Page 87 of Puck to the Heart
Here in Trip’s house, artwork covered every flat vertical surface. Little tableaux of stuffed animals and toys sat in the windowsills and on the table. Trip pulled a ‘Best Dad Ever’ mug and a Knights mug from the cabinet, setting them with a clink on the marble countertop. An enormous pot of coffee percolated in a corner. It smelled amazing.
I asked to help, and Trip directed me to the knife block with instructions to cut the cake while he hopped on one foot to get cream for the coffee.
We ate the cake and drank our coffee leaning over the counter, as Trip proclaimed it was too good to wait for a plate.
“Did you ever freeze up?” I was halfway through some seriously strong coffee when I blurted the question.
“Were you around when Lauren got pregnant the first time?”
I shook his head; it was about a while before I signed with the Knights.
“Right. So, when we first found out, I started second-guessing everything. Literallyeverything. My car, my clothes, even my haircut. It wasn’t as much about the baby as what would come after. How would I be as a father? What mistakes would I make then?”
“Right, but I’m not pregnant.” Trip’s analogy sort of made sense, but I still didn’t quite follow.
“My point, dumbass,” he pointed with the piece of cake in his hand, “is when things change, sometimes we change with them. And that leaves you questioning. So, you’ve got to figure out what you want. What kind of captain you’ll be.” Trip took a massive bite, crumbs falling gently to the counter. “But you’ve also got to realize you’ll make mistakes. You have to recover and learn from them.”
“So, what you’re saying is it’s okay to screw up.”
“I guess so, yeah. It’s inevitable, especially for a bonehead like you.”
“Dick.” But I said it affectionately. I realized I missed having Trip around, giving me shit but keeping me in line too. Dante was too good-natured, Allen was too grouchy lately, and Goldstein was just like him, but maybe with fewer brain cells.
“So, I hear you’ve got a new girl.” Trip grinned, but I held back a grimace.
“Remember how you said it was okay to screw up?”
* * *
The first fewsessions back after traveling were brutal. Each night ended with burning muscles, though I relished the exertion.
This was what I was good at, though, the smooth glide of skates over ice, the slap of my stick against the puck, the scraping of my blades when I stopped. The familiar whoosh of tape wrapping around the handle of my stick. The muscle memory of gearing up, of sliding my hands into well-worn gloves. Even pushing my body to its limits, being slammed into the wall, or getting my ass handed to me. It was all part of the game.
I’d only ever been good at that part, breaking and getting broken. Bodies and physicality. Never connecting.
If baseball was romantic, hockey was its horny brother.
I was the grinning playboy to my cousin’s surly focus.
Thatwas what I should stick to. Blades and sweat andskating.
Seeing Trip, taking his advice to heart helped, but I was still… lost. Not up to the job. But at least the conversation with my old captain sparked a plan. Enough late nights, missed sleep, and a whole lot of desperation made up most of the stupid plan. Okay, maybe notstupid, but definitely unconventional. When I messaged my cousin Ethan about my idea, I got a novel-length text rant about yoga mats and team building. Good thing yoga wasn’t on the agenda. Maybe I should invite him, his new wife, Ivy, and their kids to a game.
As much as it hurt to think about her, the idea to implement better teamwork came from Olivia. At the concert, she’d said how much she loved dad rock. Then I remembered how much fun we had that night, dancing and singing along with the wrong lyrics. In a fit of insomnia-fueled inspiration, I decided the way to prove myself to Coach and the team was for us to learn something together, to work together to improve as a team.
Then I had thebrilliantidea to teach them a routine set to music. Sort of like Ted Lasso, but on ice and not set to N’SYNC.
All it took was putting together a handful of simple moves and a playlist titled ‘hype jamz’. I was absolutely enough of an asshole to leave the z. With enough tricks, we’d stay entertained enough to keep practicing until we got it right, plus the music was enough to get anyone moving. Besides, the plan was for practices and warm-ups, not a show for an audience. It was for us.
At first, the team objected, but I pretended I was confident in my decision and went through the whole thing on the ice by myself. Dante clapped and loudly proclaimed he wanted to try, too.
I could’ve kissed him. I didn’t, because he wasn’t Olivia, but it was damn close.
My semi-success in pitching my idea had me throwing myself into learning more about leadership, reading books, and listening to podcasts.
Still, something was missing.
* * *
