Page 29 of Cross Check Christmas
"Yeah," Danny chimes in. "Bet you're just killing time here until your agent calls with a better deal."
I toss him a puck. "Less gossip, more skating."
"My dad says you're just another greedy NHL player." Brenden Lee stops at the boards, his stance challenging. "Says guys like you forget where they came from."
The words hit harder than any check I've taken. "Your dad's entitled to his opinion. Now get moving."
"Why bother? You'll be gone in a week anyway," mutters Todd Jensen, a lanky defenseman who reminds me way too much of myself at that age. The rest of the team stays silent, but their faces say it all.
My throat tightens. These kids don't understand - can't understand - the pressure of professional sports, contract negotiations, trade deadlines. But something in their tone, that mix of disappointment and judgment, takes me right back to being seventeen and desperate for a shot at the big leagues.
"Look, contract stuff is complicated-"
"But you're making millions already, right?" Jake's voice echoes though the rink. "Must be nice to just sit around waiting for an even bigger payday while the rest of us are trying to get scholarships."
I grip my stick harder, knuckles white against the tape, trying to find the right words to explain. But how do you tell a bunch of teenagers that sometimes the game you love becomes a business that breaks your heart? These kids think I'm just some entitled pro who doesn't care about their dreams or development. The worst part? I can't even blame them. From the outside, that's exactly what this looks like.
I watch these kids staring at me with disappointment; these kids who remind me so much of myself at their age. They've got that same fire, that same desperate need to prove themselves. And here I am, their supposed mentor, looking like exactly the kind of sellout I used to hate.
My thoughts drift to the caroling squad, their Santa hats bobbing as they sang. Those kids put in three hours of practice just to tell me off. That's the kind of dedication I used to have, before agents and contracts complicated everything.
And Colette... brilliant, beautiful Colette - probably sitting in her classroom right now, thinking she's won this round. But shedoesn't know me very well if she thinks I give up that easily. Neither do these kids.
Something within me clicks. I've been going about this all wrong - with the team, with the drama kids, with Colette. Time to stop playing defense and make a real play.
"You know what?" I call out, my voice bouncing off the empty stands. "Extra practice tomorrow morning. Six AM sharp."
The team groans.
"And the next morning. And every morning until you're ready to put your blood, sweat and tears where your mouth is." I skate to center ice. "You want to judge me? Fine. But do it after you've seen where I can take you as a team. After we win the Winter Classic tournament."
I've never wanted anything as badly as I want to prove myself right now - to these kids, to this town, to Colette. Maybe especially to Colette. That spark I felt for her in high school never really went away. It just got buried under years of NHL contracts and road trips and trying to be the fun guy everyone expected.
"You want the truth? Here it is: I love hockey more than anything. It's not about the money - it never was. But sometimes in the NHL, things get complicated. Politics, negotiations, all that boring stuff that has nothing to do with what happens on this ice."
The team inches closer, their faces skeptical but curious. Jake scoffs.
"But you know what isn't complicated? Being here, coaching you guys. Teaching what I know."
Jake's shoulders tense, but he holds my gaze. He's got a big chip on his shoulder, and it's got to do with more than just hockey. Kind of reminds me of my brother, Liam, except Liam would tend to keep things bottled up. But that never stopped him from making a name for himself as the best defenseman theNebraska Knights have ever known. Maybe I'm biased because he's my big brother. That's okay.
"You think college scouts care about your feelings?" I go on. "You think NHL coaches are going to pat you on the back and tell you everything's okay?" I skate closer, my voice sharp against the cold air. "They're going to push you harder than you've ever been pushed. They're going to expect more than you think you can give. And if you can't handle it, there's always someone else waiting to take your spot."
Jensen shifts his weight, his earlier bravado faltering. "But-"
"But nothing. You want to play at the next level? This is what it takes. Early mornings. Late nights. Pushing through when your muscles are screaming and your lungs are burning. And yeah, sometimes dealing with coaches who aren't going to sugarcoat things."
I tap my stick against the ice, the sharp sound echoing through the rink. "I'm not here to be your friend. I'm here to make you better players. To prepare you for what's coming. Because trust me, what you're dealing with now? This is nothing compared to what's waiting for you out there."
Half the boys are listening intently. The other half are scowling at me. Tough crowd.
"Right now, you're mad because I'm not living up to your expectations. Good. Channel that. Use it. Because when you step onto that college ice or into those pro tryouts, no one's going to care what you think you deserve. They're going to care what you can do."
I tap my stick against the ice, pointing at each player in turn. "Miller, your crossovers are sloppy. Jensen, you telegraph every pass. Lee, you're scared of getting hit so you pull back on checks. I see all of it, and I'm calling it out not because I'm mean, but because everyone else will see it too."
The rink falls silent except for the hum of the cooling system.
"I'm here because this is where I started. Same rink, same dreams. And yeah, maybe I'll get traded. Maybe I'll sign a new contract. But right now? I'm your coach. And I'm going to prepare you for what's coming, not what you want to hear."
