Page 16 of Break the Ice
Pressure’s riding all of us. And I still tossed the Wolves game in the trash.
His stare drops to my scabbed knuckles where my fingers lace over my stomach. “What’s going on, Sylkes? I’ve always admired your attitude, but after the last game…”
A knock thuds the door. “Hey, Coach… Sylkes.”
“Connie,” Coach says, Midwestern blunt against her smooth British.
The Director of Team and Player Development—team shrink—steps in with an iPad tucked under her arm. Her quick once-over makes my gut bottom out.
“How’re you doing?” Dr. Armstrong asks, flicking a glance at Coach.
“How am I doing?” I shove my hands into my hoodie pocket and sit straighter, letting nothing leak she can pry open. “I’m fine.”
“Your knuckles?”
“Fine,” I answer too fast, then add, “Sore, but yeah… fine.”
“That’s good to hear.” Her eyes narrow as she taps and swipes the iPad like she’s filing me already.
“Eli,” Coach says, drawing me back, “when a player exhibits out-of-the-norm behavior, it raises a red flag for me. I’ve been in this game longenough to see some incredible talent, and long enough to know what happens when it’s not looked after.”
“Mental health is as important as your physical wellbeing,” Dr. Armstrong says, brushing auburn hair from her face.
No. I don’t need a head doctor in my past. In my bones.
“But I’m fine.”
“Son, you beat the shit out of Presley Tomes and then went incommunicado. You’ve stirred the media into a frenzy, showing up here with his sister…”
I hear every third word. My phone’s been buzzing nonstop since it charged enough to wake up. My brain’s sprinting through what to do with Finley during the game. I can’t leave her alone. Our parents will know where I am. Presley will, too.They will drag her away if they can.
“I don’t know what kind of revenge plot it is. But it’s not what I expect from the hardworking, focused athlete I know. So, maybe you are fine, but maybe isn’t going to put my mind at ease.”
“What?”
Dr. Armstrong leans in, studying me. I clamp my hand around the phone like it could make me bulletproof.
“I’m currently in the process of setting up a schedule for all players on the roster,” she says, careful and precise. “There’s a lot of pressure on everyone to perform and live up to the expectations of the fans and the board. It can become tiresome and take its toll.”
Coach stands and moves to the window. “It’s Connie’s job to help each member of the team, including myself, to ease some of that tension.”
“It’ll be a weekly chat to unload or even put issues that are bothering you into perspective.”
I nod.Fine. Check the box. Let me get back to Finley.Every time I clock the time on the desk, my stomach flips. The longer she’s out of sight, the tighter it winds.
“My assistant will email you the link to my schedule so you can pick your slot,” she finishes, gives Coach a tidy nod, then adds at the door, “Don’t listen to the stigma. Silence is overrated.”
The quiet after she leaves hangs dense. Coach drifts somewhere inside his own head, and I start to rise. He snaps back, pinning me with laser focus.
“You’re one of the best players that I’ve worked with, Sylkes.” His tone lightens, or maybe the praise lands where I didn’t know I needed it. “Morrow, too. The two of you together are a thing of beauty. Add the other guys… hell, I don’t think we’ve had a team this strong in forever.”
He circles back to the desk and drops into his chair. Mid-fifties and still built like a wall, silver only frosting his temples. He gathers papers into a folder and sets it before me. Complaint paperwork—our GM filing on Presley.
“A team is only as strong as its weakness,” he says.
I look up. Speechless.He actually did it.
When I close the file, he goes on, “The most optimal combination of experience and talent means nothing if discipline is lacking.”
