Page 23 of Changing the Playbook
Scouts.
Watching.
Judging whether I still have what it takes or if I’m just another coulda-been champion with a sob story and surgical scars. Add in the fact that I’m standing here accepting praisefrom a man whose trust I’ve already shattered, even if he doesn’t know it yet, and my insides twist into knots.
“They’ll get their money’s worth,” I say, hoping confidence can paper over guilt.
One more nod from Coach, then, “Hit the showers, boys. Good work today.”
The guys peel off toward the tunnel, but I linger, taking lazy laps around the rink to cool down. The arena settles into that cathedral quiet you only get in empty rinks, just the whisper of steel on ice and the hum of refrigeration units. I pick up speed, carving hard turns that send up rooster tails of snow.
Left crossover. Right crossover.
The ankle holds steady, no wobble, no sharp reminder of ligaments that betrayed me. I push it harder, with tighter turns, really laying into the edges of my skate blades. And each successful cut unravels another thread of the fear I’ve been wearing like a straitjacket.
“Kicking the tires?”
Coach Pearson watches from the boards, having materialized like smoke from a magic trick. My heart hammers against my ribs.Jesus, did he find out? Is this where he corners me about Sophie? Tells me exactly which body parts he’ll remove if I go near her again?
“Something like that,” I say, gliding over on legs that suddenly feel like overcooked spaghetti.
“How’s it feel?” He nods at my ankle, and I realize he’s just here as a coach, not a vengeful father.
“Honestly?” I shrug. “Like it never happened. Better, even. Doc says the PT built it back stronger.”
He studies me with those quiet eyes that probably see way more than they let on. “You know, I pulled your sophomore tape. You were something else, Altman.”
The past tense stings like a face full of snow. “Planning to be something else again, Coach.”
His smile creases the corners of his eyes. “That’s what I want to hear. See you tomorrow.”
He heads for the tunnel, and I take one more lap before following him into the underworld of the locker room. The smell hits like a physical presence—eau de hockey bag, with notes of fermenting equipment, guy funk, and whatever biohazard Maine’s cultivating in his gloves.
It’s putrid and perfect.
The boys sprawl in various stages of undress. Some already trail steam from the showers, others still peeling away layers of gear like molting insects. I drop onto the bench at my stall, working my skate laces with fingers that remember this routine in their bones.
“Altman!” Rook emerges from the shower with a towel around his waist. “You were fucking vintage out there, buddy. Ankle’s good?”
“Mint,” I confirm, yanking my practice jersey over my head. “Doc says I’m part cyborg now, all titanium and determination.”
“There we go!” Rook beams like a golden retriever who just found a tennis ball. “Three solid practices in a row, Cap. We’re proud of?—”
“Rook.” Maine doesn’t even look up from unlacing his skates. “Don’t jerk him off. He’s a man with a functioning ego, not a toddler who finally shit in the toilet.”
Rook’s face shifts into something unexpectedly serious. “I’m not being condescending, asshole. I’m being supportive. There’s a difference.”
Maine shoots me a look that suggests Rook might be having a stroke. Even I’m waiting for the punchline, because philosophical Rook is like finding a unicorn at a truck stop. He’susually the loudest guy in the room, and about as subtle as a brick to the head, so this version is something unexpected.
But Rook powers on, water still dripping from his shoulders. “Maybe if we were better at actually supporting each other instead of just chirping all the time, Mike wouldn’t have gone through such a shitshow last year. So think about it, asshole…”
The words hit hard and last year floods back—the pills that made everything fuzzy, the darkness that sat on my chest like a lead blanket, the way I turned into an entirely different person. The way I tortured those around me because I was too proud to admit I was drowning.
“Fuck.” Rook’s face crumbles as he takes in whatever look is on my face. “Sorry, Mike. I didn’t mean to?—”
“No.” The word comes out steadier than I feel. “You’re right, actually. We should be better about that stuff.”
I stand, shoulder-checking Rook gently as I pass. “Speaking of support, I’m meeting my number one cheerleader for pizza. Any of you want to come?”
