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Both of my eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. “Kids?” I look from my coach and then to Tom. They both look apprehensive about the idea too. “What makes you think that me working with children would be a good idea? I don’t even like humans that are fully grown.”
Max raises his hands in front of him like he’s shaping a T.V. Screen for us. “Big, tough hockey player, skating around with cute little kids in their hockey gear.” He splays one pampered hand across his imaginary T.V. An imaginary title I’m guessing. “Mitch Anderson: angry grizzly turned cuddly teddy bear.”
I really do roll my eyes this time.
“Take this seriously,” Tom says in a commanding voice.
I look over at him and see he’s got his arms crossed in a defensive pose. “Coaching youth hockey? When I clearly have a temper? Are the parents even okay with this?”
I’m pulling out all the excuses, hoping they’ll let me out of this. Honestly, any youth hockey kid—or parent for that matter—would probably jump up and down at the idea of an NHL player coaching their kid. Sure, I got in a fight and gave someone a concussion—accidentally—but a certain degree of fighting is expected from us. It’s part of the entertainment. Or so I’ve heard.
“It’s already decided, Mitch,” Tom says, clearly unamused by my attempt to get out of this.
Coach Young pipes up from where he stands beside me. “You have the time, and it’ll give your… reputation… some positivity.”
“Who knows, maybe you’ll end up loving it!” Max says a little too cheerfully. Everyone in the room gives him the same unconvinced look and his smile falters slightly before he steels himself again. “Well, you start tonight. I emailed you the information and schedule. So, let’s try to have some fun with it!” Max pats my arm as he walks past me and out of the room without another word.
The shock and outrage that bubbles up inside of me like a volcano about to erupt reminds me why I should never be trusted to coach children. “Tonight?!”
Tom has the wherewithal to grimace at springing this all on me at the last minute. “I’m sorry we didn’t give you more warning, but the assistant coach’s wife went into labor early and the opportunity arose rather… suddenly.”
My head swivels to look at Coach Young, hoping a miracle will happen and he’ll come to my rescue. Coach puts his hands out in front of himself, like I’d rush over and attack him. “It was Max’s idea!”
I grit my teeth then shout an expletive I’ve been holding in. It only briefly releases the tension I feel, unfortunately. And now all the men in the room are eyeing me with caution in their eyes. Once again, it feels like my molars might crack. Just like my sanity.
Dr. Curtis chuckles, he’s the only one in the room who still seems perfectly calm, and surprisingly, that makes me feel a little better. At least one person doesn’t think I’ll rip this room to shreds like some kind of ogre. “Mitch, I think coaching will help you develop entirely new skills… like building relationships.” He doesn’t flinch at the scowl still on my face, but continues, “And it will give you the opportunity to work on practicing control. I have several breathing exercises to help you, we’ll discuss this more in our session next week.”
When I don’t respond, Tom clears his throat. “Alright, well, this was fun. But I have calls to make and a team to manage. So enjoy your first coaching gig, Mitch.”
* * *
“Do you two have to follow me so closely?” I ask the photographer—Max’s lackey—and Max, who are both trailing right behind me as I walk inside the ice complex.
Between two near-strangers tracking my every move and photographing it, as well as the emotions swirling around inside of me, all of my senses are heightened. And not in a good way. The fabric of my clothing feels too tight, my skin feels too itchy, the sounds inside the building are too loud, and the taste in my mouth is sour. Everything is too much as the memories of my youth hockey days fly through my mind. Some of them are good, because hockey was my break from my home life, but a lot of them… not so good.
The sour taste in my mouth is making my stomach queasy. Youth hockey was what kept me going when I was a kid, kept me motivated and gave me something positive to cling to. But this place also brings back the bad childhood memories, like when my mom left and my dad went into a downward spiral. It takes me back to late nights after practice, when Dad didn’t show up, and my coaches would take turns driving me home. Until child protective services were finally called. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, willing those conflicting memories away so I can focus on this stupid assistant coaching gig.
Whatever I need to do to get back to playing. That’s what I’ll do.
“Sorry, Mr. Anderson. We’ll try to stay out of your way,” the photographer says, his voice shaky like he’s nervous. “You won’t even notice we’re here.”
I breathe out a low laugh, but there’s no humor in it. We enter a large room with benches where people can sit to put on their gear and lace up their skates. A light-haired man, probably not much older than I am, bursts through the door that must lead to one of the ice rinks. He’s already in his coaching uniform, navy blue pants and a matching jacket with the team logo on the chest (which is, unfortunately, a wombat holding a hockey stick), and wearing a hockey helmet for head protection. And, of course, his skates.
“Mitch Anderson,” he starts, grinning widely. “It’s an honor to meet you. The kids are stoked to work with you!”
I dip my chin in response, not knowing what else to say, since I don’t even want to be here.
“I’m Aaron.” He extends his hand before realizing his padded hockey gloves are still on. He removes one, chuckling.
I shake his hand. He already knows my name, so I give him what I hope is a friendly grunt.
“A man of few words!” He laughs again.
Aaron laughs a lot, apparently. It’s annoying.
“Your uniform is in the locker room.” He points to the far left wall. “I’ll let you get suited up and then meet you on the ice.”
After quickly ducking into the locker room and changing, I’m now wearing the same uniform as Aaron. Dorky wombat included. Definitely not NHL quality, but I’ve had worse. The embroidered wombat on the chest is stiff and uncomfortable. Who would choose a wombat for the mascot? Why not something intimidating… like a dragon. At least I have my own skates, Aaron probably would’ve given me some with wombats on them. Max and the photographer take a few photos of me in front of the Washington Wombats banner with my uniform before I head into the arena.
