I owe Benz an apology. His clothes are still in his locker, but he’s missing. The training room, weight room, and ice baths are all empty.
My phone buzzes.
Mr. Dimon: Benz called my office asking about a trade. Before I get back, I expect that appointment will be canceled. FIX THIS!
The message doesn’t change, no matter how long I stare at my phone. I can’t believe Benz is actually considering a trade from one of the league’s top teams. He’s lost his mind.
When we figure this out, he needs to abide by the twenty-four-hour rule. We had a terrible practice and I’m to blame, but he has to learn to control his impulses.
I text Wes, asking when Mr. Dimon will return, needing the exact timeframe I have to fix my situation with Benz.
Retracing my steps, Austin Lapointe, the captain, informs me that Mason and Benz have left. The team calls him Ace because he’s the left-wing sharpshooter. He’s polite, but his loyalties lie with his teammate. My goal isn’t friendship, but these men would prefer my head on a stakeGame of Thronesstyle.
The coaches gather in their conference room, and I listen in to assess how bad the interaction was from their perspective.
One of the assistant coaches nods and smiles. Normally, that would make me feel better, but I’ve heard Mason and Benz refer to him as Coach Ass. My Canadian sensibilities do not want to be lumped in with him.
“If this was Vegas, I’d have lost all my money,” Grayson, the trainer, says. “We have a bunch of egos out there, but Benz is the absolute last player I expected to flip the double bird. He’s a lover, not a fighter.” His eyes are on me, waiting for a response.
I tip my head in acknowledgment, remaining silent.
“He told me my aura was off and suggested some essential oils and crystals to ‘realign’ me.” The unpopular assistant chuckles.
“Benz can be unpredictable, but he’s got great instincts. You can’t coach that. You either have it, or you don’t. What the hell happened out there?” Coach asks me.
Holding myself accountable is the only way to earn their trust.
I clear my throat. “I didn’t let him play his game. Instead, I provided a running commentary of how I would play.”
Coach tosses his pen in the air, and it lands with a soft thud. “No wonder the kid was out of sorts. There isn’t room in his head for another voice. I swear that kid’s thoughts are so fast it’s like he’s listening to a podcast at five times the speed.”
“I should have kept my mouth shut.” I shift on my feet.
“Probably. And he shouldn’t have gotten upset. Now you’re even. Play nice with him, and he’ll be putty in your hands.” Coach nods to the door, effectively dismissing me.
Benz as my putty elicits dirty scenarios. Thinking of molding him to my will is what got me in trouble. I thought of him as a man, not a player to mentor, and it broke the trust I’d built with him.
And my son has more reason than ever to ignore me.
If I can’t fix this with Benz, I’ll end my official association with the Enforcers and watch the games as Mason’s dad.
I should have done that from the start.
My ego got in the way.
The New York crowd has come out in droves to cheer on their team. The rafters shake, and it’s a heart-pumping experience. Montreal has the loudest and biggest arena in the NHL, and they fill the rink with diehard fans since the ticket prices are low. The Enforcers sell lots of high-end tickets to corporations and people who view their exclusive box as a form of prestige. But tonight, the regular fans are screaming as loudly as if it were a playoff game.
Earlier during warm-ups, Benz apologized for my apartment and his behavior at practice but sped away before I could offer the same to him. He’s a master at shielding himself with other players. I refuse to interfere with his pregame ritual and decide I’ll watch the game as a knowledgeable fan from the bench. They won’t need my input.
Their opponent puts up a fight, but their bench isn’t as deep as the Enforcers. It’s awe-inspiring to watch Lucky and Drake attack the opposing team’s defense together. They seem to be two halves of a whole. They’re so in tune, their line can conquer any team.
Liska has ice in his veins, and it’s likely the game will end in a shutout.
Mason glides onto the ice with the precision of a seasoned pro. I’m struck by his skill and realize it’s been too long since I sat back and watched him play in person. The highlights show the big plays, but so much of the game is played off puck and not televised.
He unselfishly blocks for Jamal King so King can streak down the ice and get an assist. It’s hard to believe they’re new in the league with all the no-look passes between them. My son is a man, and although he achieved his goal of playing in the NHL, until now, I haven’t appreciated how hard he’s worked.
When Lucky was out on IR last year, Mason played first line. I only saw him play in Montreal, but I was calling the game. Commentating requires multitasking, and Mason did not have my full attention. I failed to prioritize my schedule to see him.