Page 8 of Scoring Chance
"I'm better now. But let's get the hell out of here."
We leave, and I can feel Chaz's presence behind me, but I refuse to look back. These days, I'm only looking forward.
5
Will
Today is our first official team meeting, and I can’t lie—I’m kinda ready to start bouncing off the walls. I’ve always been a guy with a lot of excess energy and sitting around waiting is like actual torture for me. I could pass the time by calling my mom back, since she’s called half a dozen times today, and it’s only noon, but once Wendi Franconetti starts talking, there’s no stopping her. Our meeting starts in fifteen minutes. Yeah, that’s definitely not enough time for mom to fill me in on the family gossip or ask me how I’m settling in.
While I’m about to jump out of my skin with nervous energy, most of the guys here are thumbing through their phones, killing time. And I’m trying to do the same. I really am. But my foot is tapping out a rhythm on the floor because dammit, I just can’t keep still. Dean Strathmeyer looks up from his phone and over at me, probably trying to figure out what the hell my deal is.
He stands and stretches, grabs his water bottle, then nods toward the other end of the room. “Have you seen the weight room yet?”
“Yeah, when I toured the place last spring,” I say, grabbing my own water bottle and following him into the hallway that divides the locker room from the gym. The wall on one side is painted cinder block, white with stripes of gray and burgundy for the school colors. The other side is lined with glass. There’s a water station, so I take a second to fill up my bottle. Dean does the same then points across the hall.
“They upgraded over the summer. That’s what Van said,” he tells me. And sure enough, the weight room looks a lot different than I remember. It wasn’t anything special, from what I recall, at least, but it was functional. Now? It’s state-of-the-art. All of the gym equipment looks brand-new, and the mats look custom-made.
“Damn,” I tell him. “It looks like a freaking showroom.”
“Sure as hell does,” Van says, striding up next to us with Norris right behind him.
“It’s awesome,” Norris agrees, joining us. “But do you think we could find some alumni who want to dump a ton of money into repairing our house? Because it could use an upgrade.”
“What it could really use is a bulldozer,” Dean jokes. “I was putting some shelves up above my desk and after a few taps of the hammer, the freaking drywall started crumbling off.”
“Hammer?” Norris asks. “That’s your first mistake. You gotta use those sticky hooks.”
Van nods approvingly. “Norris is right. I’m pretty sure our house is partially held together by those little sticky hooks.”
“That might be the problem,” Dean mutters, and I have to agree.
The door to the locker room opens and Santos, one of our captains, pokes his head out. “You guys trying to piss Coach off before the season starts?”
“Shit, we better go,” Norris says, leading the way back into the locker room.
“What are you talking about?” Dean asks, glancing at his watch. “We’ve got ten minutes.”
“Ah, youth…” Norris says, laughing. “You will soon learn that Coach starts every meeting early. Because if you’re not early, you’re late.”
“For real?” Dean asks as we shuffle back in and take our seats.
“Yep. The man hates tardiness, believe me. I skated enough extra laps freshman year to drill that fact into my head,” Van says, running his hands through his hair.
A door shuts, and Coach walks in, followed by two guys in polo shirts who, I’m guessing, are his assistants. Booker and Santos move to the front of the room as Coach addresses all of us.
“Gentleman, this will be brief, because those of you who know me know I’d rather skate than talk. But I want to take a moment to welcome you all back. We had a great year last year, but this year promises to be better. We’ve got a lot of returning players and some new faces that bring the skills we need. We’re going to work hard, and when we’re done with that, we’re going to work even harder. Get used to looking at my ugly mug, gentlemen, because you’re going to see it for the next seven months. Being part of this team means more than just winning games. It’s mandatory study hall for the new guys, and anyone else whose grade falls below a 75% in any course. It means regular meetings with our trainers and nutritionists. It means working out, being on time, and giving it your very best effort. It means we’re more than a team; we’re a family. It means working together and doing your part in whatever capacity the coaching staff determines is best for the team. We work best when we work as one cohesive unit. Any questions?”
The room is silent, so Coach nods and keeps going.
“You’ve no doubt seen the new weight room, and I hope it’s the first of many positive changes around this place. Don’t get me wrong—I love this arena and all the history within these walls. But this old place is due for a few upgrades, and those will be made possible by the generosity of donors and alumni. And to that point, you will be asked to attend some fundraising functions this year and do some community outreach to show your commitment to the town of Bainbridge. Let me make this clear: those things are not optional. You want to work out in a weight room that puts most commercial gyms to shame? You want to skate on this ice? Then you’ll do as you’re asked, and you’ll represent us well. Do I make myself clear?”
Everyone nods in agreement as he turns toward the double doors and then back again, clearing his throat. “There is one more thing, actually. On a personal note…my niece, Margo, just moved in with Jules and me. She, uh, transferred in from the West Coast and will be finishing her senior year at Bainbridge. She’s got a busy schedule, but I have no doubt you’ll see her around here from time to time. I want you to make her feel welcome, of course, but not too welcome, you get me? Like I said, we’re a family, so consider Margo your sister. And that means hands off. No flirting, no winking, and sure as hell no dating my niece. Got it?”
There’s a chorus of “Yes, Coach,” as we head out to the ice. I have no intention of making any kind of play for Coach’s niece, whoever she is. Only a dumbass would do that. Although considering the fact that my record with the opposite sex is a swing and a miss, maybe I should keep my mouth shut. And steer clear of girls named Margo.
6
Mel
