Page 63 of Changing the Playbook
“Of course, Coach.” I straighten, ignoring the fresh spike of pain in my ankle, and hoping it dies down soon.
He leans forward, clasping his hands on the desk. “I’ve been making some calls to my connections in the Midwest.”
My stomach drops. “OK…”
“The chatter about you is excellent,” he continues. “If you keep playing like you have been, scouts are going to forget all about your missed year.”
The words hit me wrong. “Oh. That’s… great.”
Relief should flood through me. Instead, irritation rises, hot and unexpected. I don’t want that year erased. Sure, there were moments when I wished I could delete the injury, thedepression, the lack of time on the ice, the way I treated everyone around me…
But that year made me who I am now.
I’m a better player and a better person because of it. My ankle will never quite be the same, but the cross-training during recovery didn’t just rebuild my strength—it taught me how to move differently, think differently, and see the ice in ways I never did before.
More than that, it changed me as a person. It led me to therapy, where I learned that feelings aren’t the enemy and talking about them won’t actually cause spontaneous combustion. It led me to my “try new things” approach that’s expanded my world beyond the confines of hockey.
It led me to a bar on a random Friday night where I met a beautiful girl.
If I hadn’t been injured, if I hadn’t been forced to grow the hell up, would I have been the kind of guy who could listen to Sophie’s fears without immediately trying to fix them? Would I have respected her boundaries when she stepped back from our kiss?
The old Mike would’ve pushed and charmed until he got what he wanted.
The old Mike was kind of an asshole.
“Mike?” Coach’s voice cuts through my thoughts, even as his eyes bore into me. “You alright?”
I realize I’ve been staring at the wall behind his head, completely zoned out. Heat creeps up my neck. “Sorry, Coach. Just… processing.”
His brow furrows. “I thought you’d be more excited. This is what you’ve been working toward, isn’t it?”
The concern in his voice catches me off guard. He actually cares about my reaction, not just my stats, which puts himworlds apart from our old coach, who didn’t give a damn about anything but wins.
“No, I am excited,” I say, forcing enthusiasm into my voice. “It’s been a long road.”
He studies me, and I get the unsettling feeling he sees right through my bullshit. But he lets it slide, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, then letting out a long sigh.
“Look, Mike. I’ve been coaching long enough to know when something’s eating at one of my players?—”
“Everything’s good.” The words come out too fast. “Just thinking about last night’s game.”
Coach’s grin returns, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Mike, you know you can talk to me, right? Not just about hockey.”
The offer hangs between us. For a wild moment, I consider taking him up on it.Hey Coach, funny story, I’m kind of falling for your daughter but she thinks I’m too complicated and also I can’t stop thinking about her even though I should be focused on hockey and what do you think I should do?
Yeah, that would go over great.
“I know, Coach. I appreciate it.” I shift again, using the movement to mask my discomfort. “Really, I’m good. Ready to get out there tonight.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he nods. “Alright. Better get to the locker room, then. Get the boys fired up.”
I leave the office and head for the locker room. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that particular shade of institutional hell that makes even elite athletes look vaguely diseased. My mind churns over Coach’s words, so distracted I almost walk straight into the roadblock ahead.
“Hey, Captain.”
Amber McKenzie.
Ofcourse.
