Page 20 of Hat Trick

I read about what happened: the way his teammates’ blade sliced the skin above his knee and the surgeries that followed. How poorly his rehabilitation was handled. The training staff rushed to get him back on in the lineup to salvage their season, and he wasn’t the same player when he returned.

Forced to retire prematurely because of lingering pain and a blow to his ego, he slid into a leadership role with ease. After bouncing around between associate and assistant coaching gigs, he became the head coach for the Stars before I joined the team, and I know he’s responsible for a lot of their success.

Coach is rough around the edges. He’s sarcastic with a dry sense of humor, blunt, and not afraid to hurt your feelings. The only time I see him smile is when he’s talking about his daughter, Olivia, who just turned twelve.

I’ve always liked the guy and his take-no-shit attitude, but his presence is intimidating. At six-six with dark hair and dark eyes, if someone told me he was a serial killer, I’d believe them.

“Sit.” He closes the door and walks around his desk. I comply immediately, dropping into the chair and tapping my foot. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re fidgeting.”

“I’m not fidgeting.”

“So, you’re not wringing your hands together and bouncing your leg?” He lifts his chin at my clasped palms. A smirk curls on his mouth. “My mistake.”

“Sorry.” I put my hands at my sides and offer him a sheepish smile. “You and I never talk one-on-one, and I’m nervous. Blame my daddy issues.”

A surprising noise that sounds like a laugh comes out of him. “I’m, what? Six years older than you?”

“Can’t say I spend my days looking at your Wikipedia page, Coach. Do you spend your time lookingmeup?”

A full laugh comes next, and I relax. “You know I don’t sugarcoat things.”

“You definitely don’t.”

“I want you to offer me the same courtesy.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Do you really think you can get Riley to skate again?”

“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “Could he play in hockey competitively again? Maybe, but I don’t want to promise anything.”

“He hasn’t been doing well since the accident.”

“Well, obviously. His world has been upended.”

“I mean mentally.” Coach pauses. “His mom mentioned he expressed numerous times about wanting to…” He trails off and clears his throat. “Not be here anymore.”

“Here, like, in DC? He requested a trade?”

“No. Alive.”

I grip the arm of the chair and inhale sharply.

Mental health has always been a controversial topic in professional sports, especially with male athletes. In recent years, more and more players have been open about the struggles they face off the ice: depression. OCD. Suicidal thoughts.

Social media doesn’t help. I see the comments posted on the Stars’ official accounts after a loss. Some of the messages are horrific. They’re things I could never imagine saying to anyone, and they make me sick.

I don’t want to think about the unread messages the players might have sitting in their inboxes.

I’ve always known Riley to be one of the happiest guys on the team. He’s always smiling. Always joking with everyone. He loves kids, loves to volunteer, and I’veneverseen him get mad at anyone.

Before today, I guess.

To hear he’s struggling so deeply breaks my heart. It makes me want to burst into tears, because I want to help. I want to make him laugh. I want to make him smile again, and I’ll do anything to help ease the pain he’s carrying.

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