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“So you’re blaming our shitty start on me?” I asked.
“I’m not blaming anything on you. I want a different look on the back end. Cotton’s showing promise. We all knew he’d take your position someday—it just happened a lot sooner than anyone expected.”
I grimaced. The first overall pick in the entry draft last year, Cale was already a rookie sensation. The smooth-skating, baby-faced phenom is supposed to “revolutionize” the position of defense by, well,notplaying defense, and focusing on offense instead.
Confused? Yeah. So am I. Welcome to the new age of hockey. Hell, I’m still trying to figure out if Cale Cotton is named after a vegetable or a fabric. Look, he’s a nice enough kid, but you’ll have to forgive me if I’m not exactly thrilled about some teenager stealing my job…
“Fine, give Cotton 1D,” I said, gritting my teeth as I relinquished my role as the team’s top d-man. “But why do you have to sit me? Can’t you play me on the second or third pairing, at least?”
Coach Miller shrugged. “I like our second and third units the way they are, Rust.”
“Before the season began, you told me you wanted me toleadthis team,” I said, though it sounded more like an accusation.“You said you wanted a veteran on the blue line. A hard-nosed d-man with experience. Someone to mentor Cotton on the defensive side of the puck. Someone with fire, someone who played with an edge—”
“And Idowant all that, Rust. Still.” Coach steepled his fingers and peered at me. “Let’s face it. You’re not exactly giving me that out there.”
I’d been in the league nineteen years, and notoncehad a coach ever questioned my effort. It felt like a punch to the gut.
“Wha’?” My jaw fell open. “What are you saying, Killer?”
“I always liked coaches who were honest with me, so I’ll be honest with you.” He drew in a deep breath. “You look like you’re going through the motions out there, Rust. I don’t see the fire in your game. It’s gone. Missing. Honestly, you look like you’ve lost your passion for the game.”
Hearing that hurt. A rush of sadness went to my throat, growing like a lump in my neck. What hurt the most, though, wasn’t his criticism of my game—rather, it was how howtruehis words rang. I hadn’t noticed it myself. But as soon as he’d pointed it out, I felt it. He was right.
Somewhere down the line, I’dlost my passion for the game.
Which scared the shit out of me.
Because the game was all I had. All Ieverhad. I couldn’t lose hockey—I’d be lost without it. The boys were my family.
“No,” I murmured.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Rust. I know how much it sucks being told that the fire’s gone. When my coach told me I was cooked, I smashed his desk in half.”
“No,” I repeated.
“I know how hard it is coming to the rink year after year, too. The constant travel, the sleepless nights on a shitty hotel bed, the grueling practices, the workouts, the diets.” His hand turned like an endless wheel. “Theroutine,Rust. It wears on a man; it drags him down. And the thing is, you’ve been doing it for so long, you don’t even realizeyou’re bored as fuck.”
I shook my head. “I’m not bored.”
“You sure? Because you playlike you’re bored,” he countered.
“Why, because I’m not trying to kill a guy every shift?” I asked. “Because I’m not getting up in guys’ grills and mixing it up after every whistle? Because I’m not looking to blast in a goal every time I’ve got the puck at the point? Because I’m not staying out late after every game, drinking and chasing tail?”
Coach Miller spread his hands as if to say,well, yeah, that’s exactly my point?
I tutted. “Killer. They beat it out of me.”
Theywere all the other coaches I’d ever had in my career. Play in this league long enough—especially in the era thatIplayed in—and coaches will inevitably succeed in turning you into a nameless, faceless robot that plays his system like any other cog in a well-oiled machine. All your individual strengths and unique talents are hammered out of you. Banished for the sake of the system and safe, predictable hockey.
“That’s a damn shame,” Killer said. “Because my hope was, with a fresh start in Vegas, you might be able to find that passion again.”
“Just gimme a chance. Put me in.”
He shook his head. “Not tonight. Listen, Rust, I won’t do you dirty. We’ll slot you into the lineup here and there, you know, against weaker opponents.”
I tried not to laugh. The way things stood,wewere the weaker opponents—the worst team in the league, in fact. Did that mean he’d never play me again?
“By season’s end,” he continued, “you’ll have a few more games under your belt, we’ll give you a big sendoff, and you can ride off into the sunset to enjoy retirement.”
