“No, Zanetti, I don’t want another apology,” Coach said long-sufferingly, leading him into his office. “What I want is for you to seriously consider if going home for every birthday, anniversary, baptism, school play, gender reveal party?—”
“I don’t go home for everything,” Sandro interrupted, dropping into the visitor’s chair. “But I hear you. Today was a close call.”
Sitting in his office chair, Coach steepled his fingers on the desk. “You’re the oldest player on this team, Zanetti. The younger guys look up to you. How do you think it looks to them if you show up late because you didn’t put them first?”
Sandro winced. “Not great.” He didn’t love being put on a pedestal for the younger players, but he’d been in their shoes, starry-eyed and practically fanboying over older, more experienced players.
“Look,” Coach said. “I know the NHL asks for a lot—I’m not blind to that—but you’ve always adapted well. And you’re one of the lucky ones who doesn’t live across the country from their family. But while you’re on this team, it needs to come first.”
That wasn’t an unrealistic ask, not in this profession, so Sandro nodded. “I’ll do better, Coach.”
“Will you?” Coach asked on a sigh. “Because you said that last season. And the season before. Frankly, it’s a miracle you’re not burned out.”
“I won’t have to say it next season, though.”
“Pretty sure you said that last season too.”
Sandro snorted a laugh.
The sandwich and the Gatorade had done wonders, as had the few minutes late in the first intermission that he’d had to himself to shake off the day. He’d gone back in for the second period with a clearer head, and when the same Undergrounder had insulted Eli again, Sandro had passed to Eli, who had sunk the puck into the net.
Payback was ever so sweet.
The Trailblazers had won 4–2, and after the day Sandro had had, it was proof that he could always turn it around.
Plus, he’d scored early in the third, so . . . there was that.
“Is there something you wanted to talk to me about?” Coach asked. “Or can I go home?”
Sandro nodded. “I wanted to talk to you about Eli.”
“What about him?”
“He mentioned that you used to coach him?”
Coach grunted and sat back in his chair. “That’s right. Bright kid. Wicked fast. Tons of talent. I’m glad we could give him a spot on the roster this year. I look forward to seeing what else he can do.”
Rubbing his hands together, Sandro debated with himself for a moment. After barely making it on time for the game, he didn’t have any right to ask anything of his head coach. But as Eli’s mentor and teammate and friend? Maybe he was about to step on Eli’s toes, but he couldn’t sit by and do nothing while Eli slowly wilted the longer the season went on.
Sandro had sat back and done nothing during Bennett’s season in Chicago, and look how that had turned out.
“You might want to rein in the tough love with Eli,” he said. “It works with some people, like Hughes, who’ll just get in your face and prove you wrong out of spite. But with Eli, the tough-love approach is going to make him feel small. Isn’t there an expression about catching more flies with honey than vinegar?”
“Gotta admit,” Coach said, “I never quite understood what that meant.”
“Hughes is the vinegar and Eli is the honey,” Sandro explained. “Like, you could shit on Hughes and he’d just shit on you back. But if you shit on Eli . . .”
Coach raised an eyebrow. “He’ll get flushed down the toilet?”
“This was a really terrible analogy.”
That made Coach laugh. “I get what you’re saying about Eli. I just want to see him succeed, you know? I know he’s got it in him.”
“I understand. But you’ll get further with him if you praise the one thing he did well rather than highlight all the things he did wrong in a near-perfect game. Trust me when I tell you that he already knows what he did wrong—we all know when we fuck up.”
“I hear you, Zanetti. Change tactics with Eli. I get it. Now can we go home or?—”
A knock came on the door.
