What I don’t expect is the turnout.
Six players. That’s it. But I’ll take six guys who actually need flexibility work, who actually want to improve, who show up with water bottles and focused expressions instead of smirks and wandering eyes.
Three weeks ago, I had twenty-three players packed into a room meant for fifteen, none of thempaying attention to anything except my body. Now I have six who are here to work.
The change is remarkable.
“Alright,” I say, clapping my hands. “Let’s start with hip openers. Everyone grab a strap.”
The session flows smoothly. I guide them through a series of stretches designed for hockey players—hip flexors, hamstrings, lower back, all the areas that get tight from skating and checking and the general violence of the sport. The guys follow instructions. They ask questions about form. They actually try.
This is what I wanted. This is why I took this job.
An hour later, we finish up and they filter out, heading to the locker room to gear up for morning skate. I start collecting equipment, rolling up mats, stacking blocks.
“Need some help?”
I look up. Banks is standing there.
I wasn’t sure if he’d even arrived at the facility yet. Now he’s standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his athletic shorts, looking like he’s not entirely sure what to do with himself.
“I’m almost done,” I say. “But thanks.”
He doesn’t leave.
I raise an eyebrow. “Something else you need?”
He shifts his weight. Opens his mouth. Closes it. For a man of few words, he’s using even fewer than usual.
“Spit it out, Banks.”
“My hip flexors,” he says finally. “They’re tight.”
I can’t help it—I laugh. “Your hip flexors.”
“Yeah.”
“Is this just a ploy to get close to me?”
A faint flush creeps up his neck. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”
“Convenient.”
“It’s not—” He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. “They’re actually tight. The flight. The hotel bed. I can feel it when I skate.”
He’s not wrong. Long travel days wreak havoc on hip flexors, especially for bigger guys. And Banks is definitely a bigger guy.
“Okay,” I say, trying to keep my voice professional. “Grab a mat. I’ll walk you through some stretches.”
He actually sits. Right there on the mat, folding his massive frame into a cross-legged position that looks almost comically uncomfortable. His knees stick up because his hips are that tight.
“Wow,” I say. “You weren’t kidding.”
“Told you.”
I kneel beside him, assessing. “Okay, let’s start with a basic lunge stretch. Right leg forward, left leg back. Sink into it slowly.”
He moves into position, and I guide him with my hands—one on his hip, one on his lower back, adjusting his alignment. His body is warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. Solid. Unyielding.
