Page 88 of From Ice to Home
“Rangers!” The enthusiasm isn’t what it’s supposed to be, but it’s what we have.
Everyone follows Mitch, grabbing their gloves and snapping helmets into place. Heads down, sticks ready, we head back toward the ice. My legs are moving like they’re supposed to, but I still can’t get my mind to fall in line.
The team deserves better, and so does my wife.
And I don’t know how to give it to them.
I toweloff and pull on a hoodie, still damp from the rushed shower. The cold air from the hallway bites at my skin as I head into the makeshift office that’ll be Coach’s home base for the next three days.
We lost against the Canucks.
We managed to scrape in two goals, no thanks to me. But it wasn’t enough to close the gap, not even enough to take it into overtime. Not enough to win.
And we were supposed to win.
Coach doesn’t look up when I step inside his office. He’s hunched over his laptop, the glare from the screen reflecting off his square glasses. The lines around his mouth are deep, hisjaw tight, like he’s willing the screen to show a different outcome than the one we got tonight.
“You have to get your head together,” he says, his voice flat and tired. “Everyone and their uncles knew you weren’t present tonight.”
I close the door behind me. The fight in me rears up, ready to defend myself. But I keep my mouth shut, because I know he has a point. My head wasn’t in it tonight, no matter how hard I tried.
“It was all fun and games when you came back from Vegas,” he continues, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes. “We teased you, gave you a hard time, but that—“ he gestures out toward the arena, “—that was unacceptable.”
Taking a seat across from him I look him square in the eye. “I know. It won’t happen again.”
What more can I say? I’m a pro-athlete for a reason. None of it showed tonight. It’s clear why people always get married in the off-season. But I didn’t have the time or the luxury to risk Hannah walking out of my life again. And it might’ve cost me the game…it might even cost me the playoffs.
He rubs his hand across his mouth, carefully assessing me. “The media’s brutal. I get that. But you can’t carry that onto the ice.”
I nod. He’s not saying anything I don’t know already. I’ve been beating myself up about it ever since the Canucks scored their first goal tonight.
“I can’t control your personal life, Walker,” he says finally, his gaze sharp and serious. “I can’t control how you handle things behind the scenes. But Icancontrol your ice-time.”
My stomach tightens. “What do you mean? Are you taking me out over one bad game?”
He lets out a humorless laugh, shutting the laptop in front of him.
“This isn’t some throwaway mid-season matchup. This is the playoffs. We don’t get second chances here.”
“I know,” I say, trying to keep my voice even despite the frustration and anger stirring inside of me. “That’s why I’m telling you, I’m committed. I’ll give you everything.”
Coach studies me for a minute. A minute that feels too long.
“I hope so. Because the version of you that skated tonight wasn’t a leader. It wasn’t the player this team’s built around. Whatever’s going on—clear it. Get your mind right. Or I’ll have to make a call you’re not going to like.”
I nod once, my jaw tight. No words will be able to fix this. All I can do is prove to him how much this means to me. “Understood.”
He reaches for his glasses before opening his laptop again, and I take it as my que to leave. The message is loud and clear. Get it together or risk losing everything I’ve worked for.
Stepping into the hallway, my heart is pounding like I just finished another period.
I need air.
The corridor’s mostly empty, except for a few trainers and interns rushing around. I head for the nearest exit and step outside, tugging my hood up against the cold. The door slams shut behind me and I fill my lungs with cold, fresh air. The Vancouver night air is sharp, clean. It slices through the leftover heat still pulsing in my chest.
I should call her.
I should pray.
