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CHAPTERONE
ELI
“Damn it!” Our center forward throws his helmet at the wall. We lost our first game. And yeah, it’s only a pre-season match but that doesn’t matter.
The atmosphere in the locker room is pretty much at rock bottom right now. The loss wasn’t Carter’s fault but he’s taking it personally. He’s a demon in front of the goal but nobody was feeding him the puck.
And I’m pissed because we’ve been practicing those set moves daily. They should know better.
“Sit down,” I say, looking around the room at the youthful faces screwed up in disappointment and anger. I like that they’re annoyed. They should be. They played like a bunch of amateurs out there.
And they’re not amateurs. They might be in the American Hockey League and not the NHL but they get paid for what they do.
Now and then, that’s supposed to include winning.
Everybody ignores my instruction. Which pisses me off even more.
“SIT THE FUCK DOWN!” I don’t like shouting but I’ll do it when I have to.
And it works. They all slump on the benches in front of their lockers, their expressions’ murderous.
“And shut the hell up,” I add for good measure, even though none of them are talking anymore. I take a deep breath and pinch my nose, trying to calm myself down.
This isn’t their fault. They’re still getting to know each other. Some of them have come straight from high school. I can’t expect NHL standards, even if that’s what I want. What I’m used to.
“Thank you,” I say when the last of them is seated. They’re all staring at me as though I’m about to deliver a sermon. Give them some insight that will make it all better.
Last season that was me sitting in front of my locker. It feels like a lifetime ago.
My eyes scan the locker room. It’s a nice set up, especially for the AHL. The room is lined with mahogany cabinets, each one with a team player’s name etched into it and a hook for their uniform below. Above them our team motto is painted along the space between the lockers and the ceiling.
HARD WORK BEATS TALENT.
Every one of these kids wants to make it to the NHL. They didn’t get drafted but they still have a chance. We’re a development team for the Boston Razors – the team I used to play for until one final knee injury pushed me out of the top leagues for good.
The development team system means that the Boston Razors can draft any of our players into the NHL at any time. And they can also trade down any of their players to Morgantown. We’re like a reserve squad, but hundreds of miles away. Somehow it works.
“Okay,” I exhale heavily. “Let’s get this over with because I’m pretty sure none of you will listen to what I have to say. But luckily for you I’m going to say it all again tomorrow when you arrive at the rink at six-thirty a.m., fresh and ready to practice.”
“But we don’t have six-thirty practices the day after a game,” Goran Olssen, our center half complains.
“We do tomorrow.” I fix my gaze on him. “And every morning after a loss.”
“Ah fuck.”
“Tonight I want you all to take a bath. And when you’re in that bath – alone,” I say for the benefit of Max, our goalie who’s known for using his large, sunken bath, for group activities, “I want you to think about every wrong move you made tonight. Tomorrow you’re going to recite them to me because we’re going to replay that match in the morning with all the right moves. Because this was just a practice run, gentlemen. The next time you lose it’s going to count. The season starts in two weeks. You need to be ready.”
Somebody groans. I don’t respond because if they want to make it they need me to be harsh. To be the asshole. To call them out for playing like they don’t care about the result.
Nice doesn’t win games. That doesn’t mean I’m not kind. When everybody else leaves I’ll be here another two hours watching each move myself, then working out how I can improve every member of the team’s game.
But for now they need nasty. They need to feel the pain. They need to want to win like they want to breathe.
I talk for another two minutes. I call them out by name, the way I was called out as a rookie all those years ago. My job is to pull them apart then put them together again and that’s what I’ll do.
And maybe one day they’ll thank me for it.
Once they’ve all left, I let the janitorial staff know that the room is ready to clean. There are no jerseys on the floor or skates hanging around because the team knows I demand a tidy locker room. It’s not the cleaning staff’s job to pick up after them. Then I close the door and let out a long, frustrated breath because I’m just as pissed as the rest of them about the loss.
