Page 3 of Like A Daydream
He can’t even walk down his driveway to get his mail because people have practically camped out at his gate, waiting to harass him as soon as he shows his face. His driveway is almost a quarter of a mile long, set back away from the road, and now that this has happened he doesn’t hate it the way he used to.
No one offers him a greeting, and he doesn’t give one in return, just pulls his locker open and starts taking his gear out piece by piece. Helmet, gloves, pants, socks.
Wondering with each one if this will be the last time he gets to be here. In this room, with people he genuinely loves.
Coach Landry steps through the door and the low rumble of conversation that had started comes to a stop. Landry had been in the NHL for almost twenty years before stepping into a coaching role, and there had been rumors that he’d gone full WWE on a teammate with a chair in the locker room when he’d played.
When he stepped into the room, you paid attention.
Andrew turns, sits on the bench, keeps his head down as Coach starts to talk. His teammate, Mikhail Petrov, settles in the free space on the bench next to him, and Andrew can feel his Alternate Captain’s eyes burning a hole into the side of his face.
“You good, Drew?” He asks, voice quiet.
“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Andrew replies, leaning down to zip his bag closed. Petrov is one of his best friends on the team, and Andrew can’t even facehim.
“We played a helluva season,” Landry starts, “we had a lot of ups and downs, and obviously it didn’t end the way that we wanted to. That being said, we have next season to look towards, not losses to look back at.” He looks around the room before he continues.
“That’s the most important thing,” he says, “We look forward, and support each other. It’s already been a tough couple of weeks but it’s going to get worse, for you as a team and as friends, before it gets better. It can make, or break, you all.”
Andrew feels eyes on him and he shrinks back on the bench. Maybe if he makes himself as small as possible, they’ll forget he’s even here.
Hard to do at 6’3 and 235, but he can try.
These guys are his friends, but he’s never felt less of a part of the team than he does right now. He doesn’t think he’s bringing that on himself, either.
He plays with the braided leather bracelet he wears on his left wrist, fidgeting with the clasp, spinning one of four metal beads that are on the cord. His numbers from high school, college, the Olympics, and the NHL are engraved on the beads.
Anything is better than looking at the disappointment on his team’s faces, and the questions that are in their eyes.
Is he even the right man for the job of Captain? Can he lead the team to wins in the new season? Is he going to be able to hold up under the pressure and scrutiny? How often are they going to get to the finals again?
He breathes slow, in for seven, out for seven, and looks back up at Landry.
“You have a responsibility to yourselves and each other to not let what’s happening out there –” he points to the door “—effect what’s happening in here.” He taps his temple before continuing.
“Get some rest. Heal. Recover,” he says, speech coming to a close. “Blow your salary on surgeries, do yoga, pet a horse, get a dog, go to Dubai. I don’t care, just be ready to go in two months. Got it?”
“Yes, Coach,” the team echoes.
Andrew doesn’t say anything, just fidgets with his bracelet, pulls his hat lower over his eyes.
“Fisher, I want to see you in my office.”
His stomach drops somewhere around his feet and he stands. Eyes follow him as he leaves, bag over his shoulder, and he walks down the hall. His heart is thundering in his chest as he takes one step after another until he hits the office.
Landry is already seated at his desk.
“Sit,” he says, “and close the door.”
This is it.
His career is over.
He’ll be traded in the off-season and go to a different city. If any team would want him now that he’s cost another the Cup. Maybe he should talk to his agent and see if free-agency is on the table. Or retire. He’s thirty, practically geriatric by NHL standards. That’s an option, probably a better one than whatever Landry is going to say.
Andrew shuts the door, sits, folds his hands in his lap to stop his anxious shaking.
“We need to have a conversation,” Coach says, folding his hands on the desk in front of him. Andrew can’t get a read on him, Landry’s famous poker face in play, and his pulse jumps.
