A phrase glows red in my mind, like a bright neon light.If you can’t do, teach.
Do they think that if I could fucking play again, I wouldn’t? That I’m just coaching because I decided I’m not good enough anymore? What kind of fuckery is that?
I’ve gone through hell and back and back to hell again. I’m probably scheduled for a million round trips to that horrible destination for the rest of my life because my arm will never be fully healed. It will never be the same. The healing game is forever. To get faster, to deal with the pain, it’s forever. Not something I can just wish away.
I’m fuming as I glance up at the time and realize I have to head back. I quickly finger-brush my hair out in the mirror andmake sure it looks all right before throwing the door open and striding through.
It’s one article—no, not even an article because it’s just some dumb man on social media running his unfiltered and uneducated mouth. I practically black out, and before I know it, I’m in the tunnel to the bench, closer to the ice than I’ve ever been, still seeing red.
Players approach, strolling down the hallway in a formed line with Matt front and center. His eyes are already on me when I look up, concern pinched between his brows.
He slows near me, stopping the line behind me, which he definitely shouldn’t be doing right now.
Turning to me, he blocks the few players at his back from overhearing as he says, “Shay—” He catches himself far too late. “You good?”
My eyes start to widen as I feel onlooking stares burn into me, and I nod sharply, the only response he‘s getting about my mental state. I hold myself higher, strong and powerful as I avoid answering his question and instead say, “MacArthur, good luck.”
He doesn’t believe my nod, not completely at least, but slight humor glimmers in his gaze, and he winks, clearly leaving the page of being professional that we already established. “Thanks, Coach.”
There’s something about the way he says it, something that pulls deep within my core. I’m trying not to focus on it.Shaywas hard enough to ignore.Coachwas supposed to be neutral, unromantic territory. But when he says it … it feels anything but.
I don’t smile or react to his wink. Instead, I slightly scowl, turning my attention away from him altogether to an approaching Andy. If Matt won’t stay on the page we established, then I’ll staple his ass to it.
I know that he was just trying to make me smile or chuckle because he could clearly tell something was wrong. But it doesn’t matter. I’m loving this job, and I’m not going to risk losing it. Which is exactly what I’m going to tell him—again—when this game is over.
Thankfully, we win, ending the series against the Penguins and advancing to the next round. Our opponent isn’t set yet. We’re still waiting for the winner of that round to be crowned. In the meantime, we’ll recover, practice, and prepare.
There’s no smooth time to steal Matt away for a conversation without drawing the attention of other players or coaches. So, instead, when we get on the bus to take us to the team hotel tonight, I open Instagram and send him a message.
Good game. On to the next.
I can’t see him with how far back he’s sitting, but I’m not left pondering long because he answers almost immediately.
Matt: Horrible flirting skills, Rooney.
I’m not flirting. I’m your coach. You’re my player. That’s all we can be.
For now.
The thought appears out of nowhere, but I ignore it.
Matt: Tell me I’m your player again. I liked it.
What has gotten into him? He said he was fine being friends, but clearly, he wants more.
Matt, I’m serious. You and I do not have time for anything other than a professional relationship. Especially going into the next round. Please.
We put the team first.
Typing bubbles appear and disappear a thousand times before his next message comes through.
Matt: You don’t have to tell me twice, Shay. I’ll keep it professional. I promise. I’m sorry I pushed it too far. I never want you to be uncomfortable.
He doesn’t make me uncomfortable or uneasy. Honestly, I’ve never felt safer around someone than I dohim. But that’s part of the problem.
So, instead of assuring him that I love his worries, I send a quick formal message, trying to ignore the sensation of a thousand pounds in my gut.
Thank you. See you next practice, Mr. MacArthur.
