Page 60 of The Home Grown
I can feel it now—the bubbling anxiety in my stomach as I stood waiting to be called inside the head’s bland, burgundy-walled office. I always remember wondering who in their right mind would pick that shade of wall paint. That, coupled with the freezing temperature, made for a bad time—just like now.
The same dread as I follow Coach Harris out of the dressing room and into the tunnel—and just like the thirteen-year-old me, I brace myself for a verbal beating on the basis I’ve done something wrong.
I’m like a compressed spring.
Is he gearing up to tell me to go home? Does he want me to give him a full rundown of the online activity? I can’t be sure. I half expect him to lead me to his office or something, but he doesn’t. He leans his shoulder against the wall directly outside the dressing room and sets his eyes on me, a neutral expression on his face that’s unreadable.
“Betts—how are we feeling?”
He sounds casual and airy—and it feels … I don’t know … off?
All I take from it is the clarity that this isn’t just a friendly chat.
I clear my throat.
“Good, thanks, Coach. Ready for today.”
He nods before straightening up, the logo on his baseball cap eye-level with me.
“I’m glad to hear it. I’ve had my eye on you for several seasons now. Tell me, what changed for you this year?”
I shift my weight, trying to keep my knees bent slightly so I don’t tower over him too much.
“Focus, Coach. And a captain set on giving me space to guide and support our rookie D-man. It was a change that made me see things a little differently—it inspired me to do better. Lead by example.”
Coach watches me, his expression unchanged, and I wonder if he’s seeing through my bullshit—though it’s not bullshit at all. Johnnydidhelp. Johnny made a difference. And I’m not lying when I say Cap is the reason that I’m standing here today.
After what feels like an eternity, he nods.
“Look, let’s cut to the chase here. Your stats don’t lie. I know a good defenceman when I see one—and I know a great defenceman when I spot one of those too.
“My gut feeling is you’re my guy. You’re strong, gritty when you need to be, you’re careful with the puck—and you can read the play well too. I’m impressed by your ability to shut down one-on-one situations—not to mention your shot blocking.
“But I won’t keep blowing smoke up your ass. We both know this isn’t all about hockey. The off-ice stuff is just as important as the work you put in out there.” He gestures towards the ice. “But all this crap online? I’ve seen it before—a little gossip taking on a life of its own, and before we know it, it’s affecting your game.
“I want your skills, but I need someone who’s committed. Stable. Dependable. Not easily distracted by all that stuff. I need someone who can show me he’s dedicated. I don’t need a wannabe star who’s only after a good time and thinking with his…”
My pulse thumps in my ears.
What can I say to that?
His expression remains unchanged, and I dig deep to figure out the correct response … I need something that will re-enforce my commitment. I need to tell him something that will give him confidence in my loyalty. I need…
“I get it,” I say. “Honestly, I do—” I bite my lip, weighing my next words carefully.
The silence that hangs between us is palpable. I’m about to give him some crap about my ongoing commitment to the ice, but that’s not what he wants to hear. I can feel it. It’s obvious.
“I—” I swallow, and before I can stop myself, it’s out. “My wife isn’t overly impressed with the stuff online, either. We’re trying to tune it out and focus on what matters.”
My words seem to float in the air. I can almost see them, like a string of letters moving in slow-motion from my mouth to his ears.
My wife.
What the fuck did I just say?
The neutral expression he’s been hanging on to since we left the dressing room threatens to change. The left side of his mouth twitches, then he sort of half-smiles before breaking out in a full-blown grin.
“Wife? I didn’t know you were married, Betts.” His eyes brighten as he beams at me. “Lopez said you were between relationships or something. I mean—I didn’t?—”
