Page 9 of Beyond the Lines
“Alright, ladies!” Coach Barrett’s voice booms across the rink. “Enough showing off. Hit the showers.”
I share a look with Mike, surprised Coach has let us off so easy in the first practice, but we heed the instruction. We let the others file off first, and as we head into the locker room together, the familiar scent of sweat and equipment hits me like a wall.
Coach follows us in, his clipboard tucked under one arm. He’s got that look—the one that means we’re about to get a speech. “Princeton,” he says.
“One week from today,” I mouth, because it’s the same speech from last year. “I want smart heads and full stomachs. No drinking, no stupid shit…”
“One week from today,” Coach says, voice booming as we take off our gear. “I want smart heads and full stomachs. No drinking, no stupid shit…”
Mike punches me on the arm, and we share a smirk. But the look hides the trepidation I feel. Not from nerves—I don’t get nervous before games anymore—but from anticipation. Princeton’s a tough match-up, and this year they’ve got some hotshot freshman center who’s been making waves.
“Their new center,” Coach continues, as if reading my mind, “made the game-winning shot for Canada in Junior Worlds. Kid’s got talent.”
“Yeah, butourcenter got recruited by the NHL straight out of high school,” Mike pipes up. “Right, Dec?”
“That was years ago.” Heat creeps up my neck. “And I told them ‘no thanks’ so I could hang out with you assholes…”
“Still counts.” Mike grins and slaps me on the back. “Once NHL material, always NHL material.”
I focus on unlacing my skates, trying to ignore the chorus of agreement from my teammates. I’ve never been comfortable with this kind of attention. On the ice, sure—that’s different, that’s showing and not telling—but talking about it, even among these guys, makes my skin crawl.
A moment of awkward silence follows, broken by Coach clearing his throat. “As I was saying,” he says, “Princeton’s tough. But we’ve got something they don’t.”
“Yeah,” Mike says, standing and thrusting his hips forward, his jock strap not doing much to hide the bulge there. “We’ve got?—”
“Ateam, Altman. Now keep it in your pants.” Coach cuts him off, giving him a pointed look. “Hockey isn’t a one-man show. It’s about working together, reading each other’s moves, anticipating plays before they happen. That’s what makes a team unstoppable.”
As Coach drones on, the guys are getting fired up now, talking over each other about how we’re going to “destroy” Princeton. Coach barks at us to save it for the game, but I catch the hint of a smile beneath his stern expression. He’s tough, but there’s a reason a guy who could have retired years ago sticks around…
“Channel that energy into practice,” he says. “I want you ready to?—”
“Decimate!” someone shouts.
“Annihilate!” adds another.
“Completely fucking obliterate!” That’s definitely Linc.
Coach raises his hands, flabbergasted, then walks away. After some shared laughter, some of the guys file toward the showers, still buzzing with energy. I hang back to finish packing up my gear. Mike lingers too, waiting until we’re relatively alone before speaking.
“You good?” he asks quietly. “About earlier, with the NHL thing…”
“I’m fine.” I zip up my bag. “Just wish people would let it go.”
“They’re proud of you, man. It takes balls to turn down the NHL for art school.”
I snort. “It’s not art school. It’s a regular degree with an art major.”
“Same difference.” He bumps my shoulder. “Point is, that takes guts.”
Or stupidity,I think, echoing my Dad’s words at the time.Turning down a golden ticket to finger paint…
His words had hurt me then, and they still do, but I’m not sure he’s wrong. I’d been scared at the time. Scared of committing my entire life to hockey before I had a chance to explore other passions. Scared of looking back in twenty years and wondering ‘what if?’
But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I just nod and head for the showers.
Under the hot water, I let my mind drift to the canvas waiting in my apartment. I’ve been working on a new piece—an abstract interpretation of movement on ice, allsweeping lines and dynamic energy—that’s not quite right yet.
Maybe that’s what my teammates don’t understand. Art isn’t just a hobby for me, or even a potential career path. It’s part of who I am, as much as hockey. The two aren’t separate entities but complementary forces, each making me better at the other.
