Page 10 of Pucking the Team

As I step inside, I’m greeted by the sound of Alex cursing at the TV. He’s sprawled out on the massive leather sectional, a forgotten playbook open on his lap.

“Slade’s out with Thompson,” I tell Alex before he can ask, tossing my keys onto the counter.

“Cool,” Alex replies, his eyes never leaving the screen.

I grab a beer from the fridge and drop down next to him. “Is this tape from last season?” I ask him.

Alex glances at me, then back at the screen, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Yeah, it’s from our game against Milwaukee last March. Something’s been bugging me about our defensive strategy in the third period.”

I take a swig of beer, studying Alex’s profile. There’s an intensity radiating off him, a restless energy that I recognize all too well.

Alex is a perfectionist to the end, always striving to be better, faster, smarter. It’s what makes him such a brilliant coach.

But I’ve also seen that drive push him to unhealthy extremes.

“You need to give that big brain of yours a rest,” I tell him, nudging his shoulder. “We won that game, remember? Slade scored the game-winner in overtime. And besides, defensive strategy isn’t even part of your purview.”

Alex is a skills coach, although I have no doubt he’s going to work his way up to assistant coach soon.

Alex shakes his head, hitting pause on the remote. He turns to face me, his hazel eyes burning. “It’s not about winning or losing, Lukas. It’s about being the best team we can be. And right now, there are holes in our game that need to be fixed.”

I sigh, taking another swig of beer. “Alright, Coach. Show me what you’ve got.”

For the next hour, Alex breaks down every play, every missed assignment, every botched scoring chance. His attention to detail is staggering, his hockey mind operating on a level that few can match. By the time he’s finished, my own head is spinning with X’s and O’s.

“Jesus, Alex,” I mutter, rubbing my temples. “You’re going to give yourself an aneurysm.”

Just then, my phone starts ringing. I glance at the screen, my stomach sinking when I see my dad’s name flashing across it.

“Shit,” I mutter, my thumb hovering over the answer button. “I gotta take this.”

I step out onto the balcony, the cool evening air a welcome break from the sudden tightness in my chest.

My dad and I have always had a complicated relationship, ever since he pushed me into hockey as a kid. He was a great player in his day, but he never quite made it to the big leagues. So he poured all his hopes and dreams into me, determined to make me the star he never was.

“Lukas,” he says, his voice gruff and businesslike in rapid-fire Czech. We moved to the States when I was a little kid, so I don’t have an accent but I still speak it, too. “I wanted to talk to you about the upcoming season.”

I lean against the railing, my jaw clenching. “What about it?”

“I’ve been looking at the team’s roster, and I have to say, I’m not impressed,” he continues, his tone dripping with disdain. “That new guy, Thompson? He’s a liability on the ice. And don’t even get me started on Harrison. I know he’s your little buddy, but I don’t understand why he’s captain and not you.”

I feel a flare of anger in my gut, my grip tightening on the phone. “They’re good players, Dad. And they’re my teammates. I trust them.”

“Trust is a luxury you can’t afford in this game,” he snaps, his voice rising. “If you want to win, you need to be ruthless. And that means rooting out the weak links, making sure that only the best stay on the team.”

I take a deep breath, trying to calm the rage coursing through my veins. “I am the best, Dad. But I’m not going to throw my team under the bus just to prove it.”

“Damn it, Lukas,” he growls, his frustration palpable even through the phone. “I raised you to be a winner, not some soft-hearted pussy who cares more about his teammates’ feelings than his own success.”

I feel like I’m sixteen again, sitting in my childhood bedroom while my dad lectures me on the importance of perfection. The weight of his expectations, the suffocating pressure to be the best, the constant fear of disappointing him.

But I’m not a kid anymore. And I’ll be damned if I let him control me like one.

“Listen, Dad,” I say, my voice low and steady. “I appreciate your concern, but I know what I’m doing. I’m a grown man, and I make my own decisions. On and off the ice.”

There’s a long pause, the silence stretching between us like a chasm. Finally, he speaks, his voice cold and hard. “Fine. Do what you want. But don’t come crying to me when it all falls apart.”

He hangs up before I can respond, the dial tone echoing in my ear. I take a deep breath, my head falling back as I stare up at the night sky.

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