DISTANTLY, I hear the referee’s whistle. Feel the arms of someone pulling me back. The UConn guy gets in a shot, knocking my helmet askew as he connects with my mouth, before we’re hauled away from each other. I poke my tongue at the corner of my mouth and taste copper.
Guys chirp at each other all the time, and there’s no way he could have known he was touching such a sore subject.
But I know, and I won’t fucking stand for it. Even if it means dealing with Coach Ryder’s anger.
His eyes are blazing when I make it to the bench. He scrubs his hand over his clean-shaven jaw. The buttons on his shirt look like they’re about to pop off. For half a second, I’m convinced he’s going to chew me out right here, but then he shakes his head. “I want you in my office.”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
I hold my head up as I walk to the locker room. I even keep my shit together as I unlace my skates and take off my gear, piece by sweaty piece. The team files in around me, hushed in their talking even though we got the win. A bunch of the guys hit the showers, but I know Coach means he wants to see me now, not after I’ve washed the grime of the game away.
I catch sight of myself in a mirror. I look like a wreck, my hair flopping into my eyes, blood dripping down from my lip into my beard. I pick up my stick and crack it in half right over my knee, then throw the pieces onto the floor. Behind me, someone coughs.
Fuck.
I don’t regret defending Evan, but I hate that Mr. “Yo Mama” Douchebag baited me into taking a real swing.
I knock on Coach’s door out of habit, even though he’s still out with the team, and sink into the chair in front of the desk.
When the door opens, I don’t look up. Coach’s disappointed face is just like my dad’s, and I see that often enough.
I hear him settle into his chair. He leans back, and the chair creaks in the silence. He clears his throat.
“Callahan,” he says.
That makes me look at him. That’s a difference. Dad says my first name, Cooper, but here, I’m Callahan. I’m the name stitched on the back of my purple-and-white McKee sweater. It’s my family’s name, but at least on the ice, it’s only mine. Dad and James can have it on the football field, but I’ve never been comfortable there. My adopted brother and best friend, Sebastian, can choose to wear it on his baseball jersey. The ice is all mine.
He sighs. “Late, sloppy, and short-tempered. You promised me different.”
I swallow. I deserve to hear what he’s saying, but it still stings. “I know, sir.”
“Want to explain what happened?” he says. “Because Bell won’t stop babbling, and I love that kid, but he doesn’t make a lick of sense when he’s all worked up.”
I bite my lip, accidentally digging my teeth into the cut. I hold back a wince as I look at Coach. “That guy was talking shit about his mother.”
Coach’s mouth twists. “Fuck.”
“I know we agreed no fighting—”
“We didn’t agree,” he interrupts. “I gave you an order, which you were supposed to follow. And you didn’t.”
“I couldn’t let him get away with it.”
“So you retaliate in a way that won’t lead to penalties.” He pinches his nose, shaking his head as his eyes close. “You’re lucky it happened in a game like this, because I managed to keep you eligible for the season opener.”
He looks at me, working his jaw. When he raises one eyebrow, I just stare back at him. I know he’s expecting an apology, but I’m not about to give it. Not for defending my teammate. Truthfully, I didn’t even think about whether the fight would lead to a suspension until this very moment.
Another mistake. Another slip in the opposite direction; down the mountain rather than up to the summit.
“Someone needed to shut him up,” I say eventually.
He stands, turning to look at a photo on the wall behind his desk. The photographer captured the exact moment his team realized they won the Frozen Four—the excitement, the joy, the sheer fucking relief to have made it to the top of that mountain. I want that to be me, just in royal McKee purple instead of crimson, waving the cup up high.
And that’s before I get to the NHL and I’m raising the Stanley Cup, of course.
“I want you to be captain,” he says.
Of all the things I was expecting him to say right now, that wasn’t at the top of the list. I wasn’t sure it would even be on the list anymore.
“Sir,” I say, smoothing out my sweatshirt and sitting up straighter. “I…”
“Of course, I can’t do that if you’re going to get yourself thrown out thanks to fighting penalties,” he says. “Or if you’re going to play like crap. You have the potential to be the leader of this team, Callahan. I want you to be. You have the hunger.” He points to the photograph. He’s right in the middle of the huddle of Harvard players, recognizable even over twenty years in the past, the ‘C’ on his jersey shining like a beacon. “If we go anywhere this season, it’ll be thanks to you.”
I swallow down the emotion threatening to show on my face. It’s one thing to know you’re talented and another to hear it put so plainly. Captain. I’ve been trying to make my case, of course, but I didn’t really think it would happen this year. When last year’s group of seniors graduated, it really weakened the team, but there are still a few talented upperclassmen.
“But I’m just a junior,” I say. “What about one of the seniors? Brandon or Mickey? Brandon’s the center.”
He shakes his head. “If it’s going to be anyone, it’ll be you. But you need to earn it. Do you understand? No more fighting. Keep your head down and focus on your game.”
I nod. “Got it.”
Anything for that ‘C’ on my sweater. James was the de facto captain of the football team last year, and now he’s leading the offense for the Philadelphia Eagles. It’s not a direct comparison, considering how different football and hockey are, but two seasons as captain—hopefully of a Frozen Four finalist team—will help build my case for the NHL and the nice rookie deal I’m hoping to scoop up.
“I have an idea that I think will help,” he says. “You know the rink in town?”
It takes me a moment, but then I picture it in my mind. Moorbridge Skating Center. It’s downtown, near the arcade. James and I went there last year with his girlfriend, Bex—now his fiancée—to teach her how to skate. “Yeah.”
“The owner, Nikki Rodriguez, is looking for help. They have skating lessons, that sort of thing.”
My excitement sours; I can see where this is going. Everything costs something when it comes to Coach Ryder. “And?”
“And I think you’d be a perfect volunteer. You’ll go, starting on Wednesday, to help with the lessons. There’s a junior ice sports class that meets every week.”
I bite back the urge to tell him that honestly, getting laid would probably be a better route to stress relief. “To help… the kids?”
“You were their age once, finding your passion for skating and hockey. Help teach them how to unlock that. I think it’ll help you find some patience.” He claps my shoulder. “Which you’ll need if you’re going to be my captain.”
“I can’t,” I say. “I don’t even—”
“Son, listen.” He leans back against the edge of his desk, crossing his arms over his chest. His gaze is sympathetic, but that does nothing to undercut the intensity in them. “Not to use the obvious metaphor, but the ice? It’s thin. Either you do this and get your head on straight, or the next time you lose your temper, however justified, you’ll leave me no choice but to bench you.”
