“Coach,” Tyson tugs at my sleeve, “why are they winning? I thought you guys were really good.”
Out of the mouths of babes.
“They are good,” I say weakly. “Sometimes... things happen.”
“What kind of things?” another kid asks.
Brody skates over, supposedly to grab water, but really to join the roasting session. “Oh, you know. Sometimes players get... distracted.”
“Distracted by what?” Tyson asks with genuine curiosity.
The guys exchange looks. They want to destroy me, but they can’t exactly explain to a ten-year-old that their coach just had his brain melted by a woman’s voice.
“By... the crowd,” Varga says carefully. “Sometimes the crowd can be very... loud.”
“The crowd’s not that loud,” observes one of the kids.
“Some players have very sensitive hearing,” Rodriguez adds, fighting back a grin.
I glare at him. “Don’t you have a game to play?”
“Coach benched me too. Said I was laughing too hard.” He leans closer, lowering his voice. “Dude, you passed the puck to our goalie. Directly to him. He didn’t even have to move.”
“It was a mistake.”
“It was art. Pure comedy gold.”
The firefighters score again. 5-0.
“This is getting embarrassing,” one of the kids says.
“For who?” Brody asks innocently.
“The firefighters,” the kid says seriously. “I feel bad for them. It’s not fair.”
Rodriguez chokes trying not to laugh. “Yeah, really not fair at all.”
“Coach Barrett looks mad,” Tyson observes, and he’s not wrong. Barrett is pacing behind the bench like a caged animal.
“He’s just... passionate,” I say.
“Is he mad at you specifically?” another kid asks with the brutal honesty of children everywhere.
“Why would he be mad at Coach Dex?” Tyson asks, defending me with touching loyalty. “He’s the best player on the team.”
The silence from my teammates is deafening.
“Usually,” Varga says finally.
“What do you mean usually?” Tyson’s getting that worried look kids get when adults start acting weird.
“Nothing, buddy,” I say quickly. “Captain Varga just means everyone has off days.”
“Is this an off day?”
“Very off,” Rodriguez mutters under his breath.
The final buzzer sounds on the most humiliating loss of my professional career.
