TYLER
“Focus, Tyler!” My goalie coach’s yell reverberates through the empty arena.
Winter break with my family in Los Angeles hasn’t been much of a vacation. I’ve spent almost every day getting my ass kicked, and I’m about to hop on a plane back home where I’ll do it all over again tomorrow.
Giving my head a shake, I reset my position and wait for him to shoot. Mark has been running me through this puck tracking drill what feels like a fucking eternity. Shot-rebound-shot, over and over again. My gear is soaked with sweat, and my brain checked out ten minutes ago.
I block his next backhand, but he slips it past me on the rebound. Fuck. My molars clench, and my gaze darts over to the stands where my father and brother are watching. It isn’t that my dad will be angry if I don’t show up well on the ice—it’s that he’ll be disappointed, and somehow, that’s even worse.
Mark glides up to retrieve the puck from in the net. “Watch the shot come all the way in,” he reminds me sternly. “When it rebounds, stay locked on it, and follow it to completion. Don’t take your eyes off it even if you think it’s a routine save.”
I did have eyes on it, which is the most frustrating part. But rather than argue, I nod.
From in the crease, I watch him skate back to the top of the circle and stickhandle the white training puck while I track its every movement. It blends in with the ice, and it requires laser-like focus to separate it from the playing surface. Black regulation pucks practically glow in the dark in comparison.
The next few saves go more smoothly, and we wrap up on the rink before relocating into the fitness area for functional training. My workout is a grueling blur of one-legged squats, single-leg Romanian deadlifts, cable pulls, and side to side hurdles. I already know I’ll be hurting later, and by the time we move on to medicine ball throws, I’m tempted to lob the 40-pound ball at Mark’s head.
“Nice work.” He claps me on the shoulder, then pushes to stand. “You can take a five-minute breather before we move on to myofascial release and stretching.”
Breathing heavily, I wipe the sweat from my brow with my white gym towel. My eyes land on the far side of the room, where my father is standing with the phone to his ear. As a sports agent, he represents some of the biggest names in professional sports. It’s how I fell in love with hockey as a kid; he brought me to a client’s game when I was four, and I was immediately obsessed.
Realization hits me, and my skin prickles. If my dad was on a regular work call about someone else, he’d step out into the hall. The fact he hasn’t makes me think he’s talking about me.
My suspicions are confirmed when he waves Mark over and they huddle together. They’re too far away for me to eavesdrop, but their conversation is brief.
“What did he say?” I ask Mark as he strolls back into the stretching area.
He retrieves a black foam roller from the rack. “New York’s General Manager wanted to confirm that you were working on your puck tracking because they had some concerns about it going into Christmas.”
The fatigue weighing me down vanishes in a rush of adrenaline and worry. I was drafted by New York when I turned eighteen, and the team keeps close tabs on my performance and development.
“My puck tracking is fine.” I tip my head back, chugging my water. “It was just a fluke run of games. Bad puck luck.”
I got in my head last month and my performance went sideways for several straight games. I’m still the top goalie in the league, but it makes for a lot of pressure going into the second half of the season. If a first line forward or defenseman has a rough stretch, the worst that’ll happen is they get dropped to the second or third line temporarily. If I shit the bed, I’ll be riding the bench.
Mark gestures impatiently for me to move. “Adductors, Ty.”
Complying with his order, I position myself facedown on the mat, bracing on my forearms. Then I redistribute my weight to one side, placing the foam roller under my inner thigh.
“You can’t luck your way out of a slump,” he adds.
I hit a painful knot near my groin, inhaling sharply. “I know. That’s why I’ve been working my ass off.”
There’s a delicate balance between grinding and burning out, and I walk that tightrope constantly. I’m only human, but the team doesn’t care about that. The competition doesn’t care about that. There’s always someone who wants it just as badly, if not more than you—and if you take your foot off the gas pedal for even a second, they’ll overtake you in a heartbeat.
Once I’ve showered and gotten dressed, I find Jonah and my dad waiting for me in the hallway to take me to the airport. My mom and sister Elise are back home in Beverly Hills, and I’ve already said goodbye to them. With less than ninety minutes until my flight leaves, my schedule is tight. I’m starving, but I’ll have to wait to grab dinner until I get past security.
Dad pockets his phone in his suit jacket, giving me an approving nod as I walk up. “I rewatched some footage of your drills from this week. You’re looking sharp out there.”
“Not bad, bro.” Jonah punches my bicep. “Maybe someday you’ll learn how to do the butterfly.”
“Oh yeah?” I wrap my arm around Jonah’s neck and yank him into a headlock, rubbing my knuckles on his scalp. At sixteen and six-foot-two, he’s six years younger than me and almost as tall as I am, but it’ll be a few more years before he gains enough muscle to put up a fight. “Maybe someday you’ll learn how to skate.”
I let him struggle against me for another second before I let him go, giving him a shove. Jonah straightens with a smirk, smoothing his unruly blond hair. He’s an elite right-winger in the minors, a force to be reckoned with on the ice, and a cocky little shit to boot. If I’m being honest, I might admit the last trait runs in our family.
“You’ve been holding your stance more,” my dad notes.
I’m relieved he noticed. “Yeah, I’ve been working on it with Mark.”
Mark McNabb is one of the best goalie coaches in North America, with a mile-long waiting list and a six-figure price tag for one year of private training. I work with him on the side because Boyd doesn’t have a dedicated goalie coach. Added to all the other money my parents have invested in my career, the sum is staggering—easily enough to buy a small house. One privilege of many I’ve been granted thanks to my father’s profession.
There are downsides to my dad’s job, however. Even though he tries not to push me, sometimes he bypasses parent-mode and slips into agenting. The line between what’s best for me and what’s best for my career is perpetually blurry. I’m not sure I know the difference anymore myself.
When we step outside into the late afternoon heat, my dad’s all-black Lamborghini Urus is idling in a no-parking zone by the doors. We load the trunk with my equipment before piling in, and I let Jonah take shotgun while I sit in the backseat. Leaning back against the soft leather, I stare out the window, watching the palm trees fly by in a blur. Once in a while, I miss California, but it’s always a relief to get back to school.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my family, but they’re so picture-perfect it’s like something out of a sitcom. Famous sports agent father, dermatologist to the stars mother. Both younger siblings on the honor roll. Sometimes it feels borderline suffocating, like there’s no margin for error. One mistake on my end, and I won’t be a true Donahue anymore.
As my father pulls onto the exit ramp leading to Los Angeles International Airport, he glances at me through the rear-view mirror. “Remember what we talked about, Ty.”
“I will.”
Keep your eyes on the prize.
Hockey. Training. School. No distractions.
This year, I’ve been stricter with myself than ever. Lots of sleep. Nutrition on point. Perfect compliance with my training plan. This doesn’t leave me with much free time, which means I hardly go out and I limit myself strictly to casual hookups. No strings, no feelings, no promises. With so much else going on, I can’t offer anything more than that.
“There’s a world of difference between playing at the college level and the league.” Dad turns into the passenger drop-off zone and shifts into park, switching on his hazards. “Some of these guys get their asses handed to them in their first year playing pro. It shakes their confidence, and it’s hard to come back from. I want to make sure you’re as prepared as possible.”
To his credit, he isn’t agenting right now. He’s in father mode. There’s a protective tone to his voice, and I get the sense that he’s trying to help me the best way he knows how.
“I know, and I appreciate it.”
“You’re almost there,” he adds. “In another year and a half, all of this will have paid off.”
A knot forms in my stomach, and I swallow, trying to quell it. Other athletes would kill for the chance to be in my shoes, so what the fuck is my problem?
Deep down, I know the answer to that.
When you’ve been given the world, everyone expects you to dominate it.
