part of a team is that even when only a handful of you behave like idiots, everybody suffers.
After fifteen minutes of dynamic stretching and on-ice warm-ups, Coach Ward has gathered us at center ice to deliver his game plan for practice. He’s standing in front of the group, waiting for everyone to give him their attention—and he’s getting more and more pissed by the minute.
I shut up right away because I am well-versed in the consequences when you don’t. Unfortunately, a number of other guys are rowdier than usual, and they continue to keep talking.
And talking.
Coach Ward folds his arms, leveling an icy glare into the crowd, and the din slowly dies down.
”. . . fucking stupid.” Connor is the last one audible in the silent arena. His mouth clamps shut, and he snaps to attention like he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“All right.” Coach Ward clears his throat, shooting Connor a reproachful look. “In light of how long it took to settle down, I think we need to work on our focus today. We can start with one-on-ones in the corner.”
A collective groan sounds. Battle drills like one-on-ones are almost strictly about effort, which is why they suck. You can’t coast in a battle drill. Work harder than the guy you’re battling. Win the puck. That’s it.
“Defense, your job is to protect and keep the puck. Offense, your goal is to get possession. We’ll cycle through everyone. Show up, work hard. Let’s go.” He blows his whistle, dismissing us, and we disperse.
We toil through one-on-ones for what feels like hours while I mentally coach myself through each drill. Position before possession. Stabilize your body. Leverage your edges. Create a wall. Keep the puck. Repeat.
For the duration of the exercise, I grind my ass off, too occupied to notice what anyone else is doing. But there must be an issue with some of the other guys’ performance or effort because Coach finishes us off with skating lines; all hard stops and starts with no puck, also known as a bag skate. And by finishes us off, I mean he nearly kills us.
“That was grueling.” Vaughn coasts off to the side and pushes back his cage, taking a drink from his water bottle. He pours the rest of his water over his face, wiping his face with the hem of his black practice jersey. “Was that your bright idea, Parsons? Did you contribute to that nightmare of a practice plan?”
Drew leans on his stick and shrugs, which is as good as him pleading guilty. “You know what they say, the things that hurt are the ones you need most.”
“You’re a sadist,” I tell him.
Though in truth, if any of us are, it’s probably me. But only under the right circumstances.
A dull pain in my shoulder throbs, radiating into my upper back, a nagging reminder that something is wrong. Violet’s tape job has been gone for a few days now since the adhesive wore off, and I’m sorely missing it. I wonder again if I could convince Vi to tape my shoulder on the regular. Maybe I’d pushing my luck, but if I keep up my end of the bargain performing my rehab and stretching, I think there’s a decent chance she’ll bite.
Signature dramatic flair in full force, Connor flops onto the half-wall, draping his upper body over the boards like a rag doll. “If the bag skating at the end was your idea, Parsons, you’re officially evicted.”
“I’m on the lease,” Drew points out.
“I don’t care,” Connor mumbles, still face down. “I’ll leave your shit on the lawn.”
“Move it, Haas. You’re blocking the gate.” I jab him in the leg with the blade of my stick. He grunts in response but makes no effort to move. “Don’t make me spear you.”
In theory, I could get past without him moving. I could simply hop the boards, like we do all the time. But in reality, I’m way too fucking tired to do that. Connor eventually relents, and we shuffle into the dressing room to hit the showers.
As we get dressed, Coach Ward circulates through the locker room, giving individual feedback. I yank on my jeans and zip up the fly, half-listening to his comments while I speculate about what he’ll say to me.
“Solid as always, Parsons.”
Pretty fair assessment. Drew is nothing if not even.
“Haas, watch your temper in those battles.”
I stifle a laugh because Connor is a hothead at the best of times.
“Good effort out there, Banks. Nice stick lifts.”
He’s right. Vaughn crushed it out on the ice today. Our matchup was intense. I used to be able to overpower him with my size advantage, but the fucker has some good moves this year.
Coach Ward turns to me. “Richards, come see me after you finish getting dressed.”
Okay, then.
***
Leaning back in the guest chair across from Coach Ward’s desk, I scan the walls filled with championship photos while I try to figure out why I’ve been summoned. I haven’t done anything to warrant a reprimand. At least, not lately.
While a lot of athletes would be shitting pucks right now, I’m not overly concerned. Thing is, coaches fall into one of two categories: the authoritarian, which is self-explanatory, and the players’ coach. Ironically, while Coach Ward had a reputation for being intimidating—or scary, depending on who you ask—in my opinion, he’s a players’ coach through and through. He’s relatively democratic, he cares about his athletes, and he isn’t solely focused on winning at our expense. That’s why this current scenario doesn’t spark too much fear within my soul. I grew up with the other kind of coach breathing down my neck, and I know what scary actually looks like.
“Richards.” Coach Ward leans forward on his desk, steepling his fingers. “I wanted to touch base with you to see how things are going. How’s the semester been treating you so far? Are your classes going well?”
“Not bad,” I say, crossing an ankle over my knee. “Pretty demanding, as I would imagine most fourth-year programs are.”
“And how are your folks doing?”
Coach knows my father from the hockey sphere, which is a smaller world than you’d expect. He often asks about him—mostly for the sake of being polite, I think, because I’ve always gotten the impression he doesn’t particularly like my father. I don’t fault him for that. The only people who do are the ones who can’t see through bullshit.
“They’re good, Coach.”
“Glad to hear it.” He pauses. “The reason I ask is that you’ve been a little uneven lately.”
“I’m sorry, can you clarify?” I hedge, praying this isn’t about my shoulder. “Is there something specific you want me to work on?”
“Maybe uneven is the wrong word.” His mouth pulls into a frown, his expression hinting at concern. “You’re performing well. Phenomenal effort in those battle drills earlier, actually. But you seem incredibly distracted off the ice. I noticed it in dryland last week, and from what I can tell, it’s been an ongoing thing. Is everything okay in your personal life? Anything you want to talk about?”
Oh, so this is about Violet. He just doesn’t know that.
“All good.” I force myself to meet his eyes. “Same as usual.”
“Have you seen Dr. Schultz lately?”
“No, sir. Haven’t had time to make an appointment since classes started back up.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Maybe it’s time to think about that.”
***
Dr. Schultz is the Grizzlies’ team sports psychologist, but she makes us call her Marie. She’s a plump, middle-aged woman with long graying hair, a soft-spoken voice, and an even softer temperament. Even though her job title contains the word “sports,” hockey-related topics only consume about half of our fifty-minute sessions at the most.
At Coach Ward’s instruction, this is my first appointment back this school year. Long overdue, thanks to my hectic schedule. And, well, my avoidance of therapy.
I sink into the overstuffed navy-blue couch in Marie’s office, clutching an extra-large coffee to power me through until I need to drive Violet home later. We’ve fallen into a routine of sorts on days when we both happen to be on campus after-hours. I meet her in the training room, we walk to my car, and I drive her home. As an added benefit, I’m able to better focus on my schoolwork when I’m on campus waiting for her. There are too many distractions at home, like Connor constantly trying to rope me into getting wasted on a weeknight.
Because of this arrangement, I end up staying late more often than I otherwise would—as in, every time Violet does, except when I have a game or practice. But she doesn’t need to know that. It’s a small price to pay for the peace of mind it grants me. Being with her is the highlight of my day. Twenty fleeting minutes where we get to be alone without the pressure and prying eyes of everyone else.
Marie rifles through a stack of yellow-lined papers, checking her session notes, and pulls out her blue pen, ready to jot down more on a fresh legal pad. “Last time we spoke, you said your mother’s birthday was near the end of August, correct?”
“August twenty-third.” I swallow, trying to squash the sour feeling brewing in my gut.
“Did you do anything to commemorate it?”
Guilt uppercuts me in the ribs, followed by a heavy, lingering sorrow that fills my entire body. “No.”
She nods, marking something down. “Have you been to see her lately?”
“You mean, to her grave?” I haven’t been there in months, and I feel like a shitty son for it, but the ugly truth is, it never gets easier. It never hurts less. And sometimes it’s easier to stop picking at the scab, even if that makes me a selfish asshole.
Marie peers at me over her wire-rimmed glasses with what I’ve deemed “her therapist look,” an inquisitive but encouraging expression meant to rope you into talking. “You used to refer to it as going to see her. What’s changed for you?”
“Why does everything have to mean something?” Fucking therapy.
“It doesn’t have to,” she says neutrally. “Does it mean anything? Maybe it doesn’t.”
I don’t know the answer to that, which is often the case when I’m perched on this goddamn velvet couch.
“I’m not sure.” Taking a sip of coffee, I look out her office window at the quad below, watching students mill about the leaf-covered grass.
While hockey is the primary source of my stress, it’s also my outlet for it. I cope with the pressure by beating the shit out of myself on the ice and in the gym six, if not seven, days a week, until I’m too tired to think about anything else. Then I collapse into bed and do it all over again the next day.
When that was no longer an option because of my shoulder injury last year, it was like a massive part of my life had been ripped away suddenly. I was lost. After a few weeks of stumbling from class to class like a zombie, with the grades to show for it, Coach Ward said he was concerned that I might be depressed and recommended I see the team’s sports psychologist. And by “recommended,” I mean that he said I had to get some help, or he was kicking me off the team.
I fought this suggestion because I wasn’t sad like I assumed a depressed person would be—I was numb. Plus, I was adamantly opposed to the idea of therapy. The thought of sitting around talking about my feelings sounded about as pleasant as slitting my throat with a skate. Vaughn talked me into giving it a fair shot, and I finally relented. Once I did, vowing it would be a one-time thing, I realized it wasn’t as bad as I’d imagined. Sometimes it’s even kind of nice. It’s validating.
That’s not to say it’s easy. It sure as fuck isn’t. Some days, we talk about shit I would rather pretend never happened. Some days, it’s like holding up a funhouse mirror and seeing my ugly, distorted reflection with all its flaws. There are a lot of them.
“Let’s shift gears for a minute,” Marie says. “How’s hockey going?”
“Hockey is fine. Training, not so much.” See? Her therapist look worked on me. I almost spilled about Violet without even meaning to.
She pauses, glancing up from her notes. “Can you elaborate on that?”
“Do I have to?”
“This is your time. You never have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”
Somehow, this tactic of hers always makes me feel guilty. I don’t think that’s the intent; I’m just not used to being given many choices outside of these four walls.
“Can we circle back to hockey?” I ask, shifting my weight on the plush couch. It’s a little too comfortable, making it tempting to lay back for a nap. Fuck, I need to start going to bed earlier. “That’s why Coach sent me here. Said he thinks my focus is off.”
“Absolutely. We can work on some coping strategies. Why do you think your focus is off? Is something bothering you?”
Another sip of coffee masks my reaction. Dammit fuck! I’m fighting tooth and nail not to open the Pandora’s Box that is Violet in this session. I’ve managed to skate around that topic with Marie for the better part of a year without getting into it, and I’m not eager to change that now.
“Stress in general. Can we work on some ways to compartmentalize it?”
“It’s a little easier if I have some more background first.” Marie’s pushback is firm, but gentle. “How are things with your father? Is he a part of this stress?”
Despite Marie’s coaching and undying patience, I have yet to set boundaries with my father like she’s repeatedly suggested.
That means this is a question that’s easy to answer honestly.
“He’s always a part of the stress.”
