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Me riding the pine while everyone else is on the ice?
Even the thought is enough to twist my gut into a series of painful little knots, which only sets my nerves further on edge and makes me question every damn move I make. It’s a vicious cycle that’s never ending.
If I’d known Coach K would leave us high and dry, I would have skipped this bullshit and gone straight to play for Chicago, since they picked me up during the draft after my sophomore season. No contracts were signed, so I was still eligible to play the next two years for Western. At the end of my junior season, I had a convo with Brody McKinnon and my parents. We discussed the pros and cons of making a move to the next level. In the end, we all agreed that one more year dominating in college would do me good. It would allow me time to sharpen my skills and build more muscle, so I’d be a force to be reckoned with in the pros.
Every time you level up—be it from house to travel, travel to college or juniors, college to the NHL—it’s a transition and there’s a learning curve. You have to work harder because the competition is that much better.
The game moves at a faster pace.
Some guys thrive on the challenge, while others get chewed up and spit out, never to be heard from again. They end up coaching a high school team in bumfuck nowhere. I don’t plan on being dropkicked into the latter category. I’ve been working toward the NHL my entire life.
So, to have this prick come along in the final hours and fuck with my mojo as well as my dreams?
No. Not going to happen.
I refocus my attention on Garret Akeman as he skates toward me with the puck. Behind the cage, his lips spread into a slow smile. If there’s one guy who is enjoying my fall from grace, it’s him.
Asshole.
We came in together as freshmen and have not so quietly been competing for the past three years. And since Coach K preferred me over him, it wasn’t a contest.
Not really.
Wouldn’t you know that the new guy thinks Akeman can do no wrong?
“Looks like your position is up for grabs, McAdams. Who would have guessed that you’d peak before the end of college? Sucks to be you.”
I don’t bother with a response. Instead, I knock into his shoulder and skate past.
The rest of practice only goes downhill from there. Every little thing I do, Philips is there with a complaint.
I need to work on my positioning. I’m giving my opponent too much space to make a play.
I’m not getting my stick in the passing lanes.
I’m not taking the body when I have the chance.
My decision-making needs work.
By the time I hop off the ice, my muscles ache and I want to smash my fist into something.
Preferably Akeman’s smug face.
I swear, every time Coach bellowed at me, Garret was right there with a shit-eating grin plastered across his mug. I don’t know how I’ll get through an entire season of this.
I seriously don’t.
That thought is enough to send me mentally spiraling.
Every time I step onto the ice for practice, I tell myself that this will be the one where I turn it around.
That has yet to happen. Only now am I beginning to wonder if it ever will.
I shove my way into the locker room and throw my stick in the rack near the door before stalking inside and dropping onto the bench as if the weight of the world is resting on my shoulders. Sweat rolls down the back of my neck as I unsnap my helmet and yank it off my head.
Ford does the same before shaking out his hair. “That guy really has it out for you.”
I glare. “Gee, what gave you that idea? The fact that he gives me a colonoscopy every damn time I’m on the ice?”
