Page 65 of Penalty Box
I gave a nod and got back in line, jaw clenched. I wasn’t angry at him. I was angry at myself for not being able to turn my brain off. Angry that my body had shown up but the rest of me had missed the bus.
After drills, he pulled me aside.
“I keep telling you boys, practice is as good as a game,” he said. “If your head’s not in it, I won’t know the real thing won’t be any different. Hear me? This is how you book your one-way ticket to the bench.”
“Sorry, Coach. Rough morning, that’s all. I’ll pick it up.”
He eyed me like he saw right through the bullshit. Which, all things considered, he probably did. “You’re not a rookie anymore. You want to stay on my top line, you’ve got to lead like you mean it.”
“I know." I dropped my head, feeling like a kid getting shit on by his perpetually disappointed dad.
“If you know, then act like it.” He slapped my helmet as a final punctuation to his pep talk before sending me on my way.
Always direct, no fluff. He wasn’t wrong, but I felt like I was balancing on a frozen lake that was starting to crack. One wrong move and I’d go under.
“And Calder—” I turned back around. “I heard about Coach Landry. Tough draw. He was a good man, and an even better example to those coming up after him. Provided his fair share of NHL giants in his time. You’re on your way to being one of them.”
Shit. I wasn’t expecting that from him. And that made the squeeze in my chest even tighter.
“Thank you, Coach.”
Hunter came up beside me as we lined up for the last set of drills. “Landry was your coach. Sorry man.”
“We all go some time.” The flippant way I put it was the only way I knew how to make it not that big of a deal. Still smarting from Coach’s words, I wasn’t ready to go deep with any of the guys.
Thankfully, he was the type who didn’t like going there much either.
“Sucks that you have to miss the funeral.”
We were mid-transition, and I came to an abrupt stop. “What do you mean?”
“It’s next week,” he said. “We’re in New York, playing the Rangers.”
Just when I thought the day couldn’t get any worse.
After the skate, I hit the showers and changed fast. My gear smelled like melted rubber and sweat, and everything under my skin felt like it might tear.
I needed air. Or maybe just a break from pretending I wasn’t unraveling.
Cass was still on the ice when I stepped back into the rink. She was up on the Zamboni, earbuds in, loose bun bobbing as she did her rounds. No one else in sight. Perfect timing.
Not perfect footing, though.
My sneakers slipped once, and I caught myself, arms flailing like a baby deer. Swore under my breath. Cass didn’t notice. She was too locked into her music. Probably some indie folk thing she’d never admit to liking.
I tried waving. Nothing.
So I kept going, arms wide for balance, sliding like a damn idiot until I reached her lane. She still didn’t look down.
“Cass! Hey!”
No response.
I jogged, well, slipped and slid into her path and waved both my arms. That got her attention.
She braked too hard, the Zamboni lurching a little, then pulled out an earbud. “Jesus, Mason. You trying to get flattened?”
“Wasn’t the plan,” I said, panting. “I knew you wouldn’t run me over.”
