Page 6 of Not A Chance

I turned back around to face Coach James. The shock was keeping me from saying anything further. Coach took the burden off my shoulders.

“Well, shit, kid. This fucking sucks.” Coach’s words hung in the air between us. Now, here was a man who’d gone through the highs and lows of the last several seasons with his team.

His accurate assessment of the situation dragged a chuckle up from my chest. I dragged both hands down my face, scrubbing my skin in an effort to get my blood flowing again.

“Yeah, Coach, it really does. Nothing against Toronto—I’d have felt this way about any team.” I was quick to clarify the source of my disappointment.

James had been my coach for more than half my time with Vancouver.

My primary motivation for accepting a contract with Vancouver when I had been drafted had been to stay as close to my family as possible. That I’d gotten an offer just hours from San Jose meant I didn’t even need to think about my decision.

I’d wanted to be close enough to home to support my two younger brothers and baby sister. Our mom had died from cancer when Emery was twelve years old, just a few months before my eighteenth birthday. All of my brothers’ wild sixteen-year-old twin antics came to a halt, leaving the house in a perpetual state of shocked silence. I’d felt guilty as shit entering the draft when all of us were still reeling from the loss of Mom.

My dad had been a shadow of himself, and I’d considered waiting a year, but it came with too many risks. Injury, for one, but morethan that, watching my family grieve had locked me in a place where I’d nearly given up the NHL altogether. I’d had to get myself out of that house, even if it cost me so much pain in leaving my siblings behind.

Back then, I’d been naïve enough to believe that I would follow through on staying in their lives to truly be there when they needed me. More than a decade later revealed that my record of actually showing up for them was abysmal.

The sound of Coach James’s voice shook me out of my pity spiral.

“Kid, let’s talk off the record. You’ve gotta report within seventy-two hours anyway. As far as I’m concerned, you left my office right after DeLuca.” I got a kick out of the fact that he called me “kid” when I was the second oldest player on his team. I guess all of us were kids when held up to his years of experience.

“You’ve got one more season left in that body of yours. I know this isn’t the way you wanted to go out, but you can make it another nine months, even if you have to go to Toronto to do it. They’ve got just as much a chance at the Cup this year as we do. You might just be the player to push them to greatness, bum knees and all.”

I was humbled by his kind words, even if they were accompanied by such a brutal assessment of my physical condition.

Shit. Had I been showing my aches and pains more than I thought? I’d been militant in my PT and conditioning, trying to mitigate the pain in my knees. I knew my left MCL was fucked. The right knee was heading in the same direction. I’d need surgery sooner than later, but I’d wanted time to decide if I’d renew my contract first.

“I’ve been working toward the Cup for my whole career, Coach. I’ve got a couple more seasons in me, at least.” I aimed for humor, hoping to turn the conversation from his accurate assessment.

“That’s horseshit, Yao, and you know it. There’s more to hockeythan the Cup. You’ve already made yourself the poster boy for clean living and dedication all these years. Shit, your legacy is cemented in the history books with your charity work alone. You have a lot to be proud of, son. Take the win.”

Flattening my lips, I let my shoulders drop in defeat. My heart buoyed before sinking at him calling me “son.” There was a paternal pride there that I hadn’t known how desperately I needed to hear until just now. Was my dad proud of me too?

Maybe you should get your head out of your ass and ask him? It’s not like he doesn’t have thirty years’ experience with elite athletes to give some advice on your next steps.

But while I could sit in this office and take whatever truth bombs Coach James threw at me with gratitude, I didn’t know if I could take hearing my dad not express the same pride in my hard work that Coach did.

“Yeah, maybe, Coach.” A deep sigh escaped me. I trusted Coach enough to be honest. “My knees are going to shit. I gotta retire before I’m walking like my seventy-five-year-old grandfather used to before he had his knees replaced. I don’t want to spend my thirties in pain.”

“You sure as shit don’t, kid. I got enough aches and pains to fill a medical textbook. I wouldn’t be surprised if my wife doesn’t donate my body to science when I go, only for them to find out it’s been held together with hockey tape and chewing gum all these years.”

I nodded my agreement. I may not know what my next steps were, but I wanted to be physically able to take them.

“You’ve given this team everything you had all these years. I hope Toronto appreciates the caliber of player they are getting from me unwillingly.”

“Aw, Coach. I knew you loved me after all.” I offered him a magazine-worthy smile.

“That’s it. Toronto can have you. Get out of here, Yao.” His eyes warmed with affection despite his gruff words.

I shook his hand and took my leave.

My chest ached with the knowledge I wouldn’t even need the full seventy-two hours to pack up my whole life here in Vancouver.

A little over a month into my new job with the Tempests, I finally felt like I was getting into a routine where I didn’t feel like an absolute idiot at all times.

I could see that my father had specifically chosen to push me into a communications role. With my job being dedicated to liaising between the team and the media on an almost daily basis, I was sure he imagined me coming home and taking on spokesperson duties for the family.

Right under his thumb, where he could keep me in control.

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