“I’m not... I need a few minutes.”
Barrett stares at me like I just suggested we forfeit the game. “You want me to bench you? In a charity exhibition? Against firefighters?”
“Just for a bit.”
“Against guys who work twenty-four hour shifts and play beer league on weekends?”
“I know, but?—”
“Malone, these guys’ idea of conditioning is carrying hoses up stairs. Their captain works at a station that hasn’t seen an actual fire in six months. Their biggest emergency this week was probably getting a cat out of a tree.”
Everything he’s saying makes this worse. I’m not losing to elite athletes. I’m losing to guys who lift weights between emergency calls and spend their down time making chili.
“I just need?—”
“You need to get your head out of your ass and play hockey.”
But I can’t. Because every time I look up, I see Golda in the stands, and I remember the way her voice sounded when she wasn’t being careful around me. When she was being completely, authentically herself.
And I realize I don’t know that person at all.
“Bench me, Coach,” I say again.
Barrett looks like he wants to strangle me. “Fine. But we’re having a conversation about this later.”
I sit down on the bench next to Tyson, who looks up at me with the wide-eyed concern of a kid watching his hero fall apart in real time.
“You okay, Coach Dex?” he asks quietly.
No, Tyson. Coach Dex is having a complete meltdown because your mom has a beautiful voice that matches her beautiful face and I’m an idiot who can’t handle basic human complexity.
“Just taking a breather, buddy,” I manage. “Sometimes you need to reset.”
He nods, despite the confusion in his eyes. Kids always know when adults are lying.
From the ice, the firefighters score again. 3-0.
The crowd erupts. For the guys who polish red trucks.
This is going to be a long game.
“Nice pass, superstar,” Rodriguez says as he drops onto the bench beside me, breathing hard. “To the other team.”
“Shut up.”
“No seriously, that was beautiful. Really threaded the needle there.” He grins, keeping his voice low enough that the kids can’t hear the full sarcasm. “Couldn’t have placed it better if you tried.”
Tyson and the other youth players are watching this exchange with the fascination of kids who sense adult drama but don’t understand it yet.
“Everything okay, Coach Dex?” one of them asks.
“Just fine, buddy,” I manage. “Sometimes players need to... strategize.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?” Varga slides over, voice dripping with fake concern. “Strategy?”
On the ice, the firefighters score again. 4-0.
“BEAUTIFUL,” Rodriguez announces to the bench. “Really showing them how it’s done out there, boys.”
