Page 1 of The Game She Hates

1

Zane Ortiz

I stride through the corridors of the arena, my heart still racing from the game. I knew it was coming—that summoning from Coach. But even as I approach his office, I can’t ignore the surge of adrenaline still coursing through my veins.

I inhale deeply, steeling myself for what awaits. Coach left the door slightly ajar, which lets me know he’s ready for me.

Going in feels like charging headlong into a storm. I know full well that he isn’t pleased with me—a sentiment I’m all too familiar with.

Once inside, I take a moment to absorb the well-worn surroundings of his office. The cluttered desk stands as a bastion of his domain, decked with a mishmash of hockey memorabilia and scattered paperwork.

A framed jersey hangs proudly on the wall, emblazoned with the emblem of the Boston Bruins. It’s not just any jersey; it’s his old jersey, worn during his time as part of the team. The fabric shows signs of wear. It serves as a reminder to the team of where dedication and passion can lead. Next to it, a row of Glaciers trophies gleams under the fluorescent lights.

The wall behind his desk is decorated with at least a dozen photos, capturing moments of unity and triumph. My favorite among them is one of us hoisting last year’s trophy, our faces etched with jubilation as we celebrated reaching the finals.

Amidst the accolades, a whiteboard in the corner displays game schedules and strategies. I finally shift my gaze in his direction. There, I notice the anticipation in his eyes, as though he’s been waiting for me to acknowledge his presence and meet his gaze.

“What gets into your mind when you’re out there?” Coach’s voice breaks the silence, straight and to the point.

He doesn’t offer a seat, but after that game, I feel like I need one. So, I pull out a chair and sit in front of him. I rub my knuckles together, feeling the tension crackling in the air.

“You’re gonna suspend me?” I ask casually, though the weight of the question is anything but light. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s suspended me mid-season, but I know Coach Kendrick doesn’t want to revisit that disaster. We both have something to lose, and I’m prepared to sit here and convince him that I couldn’t care less.

“I know you don’t want to be suspended, Ortiz, and that’s not what this is about.”

I exhale in response, surprised that Coach is letting this one go. Usually, he’d start lecturing me about my anger management issues, but tonight he seems to be skipping the part where I let loose on those Thunderhawks losers.

“You know Tyler is retiring soon, and I think you’d make a good captain.”

I raise my eyebrows at the mention of being captain. Despite my best efforts to avoid team gossip, rumors about me replacing Tyler somehow found their way to me. Still, it catches me off guard that Coach thinks I’d make a good captain. He’s one of two people in the world who really know me, albeit against my will, and he understands that captaincy is about more than just being the most competitive guy on the team or having some great skills.

“Name one thing Tyler and I have in common.” I challenge him, knowing full well that Tyler and I couldn’t be more different. He’s a few years older, and his maturity seems to double his age. He’s retiring to live a slower-paced life and spend more time with his family. He’s a people person, known for his kindness, always checking in on each one of us during off-season, and he’s always talking about his relationship with Jesus—whatever that’s supposed to mean. I try not to give him too much of my time because even though he’s not a party animal like most of the team, he’s still not relatable in any way.

Coach leans forward, not breaking eye contact. “I’ve realized one thing about you, Ortiz,” he says, his index finger tapping his jaw. “You may put on a tough front, but deep down, I know there’s a heart that loves the team just as much as Tyler does.”

I scoff inwardly. Love and I don’t exactly go hand in hand. I’ve loved no one, and nobody has loved me—except for one person who had no choice but to devote their life to convincing me otherwise. But on the ice, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for all the guys on the team. Even Trent. The most annoying guy on the team. On ice, I always pass to him and set him up for great goals. But off the ice, I don’t want to give Trent the satisfaction of a response to his condescending, bullying self. He reminds me too much of my dad.

“Interesting observation, Coach,” I reply, my tone guarded. “But I don’t do relationships like Tyler does. You know I barely hang out with them, and if we’re being candid, I don’t think they’d want me as their captain either. Maybe Carson. He comes close, and he never throws punches.”

“Listen, Ortiz. I know what you’ve been through, and that’s why I’ve been patient with you. But I also see who you really are, trauma and heartbreak aside. I need you to see the person I see both on and off the ice.”

I’ve never quite understood what Coach sees in me besides my dedication to hockey. Why can’t he grasp that the ice is where I let out all the pent-up frustration that’s been with me since birth? From the moment he plucked me from my old team in Chicago, he’s never stopped pushing me to be better. And while I know it’s all well-intended, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve always fallen short in everyone’s eyes. Someday, he’ll see it too, but for now, his unwavering commitment to me is like an itch I can’t quite scratch—uncomfortable, yet oddly endearing because not many people have tried to commit to me like this.

I splay my hands in question. “And how do you suggest I see the version of me you see?” I ask, genuinely interested in what he’s about to say.

Coach’s answer stuns me. “Counseling,” he replies, dead serious.

I wave off the suggestion with a dismissive snort. “That’s ridiculous. Been there, done that. Therapists just rake in cash to listen to people whine. And trust me when I say they never actually fix anything.”

“I’m not talking about just any therapist. I know just the person, and although she doesn’t usually take on adults, I really think she’d work well with you,” Coach says, his lips curling into a smile.

“Oh, now I need a pediatric therapist?” I ask incredulously, running my hand down my face.

He wears a serious expression. “I think revisiting your childhood will do you good, and you need someone with a fresh perspective, someone who’s not tied to sports like all the counselors you’ve had before.”

I chew on my lip. There’s no way he’s seriously considering a pediatric therapist for me.

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