Page 5 of Coaching Prince Charming

I strummed abruptly and looked at Ron. “This guitar player doesn’t love girls, though.”

Ron shrugged without any other reaction. “I don’t think it’s gender-specific.”

I snorted. Hopefully, I wasn’t accidentally seducing my roommate. “I’m not sure I agree,” I mused quietly. For one thing, nobody cared what I did in my free time. So long as I practiced and exercised, ate well and studied, I was free to tinker around with music or doomscroll until my eyes popped out. Nobody said a word. “I prefer piano,” I said for no reason at all. I wasn’t bragging, and it didn’t make me any cooler. In fact, I said it just because it was true.

My fingers worked the strings, and a mournful ballad wrapped itself around us. It was nothing I had composed before. Tunes sometimes came to me in the middle of practice. It was a great way to unplug and let my head be empty for a bit. I was aware that other people tended to play real music for the same effect. Me? I couldn’t sit still for that long without drumming my fingers anxiously against some nearby surface. So I played the music for myself.

“That’s nice,” Ron said. “Who’s that?”

“Huh?” For a moment, I thought he was asking me something else. I blinked and shook my head. “No idea.”

My roommate laughed. “Are you kidding me? That’s not improv, is it?”

It really wasn’t that big of a deal. And I said that to Ron.

“You’re so wrong it’s not even funny,” he said. “Ever played for a crowd?”

The snort that burst out of me was so full of contempt that I reminded myself of my father. “Please.”

“I’m not joking, dude,” Ron said. “You should do some open-mic night or something.”

“Yes, because who doesn’t love a sad, slow-burn ballad over their fourth beer following a wannabe stand-up comedian? I think I’ll pass.” I shook my head dismissively, even though Ron’s eyes were still shut, hands folded behind his back.

My friend hummed to the tune I was making up, so I intentionally changed the harmony to mess with him. He opened his eyes and shot me a scolding look. “The way I see it,” he said slowly, “we’ve got four years to get all the embarrassing stuff out of our systems. When we’re in the NHL, that shit’s gonna have to go away.”

I laughed out loud. “As if pros don’t do a bunch of embarrassing shit behind the curtains.”

“You won’t get a shot at playing for a small crowd in a bar when you’re famous,” Ron said. He looked at his phone and hopped onto his feet. “Time to go.” He pressed his fist against my shoulder in passing, picked up his gym bag, and walked away.

I’d done my training early this morning. With several team houses brimming with athletes who hoped to build careers in various sports, the campus gym was often crowded, and I preferred solitude. Early hours were the best, while other students were still snoring in their beds.

My phone vibrated on the stone surface of the table. I picked it up and hesitated for a moment. I had been in such a good mood.

Leaning over my guitar, I swiped the screen and pressed the phone against my ear. The open palm of my right hand pressed the strings to silence the accidental sound I made. “Dad,” I said.

My father called me every few days to check in. “How are things, Carter?” The truth was, he didn’t have much going on since he’d retired. He had never had other interests beyond hockey, so his days were now spent lounging in expensive recliners in pretty locations.

“Not that different from two days ago,” I said, trying for a light tone.

If I’d succeeded, it flew over Dad’s head anyway. “You’re training hard, son?”

“Yep,” I said, my gaze drawn to the bright blue sky of the summer midafternoon. A few puffy white clouds sailed across the vast blue canvas. Fall wasn’t even in our vocabulary yet. These were the best days to be alive.

Dad held his breath for a moment. I could hear the absence of his breathing. Then, as he exhaled, it was almost a sigh. “Are you taking this seriously, Carter? I can never tell.”

“How much more seriously do you want me to take it, Dad?” I asked, my temper soaring. I had to squeeze my eyes shut to rein in the anger. “I’m training every day. Ask Nate if you don’t trust me.”

“That wouldn’t be appropriate,” Dad said in a tight voice.

I wondered if he was telling the truth. Weren’t they each other’s oldest friends? Hadn’t they always been full of stories of their early years as college friends, rivals playing for different NHL teams, and finally teammates for the rest of Dad’s career? I knew Dad had filled Coach Partridge’s ears with his plans for my future. “Then you simply have to trust me,” I said.

Dad’s silence lasted for a few heartbeats. “Very well, Carter. Is there anything you need? Anything you lack?”

My piano, I thought. “Nope.” Why was it so hard to constantly go over the same conversation? Each time we spoke, my answers were shorter, my voice tighter, and my words more clipped. “It’s all good, Dad.”

He lingered a few moments longer, telling me he loved me and was proud of what I’d achieved, and then he hung up. It left me wondering what exactly I had achieved, but I wouldn’t ask him that. All my life, there was a stick in my hands and a puck before my eyes. All my life, my father’s stardom shone so brightly that it made everything in my life pale.

I hopped off the stone table and walked into the house. It was a colonial revival structure with a spacious, open-plan ground floor. A kitchen and a kitchen island took up the left side from the entrance, and the vast living room that was hardly used was on the right. In the back and upstairs were rooms for Arctic Titans to share, two per room, and downstairs, in the basement, was the true common room. Vintage arcade games, worn-out furniture, a gaming console, a minifridge stocked with beer, and a big soccer table were just the tip of the iceberg. Guys gathered there nearly every evening just to hang out.

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