Page 63 of Love of the Game
“Know that,” he murmured. “Love you, too.”
The tripto the Lions training center had become exceedingly routine once I started on ice workouts. There was the off-ice portion, the talk with the team medical staff, and then skating with the skills coach. I appreciated the fact that the Lions were giving me the best care they could, since the Otters were owned by the NAPH team. They weren’t leaving me high and dry. They were doing everything they could to get me game-ready.
It was mid-September, and I’d come a hell of a long way over the summer. My shoulder felt better—almost normal. It ached at odd moments or when I moved in unexpected ways. The only issue was that I was a thirty-year-old PHL players with the skills of a PHL player. There wasn’t much that could be done to improve that. The Lions skills coach tried, as did their skating coach, and I worked as hard as I ever did.
I can’t say I didn’t get better—I did—but there was an upper limit. Still, it felt good, putting my body through the paces.
I’d gotten back on my bike, and even taken some rides with Red Dog and his crew. On highways, too. That had been fun. We’d gone to Hideaway after. Everyone at the bar was happy to see me. Felt strange, though. Like I was more of a guest than an owner. I looked over the books, but honestly, I was relieved that everything was in order and I didn’t have to do any work.
I wasn’t managing the bar, and that felt—fine. Better than my shoulder, in many ways.
I think I found the most solace in the motions of hockey, even if my body wasn’t a hundred percent.
As the Lions trickled back to Pittsburgh, a few joined us during those morning sessions, but once more players showed up, they moved on to Capitan’s skates, and the training sessions were relegated to the folks like me—rehabbing injuries.
After signing a two-year bridge deal with the Lions, Drake spent part of the summer playing in a local league with other pro players. I wasn’t cleared for contact, so I watched him play. Gave some pointers. Then his team pulled me behind the bench to play coach. It was for fun, but it didn’t stop anyone from being competitive. Our team ended up winning the cup, which was a monstrosity of a trophy crafted from a thrift-store-bought bowl badly painted with hockey cliches, and held up by a plastic elephant and some GI Joes, all on a small cardboard box spray-painted gold.
Ella, being ever so helpful, printed out the photo from social media of us on the ice with that thing and hung it up—in a frame—in Hideaway. “Jonny, you and Drake are legends now,” she’d said.
I shook my head at the memory as I stripped my gear off. Today’s rehab and skills session at the rink had been early and an official one, since training camp for the Lions had started. There were several Otters players who’d come up for camp, including Alfie and Smitty. Some of the Lions prospects, who might start down on the Otters, were also there.
It was nice to see everyone, but after the quiet of the early rehab session, the raucous locker room was a bit much,especially since I wouldn’t be training with the guys. So I caught Drake’s eye, as mimicked walking, and he nodded.
I’d come back and watch the sessions, but for now, I needed to find some quiet in my head.
The training center wasn’t empty—it never was. There were fans and hockey media here to watch camp, and kids here to play or train with their teams, plus all the parents. People ignored me. I was another guy in Lions branded pants and a T-shirt. I looked like any coach, and I was on very few people’s autograph list. The most I usually got was “You’re Gunner Eriksson’s kid!” or more recently, “Oh! You’re Drake Williams’s boyfriend!”
The former I was used to, and the latter? I liked the latter a lot. IwasDrake’s boyfriend. The other partners and spouses had even bought me a leather jacket with his number patched onto it like a riding club’s jacket.
The guys at the bar gave me no end of shit about that, but I loved it. Even wore it out with Red Dog’s club.
The training center wasn’t that big, and I found myself wandering up one hall, into the main lobby, past a gaggle of small children and their parents, and down another hallway. As I passed an office, something on one of the doors caught my attention. It looked like one of those Wanted posters you saw in Wild West movies, but this was a job posting for coaching jobs. Three of them, in fact. An opening for the center’s Learn to Skate program, another for coaching the boys 14U team, and one for the 16U girls team. I glanced over the job requirements, then crossed my arms.
I’d enjoyed “coaching” Drake’s summer league team, but real coaching? Could I do something like that?
“You thinking of a career change?” a voice beside me asked.
I jumped a little, but recognized the voice’s owner immediately. MaryAnne Charleston had won Olympic gold with Team Canada and lifted the Cup a few times in the women’s league. She was older now, with graying auburn hair, and I’d seen her around the rink as the Director of Youth Hockey.
She held up her hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just curious.”
“No, it’s just—I was lost in thought.” I gestured at the poster. “I’m not sure I have the qualifications.”
She arched her eyebrows. “You’re Jon Eriksson. You have the qualifications. You’ve played in the NAPH and you’ve spent five years as the captain of the Otters. You helped them behind the bench when they went on their cup run.”
Right. That was unusual. Someone knowing me for me. I rubbed the back of my neck. “I suppose?”
“Sorry—” She stuck out her hand. “I’m MaryAnne Charleston.”
I shook her hand. “I’m Jon—oh of course you know that. And I watched you play in the Olympics.”
She laughed. “Mutual fans, I guess. But yes, you’re qualified, and if you ever want to switch careers from a seasoned hockey pro to coaching kids, stop on over. We’d love to have you.”
“Oh!” I didn’t know what to say. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”
From down the hall, a man in a helmet, trainer’s pants and a jacket yelled, “Hey Charlie!”
“Ah shit. Gotta go work,” she said. “No rest for the wicked.” Then she was gone.
