“But not here. There will be no happy endings to your massage today, mister. Now lie back down and let me finish.”
I grumble, but it’s good-natured. And inside, I’m smiling like a fool.
She wants it. She wantsme.
Later in the afternoon, I finally respond to the voicemail left by the Westport Ravens team. They’re not annoyed by me taking a few days to get back to them and briefly outline their offer. It’s more than generous.
But first, they invite me to come to the arena and check it out, and to meet with some people from management, as well as the goalie coach. When they mention the name Igor Louka, my interest skyrockets. The man is a legend in the hockey world. He’s coached multiple championship teams. Rumour was he moved to the West Coast, but I lost track of things with the chaos of a new season starting, and then my injury. The idea of working alongside him makes it slightly easier to accept reality.
I’ve been holding onto the faint hope that I might be able to return to the team, but despite the work I’m putting in — that Lily’s putting in — I have to face facts. My knee is not going to magically be better in time to skate this season, if ever.
Which means, it’s time to grow the fuck up. Getting to my age and still being an active player is a rarity. But my love of the game and my commitment to my team kept me going and made me turn a blind eye to any hint of conversation about retirement.
Joke’s on me, I guess.
I text my dad to ask if he wants to come with me to check out the arena. Partly because I need the ride, and partly because I value his opinion above almost anyone else.
What awaits us in Westport somehow causes the decisions I need to make both easier and harder. The arena is a thing of beauty. State of the art, top of the line everything. From the multiple rinks to the gym, to treatment areas, locker rooms, offices — all of it is amazing. It’s clear LaRoy and management spared no expense. Meeting with him, and with Brody Olsen the GM, I start to actually get excited about the idea of coaching.
But on the drive home, my dad is silent. Even more than normal. And that silence opens the door for doubts to creep into my head.
“I don’t know what to do.”
Dad’s head moves up and down thoughtfully, but he says nothing.
“I don’t want to stop playing. I don’t want to sign the fucking paperwork that ends my career. How do I walk away from so many years with the team? I know I’m the fucking idiot who stuck his head in the sand and didn’t think about retirement, but I did. And now I feel like I’m being forced to make a decision I’m not ready for.” Now that the words of self-doubt and grief and anger have started, I can’t stop them. They flow out of me like a river of lava, burning me from the inside as they pour out. “And what if I’m not cut out to be a coach? What if I take the job, and in a few months, they realize I’m a total hack and they let me go? Then what? Then I’m not only a washed-up player, but I’m also a failed coach. I’ve got nothing to fall back on. Jesus Christ, I’m an idiot. I have nothing to offer except hockey, and now I can’t even do that right.”
One hot tear tracks down my cheek and I brush it away angrily.No. More. Tears.I shed enough in the early days after my injury. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna start wallowing again.
Dad swings his car into the parking lot for some diner along the highway between Westport and Dogwood Cove. “Let’s get a cup of coffee.”
He climbs out without leaving any room for discussion. After taking a couple of deep breaths, I follow him into the diner. It smells like greasy food and cheap coffee. The vinyl booths are cracked and worn, and there’s only one other guy sitting at the counter.
We slide into a booth and I pick up a menu just for something to do. I’m not hungry, however. When a waitress comes over, Dad orders a cup of coffee for each of us. She leaves and then his hand pushes the menu down away from my face.
“No hiding, son. Not from me, not from your future, not from your emotions.”
The waitress drops off the cups of coffee and I busy myself with stirring in some creamer. I take a sip and grimace. “This is nasty.”
Dad lifts his cup to his mouth and his reaction mimics mine. “We aren’t here for the coffee.”
A sigh escapes me. “I don’t know what you expect me to say, Dad. I’m not hiding.I can’t.Because every goddamn morning when I wake up and see the scars on my leg, I get a dose of reality. Every day that I don’t lace up a pair of skates and hit the ice, I have to face facts. I just don’t have a fucking clue what to do with those facts.”
“You just keep moving. Doesn’t matter if it’s forward, backward, or sideways. You keep on moving. And every step will eventually lead you to a place where you know what to do. Where the choice becomes clear, and then when you’re ready, you step into your new future.”
I exhale loudly. “Okay, so what do I donow?”
“You need to figure out how to get your heart to accept what your brain already knows. It’s time to move on and figure out a life after the NHL. Think about where you want to be, who you want to be with, what you want to be doing. And none of those answers have to include being here, with your family, and taking this job if that doesn’t feel right. But no matter what, you need to take a step.”
A vision fills my head, well, more like fragments of a vision. Different moments in time, flashing through my mind at lightning speed. Some of them feel right, some of them don’t.
My apartment in Montana, empty and cold.
My parents’ house, filled with my family for family dinners.
Poker nights with my brothers. Going for drinks and watching the game at Hastings.
Max and Heidi’s inevitable wedding, or Kat and Hunter’s, if they get there first.
