Page 70 of Changing the Playbook
“Fuck you very much, I’m making the show too.” The humor dies in his voice. “Rook?Captain? You serious?”
“Cooper’s technically sound but he’s got the personality of drywall. Kellerman’s too green. Schmidt thinks leadership means throwing huge benders…”
“So by process of elimination?—”
“Bymerit. The team needs someone who lifts morale. Someone who doesn’t make freshmen cry during bag skates.”
“Oh, so nothing like you.”
The truth of it should sting. Instead, I just shrug. “Exactly. Besides, it’ll suit Pearson’s system better—he likes his captains approachable,”
As if sensing we’re talking about him, Rook catches my eye and fires off a wink that screamswatch and learn. I raise my glass in mock salute, knowing that, once upon a time, that would’ve been me collecting numbers like hockey cards, each one a tiny validation.
Now?
The only number I want is already saved in my phone.
“Look at Captain Supportive.” Maine’s studying me with an intensity usually reserved for game tape. “What happened to the post-game roast sessions? ‘Your technique sucks, Rook.’ ‘You telegraph every move, Rook.’ ‘My dead grandmother has better game than you, Rook.’”
“Character growth. Very trendy. Might do a TED Talk.”
“The fuck’s a TED Talk?”
“Exactly.”
Maine’s knuckles crack. “So. Coach’s office.”
The beer suddenly requires my complete attention. Three long swallows. Four.
“Seriously? That’s all I get? You have a closed-door with Coach and you give me monosyllables?”
“It was fine.”
“Fine?” His voice cracks like we’re back in juniors. “Mike, if you’re in shit, if you’re?—”
“Nothing like that.” The booth vinyl whines as I shift. “He said if I keep playing like this, scouts will forget about the lost year. Like it never happened.”
Those words—like it never happened—still taste wrong. Like Coach suggesting I should be grateful for collective amnesia about the worst year of my life. Just delete those months of staring at my bedroom ceiling, counting the water stains while my ankle throbbed its own rhythm. Forget the therapy sessions where I couldn’t even say “hockey” without my throat closing up. Pretend I didn’t spend night after night on the bench, dressedbut not dressed, watching my team from the outside like a ghost at his own funeral.
“That’s… good?” Maine’s confusion cuts through my spiral. “Right?”
“Sure.”
“You sound super convinced.”
The right words won’t come. How do you explain that you’re different now without sounding like some self-help cliché? That breaking changes you in ways that have nothing to do with scar tissue and everything to do with discovering you existed as more than just your next shift?
“That year rewired me.” Each word feels too heavy for bar conversation. “Not saying I’d sign up for the ankle destruction tour again, but it changed me.”
“Jesus, you’re deep tonight. Next, you’ll tell me hockey isn’t life.”
“It’s not.”
The silence that follows could stop hearts. Maine stares like I’ve announced I’m joining a monastery or following Declan to set up a gallery in France, his beer frozen halfway to his mouth.
“OK, who are you and what kind of weird shit did you pull with my captain, asshole?”
“Still me. Just with adjusted priorities.”
