Page 4 of Check the Halls
“Good work out there today, Michaels.”
Coach Stetson calls after me on my way to the locker room. I’m not surprised that he was watching me during practice; I could feel his sharp gaze following me on the ice. But in the two years he’s been the head coach of the Otters, he has rarely gone out of his way to compliment me.
I blink, caught a little off guard, but I manage a winded, "Thanks, Coach."
"No, I mean it.” His tone is firm but genuine as he takes a step towards me. Even though I’m 6’2” and wearing skates, he’s still taller than me. His nickname when he played pro was “Behemoth,” for obvious reasons. He’s an absolute mountain of a man with shoulders so broad they could carry the entire team. "You’ve been making smart plays, setting guys up, and putting in the effort on both ends. That’s the kind of player we need. The kind your teammates can look up to."
The praise hits me like a clean check—unexpected, but solid. My instinct is to brush it off, say something abouthow the whole team was working hard, but the look in his eyes tells me to just take the compliment.
"I appreciate that," I say with a nod.
"Keep it up.” He pats my shoulder before turning to walk away. "Effort like that makes a difference."
I watch him head back to the bench, a mix of pride and determination rising in my chest. I’ve had a lot of coaches in my lifetime, some better than others, but Coach Stetson is a cut above the rest. He was forced to retire young after a devastating, career-ending injury. Now, at forty years old, he’s one of the youngest head coaches in the league. He’s the kind of leader I don’t want to disappoint, not because I’m scared of him—though, if I’m honest, I kind of am—but because I respect the hell out of him.
The kind your teammates can look up to.
I’ve never been that guy. I’ve spent my whole career being good at one thing: taking care ofme. Stats, contracts, endorsements—those I can manage. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t have made it to where I am in my career without being an asset for my team. I’m the guy you rely on to protect the net or throw the hit, just not the guy you come to for an inspiring pep talk.
For the first three years I played for this team, I was the person my teammates would come to when they needed a night out to get drunk or get laid. Often both. I was never the guy they’d turn to for advice on how to work through a problem.
But I wanted to be. And after a wake up call last Christmas, I’ve spent the better part of last season trying to be that guy, on and off the ice.
Emboldened by Coach’s praise, I stride into the lockerroom determined to pay it forward. Most of my teammates are already in the showers, but Foster, Will, and Austin are milling about. Austin Crawford is talking because he’s always fucking talking. His blond hair is a mess like always, that smug grin plastered on his face like he’s in a perpetual highlight reel. He never shuts up. Ever. Trash talk, chirps, or just running his mouth about anything and everything, like he’s afraid silence might kill him.
He’s fast, I’ll give him that. Skilled too, though he’ll remind you of that ten times a day, just in case you forget. And somehow, beneath all the cockiness and chaos, there’s a guy you’d go to war with. Annoying as hell, yeah, but when it counts, he’s got your back. Plus, he’s not the team rookie anymore and I’ve decided to have more patience with him this year. Or try to, at least.
As I pass him on the way to my stall, I give him a similar shoulder pat to the one our coach just gave me. “Nice hustle today, Crawford.”
Austin eyes me warily, like he’s waiting for the backhanded part of the compliment. “Yeah?”
“I mean it. That goal you scored in the scrimmage? Gorgeous. Nice job finding the soft spot in the coverage.”
Austin blinks a few times, like I’ve spoken to him in a language he’s not entirely fluent in. Then he stammers, “Oh, uh, thanks. Yeah, thanks, man.” His face turns red, and he looks down at the floor like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
I’ve rendered him speechless. Until this very moment, I didn’t know it was possible for him to voluntarily stop talking.
Austin grabs his towel and practically speed walkstowards the showers. Once he’s gone, Will and Foster turn their dumbfounded gazes on me.
“What?” I ask.
“You gave Austin a compliment.” Foster is not one to waste words. You could say that my closest friend and the team goalie is the opposite of Austin. He’s not flashy or loud, he doesn’t brag, doesn’t show off, just does what needs to be done. Whether it’s on the ice, at work, or anywhere else, he’s the best person I know. And it’s a damn good thing, considering he’s dating my sister.
“So?”
“So you’ve never done that before,” my fellow defenseman, Will, explains. He’s smiling as usual, his white teeth standing out against his dark brown skin. On the ice, he’s a beast—a wall of muscle, towering over just about everyone else out there. But off the ice? He’s our team teddy bear, stuffed with marshmallow fluff. “Is Austin dying?” His dark eyes grow comically round. “Oh God, are you dying?”
“No one is dying,” I scowl. We’ve played with Austin for more than a year. Have I really never given him a compliment? I’ve given him plenty of shit–most of which he probably deserved. Then there was the time I punched him in the face.Thathe definitely had coming.
If you want to be less self-involved, try performing selfless acts.
The line sounds like something you’d get in a fortune cookie, but it’s actually from a book I’ve been reading calledI Bet You Think This Book Is About You: A Guide For The Egocentric.We all laughed when I unwrapped it last Christmas, my whole family sitting around my parents living room. A gift from my older sister, Tara, who had always given me grief for being full of myself. It's only been in thelast year that I realized she, and everyone else in my family, actually felt that way.
My parents used to sit through every one of my games, freezing their asses off in those old rinks, hauling me from tournament to tournament like it was their life’s mission. My siblings gave up weekends and vacations because my hockey took priority over everything else. There was never a conversation about it. It’s just the way it was.
And me? I just expected it. It was normal. The world was supposed to revolve around me and hockey because it always had and probably always would.
Not anymore.
