Page 15 of The Dare

By the time Coach orders us to the media room to study game footage, I’m all but crawling off the ice. Even Hunter, who’s tried his damnedest to maintain a positive attitude as team captain, is starting to look like he wants to call his mommy to come pick him up. In the tunnel we share a pitiful look.Same, dude.

After a bottle of Gatorade and one of those jelly nutrition tubes, I’m feeling half-alive at least. The media roomoffers three semi-circular rows of plush chairs, and I’m in the first row with Hunter and Bucky. Everyone is slouched over from exhaustion.

Coach walks over to stand in front of the projector screen with the static image of our game against Minnesota bleeding onto his face. Even the sound of him clearing his throat gives me the jitters.

“Some of you seem to think the hard part’s over. That you’re just going to coast to a championship and it’s all champagne and afterparties from here on out. Well, I got news for you.” He slams his hand twice against the wall and I swear the whole building shakes. We all snap upright in our seats, wide the fuck awake. “Now’s when the work begins. You were running on training wheels until today. Now Daddy’s dragging you to the top of the hill and giving your asses a good shove.”

The footage rolls in slow motion on the screen. The D-line gets caught out of position on a breakaway and gives up a shot on net that pings off the post. That’s me there on the left, and watching my dumb ass scramble to chase down the shooter puts a pit in stomach.

“Right here,” Coach says. “We checked out mentally. Got caught puck watching. It only takes a second to lose focus and thenbam, we’re playing catch-up.”

He fast-forwards the tape. This time it’s Hunter, Foster and Jesse who can’t string their passes together.

“Come on, ladies. This is basic stuff you’ve been doing since you were five. Soft hands. Visualize where your teammates are. Get open. Follow through.”

Around the room, we’re all taking hits to our overinflatedegos. That’s the thing about Coach; he doesn’t suffer divas. For a few weeks now we’ve felt damn near invincible on our rise to the top. Now that we’ve got our fiercest opponents ahead of us, it’s time to get our feet back on the ground. That means taking our licks in practice.

“Wherever that puck is, I want three guys ready to take it,” Coach continues. “I don’t ever want to see someone standing around looking for an open man. If we want to square up to Brown or Minnesota, we need to play our game. Quick passes. High pressure. I want to see confidence behind the stick.”

My coach back in LA was a real son of a bitch. The kind of guy who burst into a room screaming and shouting, slamming doors and throwing chairs. At least twice a season he’d get ejected from a game, then come to the next practice and take it all out on us. Sometimes we deserved it. Other times, it was like he needed to exorcise forty years of shame and inadequacy on a bunch of dumb kids. No wonder the hockey program was shit.

Because of him I almost didn’t bother going out for the team when I transferred to Briar, but I knew the program’s reputation and had heard good things. Coach Jensen was a relief. He can be hard on us, but he’s never malicious. Never so focused on sport he forgets he’s coaching real people. One thing I’ve never doubted is that Coach Jensen cares about every one of these guys. Even busted Hunter out of jail last semester. For that, we’d follow him anywhere, toenails be damned.

“Alright, that’s it for today. I want everyone to check in with the nutritionist and make sure you’re clear on the meal plans for the next few weeks. We’re going to be pushingourselves harder than we have all season. That means I want you guys taking care of your bodies. If you’ve got bangs and bumps, get with the trainers and have them evaluated. Now’s not the time to hide any issues. Every man needs to know he can count on the guy next to him. Okay?”

“Hey, Coach?” Hunter speaks up. He sighs, cringing. “The guys were wondering if we could get an update on the mascot situation.”

“The pig? You idiots are still on about the damn pig?”

“Uh, yeah. In the absence of Pablo Eggscobar, some of the boys are experiencing withdrawals.”

I snicker under my breath. Not gonna lie, I kinda miss our stupid egg mascot too. He was a cool dude.

“Jesus Christ. Yes, you’re getting your damn pet. Sometime in August, last I heard. There is an absurd amount of paperwork involved in the acquisition of a swine for non-agricultural purposes. Okay? Satisfied, Davenport?”

“Yup yup. Thanks, Coach.”

We all start getting up to leave, conversations breaking out while guys head for the doors.

“Oh, hang on,” Coach booms.

Everyone halts, like good little soldiers.

“Almost forgot. Word’s come down from the higher-ups that our attendance is required at some alumni grip-and-grin Saturday afternoon.”

Groans and protests erupt.

“What, why?” Matt Anderson calls from the back of the room.

“Oh, come on, Coach,” Foster whines.

Beside me, Gavin is pissed. “That’s bullshit.”

“What’s a grip-and-grin?” Bucky asks. “Sounds like we’re supposed to be jerking them off or something.”

“Essentially,” Coach replies. “Listen, I hate these things, too. But when the provost says jump, the athletic director says how high.”

“But we’re the ones doing the jumping,” Alec protests.

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