I shrug and stand up.“If avoiding hits works for you, go back to it.If wearing clothes that smell like rotting corpses helps your mindset, do it.If I fucked with your mojo, do what you’ve gotta do to get it back.”
“Don’t give yourself that much credit.You didn’t fuck with anything.My dad just started cancer treatment, so I’m not sleeping much.If I get sent to Hershey, at least I’ll be closer to home.”
I shake my head, feeling even worse about the outhouse thing.“I’m sorry.”
“They caught it early.His prognosis is good.”
“Good.Will he be glad if you end up back in Hershey?”
Cole scoffs, almost smiling.“Fuck no.My dad’s a youth hockey coach.He’s been at every game I’ve ever played until this cancer bullshit.”
“So fight, then.He’s fighting fucking cancer; you fight for your spot on this team.”
He gives me the finger, his smile spreading.“Don’t quit hockey to become a motivational speaker with that cheesy bullshit.”
“Yeah, well, you look like a cheesy movie character.The mouthy teenage son who got grounded for staying out too late.Get your ass up.”
He scowls, but stands.
“The film session starts in five minutes,” I say.“Be on time.Have a good attitude.Learn something.”
“I’m going to the film session.”He glares at me, sounding annoyed.“Get off my dick.”
“Quit feeling sorry for yourself.”
He looks like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t.I start walking toward the small auditorium we watch video in, and he comes, too.
“You suck at pep talks,” he mutters.
“You suck at emotional regulation.”
I hear his gasp.“Oh, that’s rich, coming from the guy who wanted to fight me over my nickname.”
“I boiled over that day, and I own it.But you will never, ever see me get emotional during a game.You showboat when you score, you yap at the refs, you slam the bench door, and you overskate your shifts.”
He doesn’t respond.Probably because any response would fall flat.Opponents can read him like a book, and coaches and teammates don’t want a guy they can’t trust on their team.
When we’re almost to the video room, I say, “Work on it.We’ve got a mindset coach who can help you with it.”
He looks sheepish for a second, and then he says, “When you push off, your back leg lags too long.Makes you slower.Even an old guy like you can drill that out.”
I open my mouth to argue with him, but then close it.I shouldn’t assume he’s wrong.
“I’ll watch for it in my videos,” I say.
We go inside the video room and find seats.One of our assistant coaches, Shawn, leads the session.
We’re only about ten minutes in when Leo yells, “Oh shit!Mara’s in labor!”
Good thing I finished knitting their baby blankets.
Leo just gapes at his phone screen for a couple seconds, and then Coach Turner says, “Get moving, Abbott!Go be with your wife.”
Carter’s already halfway to the door, calling over his shoulder.“I’ll drive him.”
They both race out of the room and we return to the video session, but about five minutes later, Leo runs back through the door, looking panicked.
“The fucking parking garage door won’t go up!The security people are trying to fix it, but ...should I call an Uber?Is anyone not parked underground?”
