Page 24 of Puck Me Back to Life

The problem is that Hayes keeps finding ways to occupy space inside my head. When he's quiet, I wonder what he's thinking. When he smiles, I find myself wanting to see it again. When somebody takes a shot at him, I immediately want to put them through a wall. Those feelings should probably concern me. Instead, I spend most of the afternoon pretending they don't exist.

The strategy works right up until film review.

The entire team files into the meeting room after practice. The lights dim. The projector turns on. Opening-night footage fills the screen. And despite everything Dante just said, my attention immediately drifts toward Hayes.

This is deeply unfortunate for my argument that I don't have a crush.

Hayes is sitting near the front again in the same seat he always chooses. Notebook open.

Pen ready.

I settle into my chair. Coach starts talking as he starts the footage. And once again, I find myself paying far more attention to Hayes than I do to hockey.

The film session is supposed to be routine. Every team does them. Coaches pull apart games frame by frame, identifying mistakes and highlighting things they want repeated. Most players tolerate them. A few enjoy them. Dante spends the first ten minutes whispering complaints beside me as though Coach personally designed the exercise to ruin his afternoon.

The room is dark except for the glow of the projector. Most of the team is spread throughout the rows of chairs with coffees and notebooks balanced on their knees. The game looks different on film than it felt on the ice. Everything seems cleaner. Faster. The crowd noise is muted beneath commentary from the coaching staff. Mistakes stand out more clearly. Good decisions look obvious.

About twenty minutes into the review, one of the assistant coaches pauses the footage on a play Hayes created in the offensive zone.

“Right here,” he says, pointing at the frozen image on the screen. “This is excellent patience.”

The clip runs again.

Hayes draws a defender toward him, waits half a second longer than most players would, and threads a pass through traffic.

The coach nods approvingly. “This is elite vision. Not many guys make this play.”

Most players would enjoy hearing something like that. Hell, most professional athletes live for moments like that.

Hayes lowers his eyes to his notebook. “Thank you, Coach.”

His voice is polite. Completely empty.

The coach moves on. A few minutes later another clip appears. Another positive play. Another compliment. Again, Hayes thanks him. Again, it sounds like he's apologizing for existing.

The more it happens, the more uncomfortable I become. Because this isn't false modesty. I've seen athletes do that before. They smile awkwardly, shrug off praise, then secretly enjoy every second of it.

This isn't that. Hayes genuinely looks distressed. Every compliment seems to tighten something inside him. His shoulders grow stiffer. His posture closes off. His eyes stay fixed on his notebook whenever attention lands on him.

The reaction is so strange that I stop paying attention to the film entirely. Instead, I find myself watching him. There is a difference between somebody who dislikes attention and somebody who believes they don't deserve it. I think Hayes falls into the second category.

By the end of the session, I'm no longer surprised when the assistant coach highlights another one of Hayes's plays and calls it exceptional. The surprising part is the look on Hayes's face afterward. Most people glow when they're praised. Hayes looks like he's being punished.

I find Hayes sitting alone in the cafe area. That part isn't unusual. The guy spends more time by himself than anyone else on the roster. If the team is eating together, he's usually at the edge of the group. If the room is crowded, he somehow finds the quietest corner available.

What catches my attention is what he's doing. He's reading. Not scrolling through his phone. Not watching game footage. Actually reading.

I grab my tray and walk over before I can talk myself out of it.

Hayes glances up when I sit down across from him. For a second, he looks surprised. Then he notices I'm looking at the book in his hands.

“The Count of Monte Cristo?” I ask.

His eyes drop to the cover. “Yes.”

I stare at him.

“You read that for fun?”