Page 40 of Changing the Playbook
“Bullshit.” Maine’s not buying what I’m selling, never has. That’s what makes him the perfect linemate.
The assistant coach’s tap on my shoulder saves me from further interrogation. I grab my stick and vault over the boards, definitely not calculating the landing to protect my right side, definitely not breathing through the shock of impact. The first few strides feel sluggish, but then muscle memory takes over.
Schmidt wins the draw clean, and suddenly we’re flying. The ice opens up before me. Their defenseman cheats toward Maine on the left wing, leaving Cooper acres of space on the right. The pass leaves my stick before I’ve consciously decided to make it—a laser through traffic that hits Cooper’s tape.
He puts it up top.
The goal light bathes everything in red.
And the building erupts.
“Beauty!” Maine slams into me with barely-controlled joy, and I lock my knees to keep from showing how the impact rattles up my leg.
Trust is a luxury I can’t afford. Not with this ankle. Not with what’s at stake.
We cycle through the celebration ritual—glove taps, helmet pats, the choreography of success—before heading back to the bench with seven minutes left in the period. Seven minutes to prove I’m not just yesterday’s prospect trying to recapture something that might be gone forever.
“Altman! Hamilton! Ready in ninety seconds!”
I drain half my water bottle in one big gulp, using the motion to test the ankle’s range of motion. It responds better now, grateful for the brief rest, but I’m still not sure about it. Part of me isconvincedit’s spent the last few months luring me into complacency before the next betrayal.
God, even my internal monologue has trust issues now.
I go back over the boards, and this shift feels sharper and cleaner. My edges bite deep, my passes snap with magnetic precision. Even Colgate’s only half-decent player can’t keep upas I shadow him around the ice, always a half-step ahead, always knowing where he wants to go before he does.
Then it happens.
The puck rims around the boards behind our net—a nothing play, routine as breathing. I pivot to collect it, and something about the angle, the torque, the way my weight shifts?—
My ankle doesn’t scream. It simply opts out.
Not the catastrophic failure from last year that left me writhing on the ice, trying not to cry in front of half the hockey world. Just enough rebellion to throw off my timing by a heartbeat.
The puck bobbles off my stick. Their center—the one I’ve been suffocating all game—pounces on it with desperate hunger. He’s alone with Rook before my brain catches up to what my body’s done.
The shot comes hard and low. Rook sprawls across the crease, pad flashing out in desperation. The puck thuds against it and deflects harmlessly to the corner, but as I coast back to the bench, Coach Pearson’s stare burns through my jersey.
“ALTMAN!” His face has gone past red into something purple and dangerous. “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?”
Twenty-two players on the bench suddenly find their skate laces fascinating.
“YOU GIFT-WRAPPED THAT CHANCE LIKE IT WAS CHRISTMAS MORNING! WHERE’S YOUR HEAD?”
I’ve played for screamers before. Hell, our last coach could strip paint with his voice. But Pearson’s different. He’s usually calm, so when his anger comes, it’s from somewhere deeper.
“ARE YOU PLANNING TO PLAY DEFENSE TODAY, OR SHOULD I FIND SOMEONE WHO REMEMBERS HOW?”
Maine shifts beside me, muttering “Jesus Christ” under his breath.
“Sorry, Coach.” The words come out raw from breathing hard. “Lost an edge.”
Then something shifts in his face. The purple drains away. He closes his eyes, and when they open again, I’m looking at a different man entirely, the same guy who was excited by my prospects this year and has thanked me over and over.
“No, I’m sorry,” he says, loud enough for the bench to hear. “That was… I let something else bleed into this. That’s on me, not you.”
“It’s fine, Coach.”
“But Mike?” He taps his temple with two fingers. “Whatever’s going on in there? Sort it out. Because we need our captain present. And there are people watching.”
