Page 3 of For the Win

He nods, skating backward.“We can work on some drills.Get you breaking for openings.Working on your passing angle.Moving into open space when the D-men move to cover a high breaking forward.”

“Okay.”

We stay on the ice awhile longer, and I agree to come back again tomorrow to work on more.

After I’m showered and dressed, I head to the players’ lounge for lunch, loading up on chicken, pasta, and a big salad with sweet potato and avocado.I’ve been here enough that I’m comfortable with all these guys.And now, Wyatt Bell is dating my sister.

Don’t ask me how the hell that happened.He issonot Everly’s type.But she seems really happy, and hell, so does he.He’s kind of a player, though, so he better not screw her over.I’d have “the talk” with him, but Everly was ranting the other day about how Dad embarrassed her with that kind of conversation, so I’m keeping my mouth shut.

After I eat my bowl of ice cream, definitely my favorite part of the meal, I head home for a nap.As I drive, I reflect more on what Coach said.

I do want to play in the NHL.I’ve always wanted it.And it’s pissing me off that it hasn’t happened.

Is he right?Do I think that because I’m a Wynn, I should get a free ride?

My dad is Bob Wynn, a hockey legend, known as the King of Hockey.I have a big family and a lot of them were, or are, hockey players, including two half brothers who now own and coach our local rival, the Long Beach Golden Eagles.My nephew JP plays for that team, and my brother Noah plays for their farm team.He’s younger than me, so that doesn’t make me feel any better that I’m not the only Wynn playing in the AHL.My aunt is the goalie coach for their farm team.My other nephew, Théo, is the GM of the Condors.

I’m pretty sure none of us got where we are because of our name, nor did we expect to.

I gnaw on my bottom lip as I change lanes on Pico Boulevard.

Home.I don’t even have my own home, at twenty-six years old.I share the rent of a house here in Santa Monica with my brother Asher.But I also share the rent of an apartment in Pasadena, because that’s where I’ve spent most of my time.Driving over an hour each way sucks on game days, so when I’m playing in Pasadena I stay there, and when I get called up, I stay here with Ash.

I park in front of the house, a two-story Spanish style with white stucco and red tile roof.It’s old, but some of it has been updated.The front yard is full of drought-tolerant plants instead of a lawn, a few flowers but lots of tall reed grasses, shorter fescue, lavender, sage, and spiky agave.I thought maybe we could make tequila from the agave, but apparently it’s not that easy.I haven’t given up the idea, though.

The only reason I know what these plants are is because my dad has taken an interest in gardening the last few years, and I’ve kind of gotten into it too.

Now I’m thinking about Dad, and my mood dips even lower.I’m not a worrier, I like to take things as they come, but even I’m concerned about what’s happening with him.

I pull the mail from the mailbox and walk inside.Asher’s sitting in his office, the third bedroom of the small house, typing away on his computer.

Ash never even tried to make it into the NHL.Maybe he was the smart one out of the two of us.Maybe neither of us inherited the right talent genes from our dad.Ash played hockey in college, but he was more focused on getting his journalism degree and now works as a sports reporter forPlaymaker,an online hockey blog that’s getting huge.

“Hey,” I call to him.“I’m home.Mail for you.”I walk in and toss envelopes on his desk.

He glances at them.“Bills and junk mail.Why do I get the bills?Both our names are on the lease.”

I grin.“Because you’re more stable and responsible than I am, and we don’t want our electricity cut off.”

He smiles and shakes his head.

“I pay my share,” I add, before heading to my bedroom.

I still believe in a good, long nap on game day.Part of it is probably just the routine, but whatever, if it helps I’m not stopping.It’s only about one-thirty, but my room is dark with the blinds drawn.I strip off my clothes and climb into bed naked, setting my phone on the nightstand with the alarm set.

As I lay in bed, I can’t stop thinking about my meeting with Coach.How many times have I heard from coaches that I’m not living up to my potential?It makes me nuts.I may be Bob Wynn’s son, I may have some of his talent, but that doesn’t mean I can be a god like him.

The challenge of being in the AHL is that it’s so close to that ultimate goal—and yet making it that next step is sometimes the biggest hurdle.All of us are good players.We’ve all probably been top performers at some point in our hockey lives.And then here we are, one step down from the major leagues.From being the best.

Have I let it wear me down?Have I given up the goal, subconsciously?

I won’t have too many more chances.After this season, I’ll be twenty-seven, which is the average age of an NHL player.I still feel like I’m in good shape.I take my health and fitness seriously.I’m not injury prone, like some guys.I probably have a lot of years left in me to play.But...realistically, not many guys make the permanent move from the AHL to the NHL at this age.

The one person I need to talk to right now is Dad.He’s always been my best coach, my biggest supporter.He’d be honest with me about whether I’ve been coasting, about whether I really need to work harder.He’d understand.

But right now, he’s the last person I can talk to.

My dad may have Alzheimer’s.

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