Page 75 of As You Ice It

Coach doesn’t keep us long, since his notes can basically be summed up by him telling us we played well, and that we can't take our foot off the gas through the stretch leading to the playoffs.

Yeah, yeah. Got it. Play good hockey. Repeat.

I expected a little more of a speech after our decisive five-one win, since Coach loves a good win and gets a little wordy. Tonight, I didn’t mind the brevity.

But then Larry Jensen appears like a mustachioed specter in the locker room, wanting to give us an owner’s speech, which is basically a whole lot of grandstanding about howweare doing. Last time I looked, the man wasn’t on the ice. Or at a practice. I’m not sure what he does, other than overbook us for all kinds of appearances and activities designed to exhaust us and line his bank account.

Coach barely holds back his eye rolls, and when the two of them disappear into Coach’s office, I’m reminded of the tense meeting they had the first day I found Liam in class.

I’d forgotten all about the yelling and haven’t thought once about the potential shift in the organization it might signify. But the tightness in Coach’s mouth before he shuts the door makes me feel more certain something bad is happening literally behind those closed doors.

Before I can escape to the showers, I’m forced into doing post-game interviews, which I’ve avoided for the past few months. Partly because I’ve played so poorly no one wanted to talk to me, and partly because the only person worse at interviews than I am is Nathan.

I’m not a grouch like he is, glaring at the press like they’re personally violating his space and privacy, but I’m not eloquent. Alec was always good at giving good sound bites—saying things that sounded smart, showing off his hockey IQ. Van is good for the kind of funny quotes that go viral on social media. And then there’s me.

I give the quintessential dumb hockey player interview people make fun of online.Yeah, we uh, just tried to control the puck, uh, get it in deep and, uh, put it in the back of the net. Yeah.

Myyeahsanduhsare out in full force, and I can tell the correspondents are not getting what they want from me because they look bored.

Good. Maybe they won’t ask me to do interviews ever again.

I take the fastest shower possible to wash off the sweat and the stink of the game. I give myself a little extra scrub for good measure. Per the usual, I ignore most of the conversations in the room as I button up my dress shirt. My wet hair drips down my back, and I think about Mike saying I need a haircut. Maybe he’s right.

The past few months, I’ve been rushing home to Mike. But there’s very little worry now that I’ve got a team of three home caregivers who split the time. Jordan, who remains my favorite, is there now. I’d like to get both of them out to a game sometime, maybe with Liam and Naomi. But for now, I’ve set up an app on the TVs at home so they can watch.

Good game!Jordan texted.Mike says to be home by curfew, but I say stay out as late as you want.

So, it’s not worrying about Mike that has me disengaged with the guys and rushing to get ready. Tonight, I’m in my head and not paying attention in the room because I know Naomi and Liam are waiting for me, and every moment I’m in here, not out there, feels endless.

Someone smacks me on the arm with a damp towel. Van. I wish he hadn’t stripped the towel off his body to hit me with it, but … it’s Van. “Finally, Cole! You showed up.”

I frown. “What? I’ve been here the whole time.”

“No, I mean, your head was back in the game.”

“Cammie’s back, baby!” Eli crows.

I ignore the other guys agreeing, but they’re right. Iwasback on the ice, figuratively speaking.

And it felt really good. Great, actually. I’d forgotten the whole-body satisfaction of a game played hard. I’m sore but my muscles are singing and adrenaline soaked.

But it wasn’t so much that my head was in the game. My head was with Naomi and Liam, sitting a few rows back near the center line. I may not have looked up every time I was near, but I was constantly aware of them. Aware of how my actions on the ice might look to them. I wanted to make a good showing, to make them proud.

If I was effective on the ice, it’s because I needed to prove something to them both. Even if I already know they’re two people who wouldn’t see me differently if I’d played as badly as I have all season.

I wanted to be better. For them. And maybe, a little, for myself.

For the kid who wanted to look up and see his mom and dad in the stands. Maybe, just once, his sisters. The teenage boy who was almost a man but still felt like a kid. A kid who very much wanted his family to show up. To care. To make the bare minimum of effort.

There was Mike, and it helped to be wanted bysomeone, but I wanted to be wanted by myparents. Seeing how quickly they gave up on me made all my previous memories feel tainted somehow. Like, could the happy, normal family I remembered be real if they could just move on without me—like I’d never been part of them at all?

I couldn’t grasp that. Still can’t.

I’m usually better now about gatekeeping these thoughts at games, but tonight, having Naomi and Liam here stirred up the memories and the sense of longing that used to drive me.

For a few years after my sisters were born, as it started to sink in that my family had changed, the hurt morphed into an anger that drove me. The emotions I couldn’t process became my fuel. I became a better hockey player because of it, but also a bit of a goon. Late hits, dirty hits, any hits. I chased the pain and used the physical roughness as a way to work out my feelings.

Only, it didn’t work. And it was Mike who finally called me out on it.

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