Page 11 of A Whole New Trick

I eye the broad guy with a mix of annoyance and respect. Justin is a forty-year-old ex-player, and he knows his stuff. But I’m not thrilled with being criticized for something that isn’t worth criticizing.

“Can you elaborate?”

“Your endurance isn’t what it once was,” Justin states, unaffected by my cool tone. “You’re slower in the final minutes of the third period.”

So is every other player on the ice.

“My endurance is fine,” I counter. “I have no problem making shots when needed.”

“If we want to make it to the championship,” Miller interrupts. “We need all of our players to be at their best. Especially our captain.”

My lips turn down.

It’s an honor to be captain, and I knew the position would come with greater expectations, but I can’t believe my athletic prowess is being questioned. I can’t think of a single instance where I’ve made a mistake this season. I’m not exaggerating. I’ve been on fire this year.

Apparently, that isn’t good enough.

“It’s come to our attention that you don’t follow the team’s nutritional plan.”

My forehead furrows as I look back at Justin. “What are you talking about?”

“You haven’t spoken with the team’s sports dietician since you were traded to the team.”

“So?”

“So.” Justin and Coach Miller share a glance. The trainer continues, “Given your age, I suspect a change in diet coulddramatically improve your endurance in the final minutes of the game. Which will prove critical in advancing in the playoffs.”

Myage?

Is he being fucking for real?

“I’m only thirty-two,” the words come out as a growl.

“And nutritional needs drastically change as we grow older,” Justin continues, undeterred. “Especially for athletes.”

I look between the trainer and my coach. Part of me waits for someone to jump through the door and shout, “Gotcha”.

Or maybe for a confetti cannon to go off behind me, revealing this is all some weird sort of prank.

But no. They’re serious.

Tension knots my shoulders. I roll my neck to relieve the pressure and consider my next words carefully. “Let me make sure I understand you,” I say, looking at my coach. “You aren’t happy with my game performance.”

I briefly shift my attention to the trainer. “And you want me to change my macro intake to do that?”

“Your performance, as always, is commendable,” Coach Miller says. That’s high praise coming from the no-nonsense coach. “But Young is right. Your energy wanes towards the end of games. If there’s a shot of changing that with a new dietary regimen, it’s worth trying.”

I understand what he’s saying, but the way this subject has been brought to my attention rubs me the wrong way.

I’ve busted my ass for the Ranchers even though part of me wished I’d never been traded to the organization. I would’ve rather stayed up north.

“Fine.” My nostrils flare, and I tell myself to reign in my attitude. Miller won’t abide by a petty player who could damage locker room morale. He had one of our best defensemen traded last year for the same offense.

“What do I do? Set up a meeting with the dietician?” I’ll have to ask one of the guys where he or she works. As the trainer pointed out, I’ve never met them.

“No need.” Miller stands. Justin follows his lead. “You can meet with the nutrition team today.”

I look between the men with a frown and stand as well. “Right now?”

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