“FIFTEEN GAMES?” I roar, standing from my seat in our general manager, Tom Parker’s, office. I glance around at the four other people in the room, my agent (what’s his face), Tom Parker (obviously), Coach Young (who’s spitting mad), and some older guy I’ve never seen before.
I look away from the group of men staring at me and my hands fly into my hair, tugging at the strands. I do the math inside my head, fifteen games divided by 3-4 games a week… that’s like five weeks of not playing. Five weeks with too much time on my hands.
“Over a stupid headache? I knew Ilya was just a giant baby.” Five days ago I was happily pummeling his face, and now I’m suspended? Ridiculous.
Tom rests on the edge of his desk, his steady, calm demeanor entirely intact. His long legs are crossed at the ankles, making his slacks ride up just enough that I can see his D.C. Eagles socks peeking out from his dress shoes.
“You gave him a serious concussion, Mitch. And you’re a repeat offender. Hence a longer suspension,” Coach Young’s voice grits out. He’s in the seat beside mine. I can tell by his voice that he’s pissed, at me, sure, but likely at the NHL’s decision too.
But mostly at me.
Attempting to calm myself, I inhale a breath, but it comes out as a growl instead. “And a fine? Isn’t the suspension enough?”
“You’re getting off easy compared to some players,” Our GM, Tom, adds, not helping my escalating temper. “But there’s more, actually.”
The man in the room who I haven’t seen before takes a step toward me. He looks slightly older than the other men in the room, probably fifty. His hair is mostly grey, and he’s dressed professionally, in navy slacks and a crisp, white dress shirt.
His golden-brown eyes penetrate my own. His stance and direct eye contact make me think of a time, I must’ve been six or seven. It was one of the days my dad wasn’t high and actually acted like a father. One of my few good memories… the day he took me to a circus. I was enamored with the lion trainer, watching how his movements were as he moved around the lion, completely calm. The lion tamer is all smooth, confident movements in front of the beast—despite the animal licking his lips—following the movements carefully before performing the trick he was trained to do, jumping through the flame-ridden hoop without fear.
This mysterious man is obviously the lion tamer. Does that make me the lion?
Tom continues, “As you know, in the week since your… incident… The Eagles organization had a meeting. In congruence with the National Hockey League, and since this is a repeat offense, we’ve decided it would be profitable…” he pauses, “for yourself, and for the team,” he clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “To see our team therapist.” He gestures toward the older gentleman in the room, the team therapist, apparently.
The doctor extends his hand, his dark skin makes his hair look even more silver up close. “Hey Mitch, I’m Dr. Curtis. Looking forward to working together.”
Staring at the extended hand, I glower. They’re acting like I’m a child. Aren’t the fees and suspensions enough?
“It was just a stupid fight,” I say tersely, ignoring the shrink and turning my attention back to our general manager. “This is hockey, not the Rockettes.”
“Actually, I’ve heard the Rockettes can be pretty cutthroat.” The doctor retorts. I glance over to see his mouth is pulled up slightly at the corners.
I don’t laugh at his joke, instead I give him a why are you still talking look. But I am a little relieved that he at least has a sense of humor if we’re going to be working together. I guess. Remembering myself, I bring my gaze back to Tom, making sure to erase all evidence of humor from my expression.
He glowers right back. “It’s not up for discussion, Mitch. Safety and fair treatment are important in this organization. You need to hone your mind just as much as you do your body. Think of therapy as a gym for your brain.”
I barely withhold an eyeroll, but I don’t argue. If I’m going to sit out fifteen games, I won’t have anything better to do with my time anyway.
My agent clears his throat. I’d forgotten about him already—I can never remember his name, it’s something a dog could be named, like Doug, or Buddy. He’s smiling at me now with that big smile on his face, the one that never looks genuine. Maybe because his eyes are so cold.
Tom nods in my agent’s direction. “Oh, and Max has a few ideas as well.”
Max. Right.
My agent always strikes me as the kind of person who’d be nice to your face, but would call you an asshole the second you left a room. He annoys me… maybe because he’s everywhere I am. At every event, and almost every game. The man would look totally harmless to anyone, he’s probably mid-forties, dressed in business casual black pants and a simple blue dress shirt. His brown hair is cut too short, which is another source of annoyance, because I know I pay the man enough money for him to get a decent haircut.
“The reason I’m here.” He brings a hand to his chest, his nails look clean and his hands soft, like he’s never worked outside an office a day in his life. “Is to help you work on your image. We know you’re a great guy, but we need the fans to know that too.”
One of my eyebrows raises, as if to ask does anyone here really think I’m a great guy?
Coach Young scoffs next to me, it’s subtle, but enough that I know he’s thinking the same thing. I’m valuable to the team for my size and brute strength… but I’m not Weston Kershaw. Pretty sure no one would describe me as a “great guy.”
“Plus…” Max rubs his fingers together like he’s holding money. “Better image, better sponsorships. And seeing as your biggest sponsor called me the day after watching that stupid fight, dropping your contract… I’d take this seriously if I were you.”
My eyes widen, reeling from the news that Advanced Athletics dropped me. I hadn’t realized the athletic wear company ended our contract. I clench my jaw. That’s millions of dollars… gone.
“Okay, so how the hell are we going to make people think I’m a great guy?” I ask Doug—er, Max, whatever.
My bluntness makes his easy facade drop for a split second, but he quickly clears his throat and straightens his spine. “As you probably know, the Eagles sponsor several youth sports teams in the district. And lucky for you, one of our youth hockey teams is in need of a short-term assistant coach.”
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.
Ignoring the gawking parents, clearly taking videos and photos on their phones, I skate to center ice where the entire team is huddled up. Max’s email said the kids’ ages range from eight to thirteen. There’s even a few girls in the mix, their braids and long ponytails peeking out from under their helmets.
Aaron is on one knee, talking to the kids, when he sees me and smiles. “There’s our new assistant coach!” He stands. “Wombats, let’s give Coach Anderson an icy welcome!”
All the kids bang their hockey sticks against the ice and laugh, except one boy in the back who looks just as annoyed by the ordeal as I feel.
“Wow, thanks.” I attempt a friendly smile. “Hopefully we’ll, umm,” I pause, I’ve never been great with words—or kids—and how do you give a pre-hockey pep talk without swearing? “Hopefully we’ll have some… fun.” The word fun comes out in a strangled sound and feels foreign as I say it.
Aaron stares at me like I’m an alien from another planet who has never spoken to children before. Have I?
Finally, he claps his hands together and looks at the kids. “Well, let’s get started!” The kids take off, already knowing which station they’re starting at.
He turns back toward me. “Tonight we separate into groups and do drills. I’m going to pair you with the most skilled kids, the ones who are part of our competitive league.” He uses his stick to point to a group practicing their stick handling on the far end of the ice. Large pads separate each section, and with a quick scope of the various groupings of kids, it’s obvious the group he’s sending me to are more well-versed than the others. They’re even wearing fancier jerseys, ones with their last names on the back.
“Alright, so what do you want me to do, exactly?” I ask as I watch the group of about eight boys skate around and shoot pucks into the net, seamlessly switching from forward skating to backward skating.
Aaron slaps me on the back, hard. “Why don’t you start with teaching sportsmanship?” He winks before taking off, leaving me to my own devices.
“Okay,” I say to myself, not understanding why we’re practicing sportsmanship with a bunch of innocent-looking, young boys.
Skating over to my designated group, a puck comes flying towards my face and I swivel out of the way just in time. I glance over at my group to find them all staring at me, smirking.
“Sportsmanship,” I mutter under my breath through gritted teeth. He gave me the most skilled kids… but also the cocky bastards of the group. Well played, Aaron.
“You gonna show us how to end up in the penalty box, Anderson?” One quips, a smirk firmly in place on his rosy-cheeked face.
The kids to his right laughs, this one has reddish hair. “Or how to get suspended?”
“Maybe he’ll teach how to give a concussion 101,” another one says.
“Shut up so we can get this over with.” This comes from the boy with dark hair, the one who didn’t participate in the stick-tapping welcome.
I swallow slowly, refusing to let a bunch of little twirps get under my skin. Noticing the flash of a camera, I look over to the plexiglass and remember the photographer and Max are watching me. I skate closer to the boys, glaring at the one with freckles before wrapping an arm around his shoulder in a vice-like grip, a warning—he’s wearing tons of padding, he’ll be fine—I force a smile toward the camera and freckles does the same.
Max looks pleased. I release the kid, he stumbles when I let go. Then I turn my back on the cameraman so I can look at the boys again. “Alright, you all clearly know who I am. So, why don’t we start with you telling me your names?”
The group snickers. “What’s the magic word?” A boy with blond hair asks, batting his lashes obnoxiously.
“Now?”
All of them cross their arms in unison, like they practiced this ahead of time. The thought terrifies me.
The freckled boy speaks first, he seems to be the leader here. “Listen,” he starts calmly. I’m taking notes from him on how to command the group. “We’ll give you our names when you’ve earned our respect.”
I feel one eyebrow arch slowly up my forehead and my eye twitches in annoyance. “Do I need to have a talk with Coach Aaron?”
The boys glance at each other, snickering. The dark haired boy remains stoic and serious, though.
Freckles is the one to respond again. “You don’t seem like a snitch to me, Anderson. Now let’s get back to practice, boys.”
I raise my voice just enough to get their attention back on me, “Okay, Freckles. That’s enough. According to my knowledge, I’m the only one here with an NHL contract, and I’m the one in charge.”
The boy with dark hair laughs for the first time, and the other boys turn to glare at him. I clap my gloved hands together to get their attention back on me. Ignoring the insolent looks on their faces, I separate them into two groups. There’s only one net and one goalie, so we’ll have to set a timer and switch offense and defense.
I give my directions and they skate into place, despite Freckles attempting to walk all over me at first. The first five minutes go pretty well, the group has good skating skills and work well together passing the puck. When we switch at the five-minute mark, everything starts going downhill. Freckles seems to be in the middle of every tussle, as well as the dark-haired kid who seemed so level-headed. I begin memorizing the last names on the backs of their jerseys, so I know who to yell at. Except Freckles, that’s now his name permanently, whether he likes it or not.
When we switch again, Freckles and the kid with dark hair, Downsby, aim all their aggression on each other instead of the other boys. They’re hooking and slashing like I’ve never seen before. It’s a freaking battle out here.
The glares I give them after their penalties aren’t working, seeing as they’re not even bothering to look in my direction. I finally intervene when Downsby, the dark-haired one, high-sticks Freckles in the neck, sending him down hard on his back.
“Hey!” I yell, skating over just as the dark-haired kid jumps on top of Freckles and starts punching him over and over. I grab him by the shoulder pads and haul him off of Freckles. “What the hell, kid?! You can’t just go around thrashing your opponents in the neck!”
My voice is booming, louder than I realized. Downsby stares at me, he’s all dark hair and equally dark eyes. Eyes so cold and hateful… and he spits… actually spits. I think he was trying to spit in my face, but since I’m so much taller, it lands on my jersey. Disgusting.
Before I can berate him… again… I see his cold eyes go wide with horror as he eyes something behind me. I turn to see a… nurse? Walking, no stomping, toward me. She’s wearing tennis shoes and she is fuming mad. As she comes closer, I notice her eyes are dark and furious like the boy whose jersey is still clutched in my fist. The blonde woman slips and lands on her butt, the boys behind me snicker until she stands back up and her angry eyes whip in their direction.
I’m so stunned by the whole situation I’m just staring at her when she finally slips, slides, and stomps her way to me. Once she’s right in front of me, she juts one curvy hip out and rests a balled up fist on it. I was wrong, her eyes aren’t furious, they’re blazing. Blondie is pissed. At me.
“Who do you think you are? And why are you speaking to the kids like that?”
I huff out a surprised laugh. “Kids?” Surely we’re not talking about the same group of disrespectful ragamuffins.
She takes another step forward and slaps my hand where it’s still gripping the boy’s jersey. “I don’t know who kicked your puppy, sir. But yelling at these boys is highly inappropriate!”
A few of the boys behind me sniff, I glance over my shoulder and see Freckles and one of his henchmen fake crying.
“You can’t be serious.” I point a finger at Downsby. “Your kid high-sticked the mouthy one in the throat. The freaking throat, lady!” My voice comes out unintentionally loud again, but she doesn’t back down.
Instead, she moves so close, I can smell her hair. It smells like a candy shop… more specifically, bubble gum. The sweet scent is a complete contrast to her pissed-off glare. She takes her index finger and stabs it into my chest, I notice she flinches slightly, like the impact hurts her finger.
She’s little, probably ten inches shorter than me even without my skates on, but there’s fire in those dark brown eyes, something that tells me she’s tougher than she looks. That she could kick my butt if she really wanted to. Something that makes me a little scared but yet makes my blood run a little hotter.
“You will treat these kids with kindness and respect. I don’t care if you’re some kind of hockey, Ice Capades, skating expert. Or whatever.” She waves one hand around when she says whatever.
My lips twitch at her words, and the fact she clearly has no idea who I am. And something tells me that even if she were aware she was in the presence of a famous professional athlete, she couldn’t care less.
