.”
August was still gasping for air, so he chose not to answer and continued chugging his water.
“I get you Cote, a kid who can keep up with your long stride and your quick passes, and I barely see teamwork. Why?”
Glaring at the floor, August fought back more bile.
“Cote spent season catching trick passes from Bracken, so now, I feel I’m wasting his potential when you continue to disappoint me, Snow. Get out of funk and put more effort into making friendship with Cote. You need bond. I know you can do better, soshowme.”
Coach said nothing else as he skated away, joining Callahan and Cote where they were bent over and gasping at center ice.
August slammed his water bottle into the holder and gripped his stick. It wasn’t like he hadn’ttriedmaking friends with Niko Cote. He certainly hadn’t been rude to the kid, but what was there to talk about with a nineteen-year-old? Cote was barely legal to drink, and he wasn’t legal when they left Canada to visit their southern neighbours for away games. What did anyone talk about when there wasn’t liquor involved?
He couldn’t even be Cote’s wingman. He didn’t know the first thing about wingmaning for a gay guy.
Maybe the real reason Coach was pissed wasn’t that August was slacking; it was because he didn’t want Cote to feel unwelcome enough that he asked to be traded. Cote was the Coach’s golden boy after all. His Willy Wonka golden ticket that he’d gotten in a trade with the Toronto Sunbursts, fresh off their Stanley Cup win, where they’d beaten the Bigfoots.
August didn’t know what dark magic had been pulled to get Niko Cote to the West Coast, but according to TSN, it had something to do with a sick family member of Cote’s in British Columbia that he wanted to be closer to. His rookie contract had ended, and he had been free to barter with whoever he pleased.
Gaining Cote had been the perfect move for their team, especially now that they were done rebuilding and getting ready to make their second big play for the cup.
And even with August not at his best, he was still a top defenceman. Cote was his ideal match, but August had separated himself from his teammates so much that he wasn’t in sync with them anymore. It was stupid to think that things could decline so fast over the summer, andnow he had to push himself to get back into the mindset he had been in during the playoffs.
Hence, the real reason for the suicides: he was playing like shit. He hadn’t connected with the team mentally during their first game, and he’d yet to earn a single point.
It was one game.One game. But it still fucking sucked.
A cheer echoed, and someone whistled from the stands. August looked up, forgetting that this was an open practice, and there was a full house of fans watching him come close to losing his breakfast.
August scowled and left the bench, gliding over ice to meet up with Cote, who was standing straight again and no longer green.
“Hey,” Cote greeted. “You good, man?”
August forced a smile on his face. “Yeah, I love this fucking job. Best career in the world.”
Cote blinked, staring at August long enough to make things uncomfortable before he shifted his attention to their captain.
Why did he even bother trying to talk?
Coach finally cut them loose an hour later, and August gladly wobbled off the ice like a newborn deer and headed for the chute. Before he disappeared into the tunnel, he made eye contact with a man in the stands, in the seat above the chute.
The guy was overdressed for a Saturday morning practice, but what really caught August’s attention was how he avoided eye contact with him. His cream-coloured cheeks pinked up when their eyes met, and then he hid his face behind his phone.
Whatever.
