Page 81 of The Rebound Plan

This room won’t look this neat or clean—or smell this good—again over the next eight or ten months.

Please, God, let it be ten months this year.

I take a moment in front of Max’s stall, too. I look at his number. The C on his jersey.

And I tell myself, it’s not the man inside the uniform I need to play with. It’s the jersey itself.

In the hallway, there’s a clatter of noise.

I peel the mandarin in a single, perfect spiral, then head down the short hallway to the locker room where we leave our street clothes, our personal belongings, and change into our preferred base layers before practices and games. I toss the peel in the garbage and turn right, pushing out a side door into the main corridor that will take me back to the meeting room.

By the time I slide into my seat in the middle of the room, I’m ready enough. I’ve compartmentalized the fact that everything that I thought that I knew about loyalty—to my captain, to my team—is now in question.

I've been around the league a long time. It's not like this is the first time I've been aware of a teammate’s marriage falling apart, but it's the first time I've been personally invested in the outcome.

And I can't shake the feeling that there's so much more on the surface that none of us have ever seen.

Over the last week, I’ve started a dozen text messages to Shannon. I deleted each of them before hitting send.

The way he tracked her down at the bakery, I can’t be sure he isn’t looking at her texts, too.

And it’s that dark thought that is on my mind as our general manager welcomes all the players in the room, both those of us on the team, and the prospects and professional try out (PTO) candidates attending camp as well.

After the GM speaks, it’s over to the coach, and then Max is invited to stand.

“Welcome back, captain,” our coach says, handing over the podium.

Tilman looks like an NHL superstar. He’s got the flowing hair, the easy smile that promises he has a good dentist on speed dial, and the restless energy that betrays his preference to be on the ice right now. Plus he looks like a stud in the team-branded polo shirt, and he knows it.

“Boys,” he starts. “You all look good. You all look hungry. That’s good. Because last year we had a taste of success, didn’t we? I want a four course meal of it this year. That’s my promise to each and everyone of you. I’m going to demand you serve your absolute best, or you’ll have to answer to me in the locker room. But first things first—you gotta make the team. You gotta impress Coach. So tomorrow and the next day and the day after that…” He pauses for effect, and lets his gaze roam the room. It feels like he connects with every player in the room except for me. “I’ll see you on the ice, brothers. Because I’m going to gunning for the top spot on the roster.”

I don’t look across the room to where Ty Connor and Kieran Marsh are sitting. Ty and Max are both straight centres, and Kieran can play wing, but he typically prefers to be a centre. When Max is healthy, the lines look very different than when he’s not.

Tension like that doesn’t affect me. At training camp, I’m more likely to be replaced by a six-foot-seven nineteen year old who feels immortal and wants a chance at the bottom of an NHL roster.

None of the prospects or PTOs this year really fit that description, so I’ll keep my head down, do what I need to do, and in two weeks, the regular season will be upon us and I can start counting the games until Shannon is free of her marriage.

“Thanks for that, Max,” our GM says, stepping back up to the mic. “Now we’ll get into the program for the morning. Open your handouts to the second page, please.”

I follow along.

At some point, I feel Max’s gaze on the side of my face. Slowly, impassively, I glance his way and nod with a respectful energy I definitely do not actually feel.

As if I’m saying,I know you’ve claimed your wife back from me. You’ve won whatever horn-locking game that was.

I thought it would feel more dangerous to hold the secret that Shannon wants to leave her husband. I thought that that would be hard to know she’s going to be single soon and to keep from him, my teammate. But it's actually incredibly easy to partition off that knowledge because keeping that straight in my head is how I can keep her safe.

“There are two schedules to follow today. Each of you have a ten minute slot with media, and another time to report to the trainers for initial physical assessments. Tomorrow, we hit the ice.” Coach raps his knuckles on the podium. “Remember what my expectations are for you all this year. I have a high standard for competition and work ethic. If you have a chip on your shoulder, you won’t make it here. That’s a promise. All right? Let’s go.”

The second day of training camp is a bag skate to show the trainers our aerobic ability. That's never my favourite. I'm never the fastest, but I'm not the slowest, which feels like a miracle. And at the end of the skate, I get a clap on my shoulder from the coach, then I get to sink into a cold plunge before getting taped up by the trainers.

The third day is where everything goes off the rails.

“Harder, faster, harder, faster. Do you understand?”

“Yes, coach,” we all say as one.

“Let’s run that again. Armstrong, hang back with me a minute.”

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