Page 72 of Him
“I’m trying to plan my life, which is always a fun time. So I need to know how you’re doing with your personnel shortage at the end of the month.”
He gives me a thoughtful stare. “Sit down, Canning.”
I drop into a chair feeling like a kid who’s been called to the principal’s office. And I’m not sure why. But there’s something serious in his expression, and I think I’m about to find out what it is.
“I haven’t heard you mention Detroit all summer,” he says, folding his hands into a tent. “Why is that?”
“Um. Been busy.” And you don’t want to know with what.
Pat smiles at me, cocking his head. “Not buying that. Sorry. A man who’s getting everything he wants in life can’t stay silent about it. Not even you.”
Damn it. Coach is going all head-shrink on me. “It’s… I dunno. Not quite sure how it’s going to work out, that’s all. Maybe in a year I won’t be able to shut up about it.”
His nod is slow. Thoughtful. I feel like an amoeba under a microscope. “You know I think you’re a hell of a goalie. You put your heart into it, and someone is going to notice. Even if it takes time.”
It’s kind of hard to swallow all of a sudden. “Thanks,” I manage.
“But I find myself wondering if you’re feeling it. Not everybody wants to get on that treadmill when he could be, say, coaching instead.”
Now it’s my turn to stare across the desk. “Who would hire me as a coach?”
Pat makes a show of looking up at the ceiling before meeting my eyes again. “Lots of people, Canning. You’ve been coaching your ass off here every summer since you started college. I’d be happy to tell anyone who’ll listen. And you had great stats in college. Best stats on your team. Rainier might even want you.”
It’s sort of dizzying to allow myself to think about this. Coaching? As a full-time gig? That sounds like a blast. Coaching at the college level would pay me a living wage, too. I’d just never imagined I could have a job like that.
But Pat knows people. A lot of them. All over the country. Where would I want to be?
The idea pops out of my mouth before I can think better of it. “Do you think someone in Toronto might need a defensive coach?”
Pat’s bushy eyebrows lift, but only for a split second. “Dunno, Canning. They don’t play a lot of hockey in Canada.” Then he bursts out laughing. “Lemme see what I can learn.”
I leave his office feeling lighter, even though nothing has really changed, except there’s a new idea in my head.
But it’s a hell of an idea.
It’s the Friday of parents’ weekend, so coaches have tonight off instead of Saturday because we’re required to be at a special dinner with the parents tomorrow.
When Wes and I were campers, neither one of us ever had visitors on parents’ weekend. My clan couldn’t exactly buy airfare for seven people and drop everything to watch me play a scrimmage in upstate New York. And Wes’s parents… They just didn’t bother. His father liked the fact that his son sometimes won state championship games, but if there wasn’t any way to brag about an event, he didn’t see the point of showing up. And Wes's mom? I’ve never even met the woman. Sometimes I wonder if she even exists.
As coaches, parents’ weekend means we have to show up and look attentive. Pat’s camp is funded by tuition checks from parents, and when those parents stop by, they want to be sure their kids are getting 24/7 attention.
The kids don’t really want 24/7 attention, of course. But that’s not our problem.
Wes and I are just back from the rink and trying to sort out our options.
“So tell me about this outdoor concert,” he says. “Is that what we’re doing tonight?” Wes is scrolling through his messages.
“I think the music could be okay.”
He looks up. “Says the man with boy bands on his phone.”
“That was a joke,” I sputter. “We’ve been over this.”
Wes cackles. “Tell you what—let’s make a deal. It’s been a while since I had a steak dinner. You find me a steak, and I’ll subject myself to this concert.”
“Here, man.” I pretend to unbutton my fly.
He throws a pillow at me. “Feed me, Canning. Bad local music is easier to take after a porterhouse.”
