Page 81 of Unmanageable

He turns his head slightly to look at Scottie. “And who is this in the secondary position? The representative! The negotiation specialist! The red-headed powerhouse herself, checking the perimeter!”

Scottie clears her throat, caught off guard by the sudden sports-broadcaster energy radiating from her momentary crush. “Hi. Scottie. I handle his paperwork.”

“The paperwork is secured!” Vance bellows, turning on his heel and gesturing for us to follow him toward the locker rooms. “We are moving down the eastern corridor! Velocity is moderate! The goaltender is carrying his own luggage, displaying excellent lower-back mechanics, especially given the previous clavicle trauma!”

I look down at Scottie as we walk. Her shoulders are already shaking. She’s biting her lower lip so hard it’s turning white, her eyes wide with pure, unadulterated joy.

“Don’t do it,” I whisper to her, nudging her shoulder with mine. “Do not break. I thought you said he’s hot, Scottie? Is the headset microphone doing it for you?”

“I’m not saying a word,” she whispers back, her face turning red as she tries not to laugh.

“I just have eyes.” I mimic her earlier tone, leaning down slightly.

“Oh, stop it,” she giggles, reaching out to give the sleeve of my hoodie a playful tug. “Okay, fine, maybe he’s not even that hot. Up close, the tan might just be a really aggressive spray situation. Happy?”

“Slightly,” I say, a massive grin tearing across my face. “Go sit on the bench, Sharky. I have to go put my pads on.”

Ten minutes later, I’m fully dressed in my gear, stepping onto the ice.

The rink is totally empty except for Vance, who is currently pacing the center red line like a man preparing to call the seventh game of the Stanley Cup Finals.

His headset volume is apparently hooked into the rink’s overhead PA system, because every word he says is echoing off the corrugated metal ceiling with a deafening, metallic rattle.

“And the big man takes the ice!” Vance’s voice booms through the rafters. “The skates cut the surface! A deep, resonant crunch from the left blade! He looks large! He looks hungry!”

I glide toward the crease, scraping my blades along the goal line to build up a cushion of loose snow.

I look back over at the bench. All I can see is Scottie’s head above the boards, her forehead pressed against the plastic, her shoulders shaking so hard with laughter that I’m pretty sure she’s forgotten how breathing works.

She is completely, utterly lost to the comedy of this situation. Her face is bright red, and she gives me a tiny, encouraging wave that tells me she’s not going to survive the hour.

“Alright, Cash-man!” Vance yells, blowing his whistle directly into his own microphone, creating a high-pitched squeal that makes me wince inside my mask. “We are starting with the lateral recovery drill! The objective is simple: tracking the phantom puck from the high slot to the low circle! And… go!”

I drop into the butterfly, my knees hitting the ice with a sharp slap, and push off with my right skate to slide across the crease.

“He’s down! He’s sliding! Look at the extension on the pad!” Vance yells into the PA. “He tracks left, he shifts the weight, he looks like an absolute mountain out there! Ladies and gentlemen, we are witnessing the return of the Boston Glacier!”

I stop dead in the middle of my crease, my skates spraying ice.

The Boston Glacier?

I look back over at the bench. Scottie has dropped to her knees behind the boards, her forehead pressed against the plastic, her shoulders heaving as she laughs so hard she’s probably not breathing.

“Coach,” I call out. “Can we maybe do this without the play-by-play? It’s a little hard to track the puck when you’re calling my breakfast choices over the speakers.”

“An objection from the athlete!” Vance narrates. “The Glacier prefers silence! He wants the cold, quiet isolation of the tundra! But the crowd demands engagement!”

I let out a sigh inside my helmet, adjusting my blocker. “Fine. Just shoot the puck.”

Every single movement I make is broadcasted to the empty arena with the intensity of a national championship. If I drop too early, Vance calls it a “premature collapse of the defensive wall.” If I make a glove save, it’s a “spectacular robbery in broad daylight.”

I try to focus on the trajectory of the rubber, but every time I start to get into a rhythm, Vance drops another ridiculous line into the microphone.

“He catches it! A routine grab, but executed with the flair of a Broadway performer! The Boston Glacier refuses to melt under the high-altitude pressure!”

I glance at Scottie again. She’s sitting on the bench now, holding her phone up, clearly recording the entire thing. When she sees me looking, she mouths the words Boston Glacier and blows me a kiss with maximum theatrical mockery.

“You’re fired,” I yell across the ice.