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Tossing the phone aside, I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, while my thoughts bounced inside my head. Could I handle it? Would the commitment, the emotional weight, and the daily give-and-take work for a guy like me? Hell, sobriety was already a full-time gig.
As I was getting lost in my thoughts, my phone buzzed, jolting me. I glanced down. A text from Eddie:
"Coach, thx for the tips yesterday. Really helped. Looking forward to practice."
I smiled. The kid had promise. There was no doubt about it. He also reminded me so much of myself back in the day—rough around the edges but hungry for more. Mentoring him felt like a win, a point on the scoreboard of life that had seen too many losses in recent years.
Slipping on my coat, I took one last swig of my coffee. It was time to head out. As I slipped out into the cold, I was aware of an odd sensation, like a door inside me had cracked open just a smidge, letting in a sliver of light—or maybe hope.
I looked forward to getting a car again. Part of my rehab agreement with the world was a year out on my own before I climbed back behind the wheel.
Depending on drivers to take me to the rink taught me about time management. I was always on time now, usually early. A team waited for me with drills to run and games to win.
Who knew? Maybe there was room in my life for more than just hockey. But that was a game for another day.
As the driver dropped me off at the arena, I took a moment to gather my thoughts. Inside those walls, a whole different world waited—ice, sweat, and the crackling energy of competition. I could already hear the sounds in my head: the scrape of skates, the thunk of pucks hitting the boards, and the occasional shouts and cheers.
Eddie's text replayed in my mind, and for a split second, I saw myself in my rookie season. The pressure was relentless back then. I was the latest phenom. Every goal I scored or missed added up to a verdict on my worth.
Every article written about me felt like it carried high stakes. It either built me up or tore me down. And man, the booze was always there, waiting like some comforting old friend who would later stab me in the back.
I’d spent years wishing to talk to my younger self and warn him about the dangers. Now, here was Eddie—fresh-faced, eager, just a kid, really. Did he even have a clue about the pressure that was coming his way? About the inevitable mistakes he'd make or the scrutiny he'd face? My gut churned, thinking about the road ahead of him.
"Aw, hell," I muttered, grabbing my gear from the back seat. My job wasn't only about teaching Eddie how to deke or take a slapshot; it was also about preparing him for the game of life.
I knew then that I needed to have a heart-to-heart with the kid. No BS, just straight talk—about the pressure, about the media, and hell, yes, about that first drink I took when the going got tough. That talk couldn’t wait.
As I headed into the arena, I felt an additional purpose beyond assisting Pete. It was bigger than goals and assists; it was about giving Eddie tools I wished I’d had. Maybe, in some way, I could even make amends for my past.
I pushed through the doors, the cold air hit my face, and the questions from earlier slipped to the back of my mind. For now, I had a practice to run and a kid to look out for.
A couple of hours later, we’d hit a groove. The team was working hard. I blew the whistle, signaling a halt to a scrimmage. "Eddie, c'mere."
The rookie skated over, his eyes wide, like a deer caught in the bright glare of headlights. "What's up, Coach?"
"Watch your positioning. You're letting their defense read you like an open book. Try a fake-out next time. Keep 'em guessing."
He nodded vigorously. "Got it, Coach."
We set up for a drill, me playing defense so Eddie could practice his moves. As he charged toward me, I noticed he tried to incorporate my advice, but his execution was awkward. It was like looking into a mirror from years ago—raw talent but unpolished.
"Eddie, don't force it. Let the game come to you," I shouted over the sound of our blades on the ice.
We ran through the play again; this time, he nailed it, slipping past me and landing a beautiful pass to his teammate. I grinned and clapped my hands.
"Water break!" I yelled, beckoning the team over to the side.
As we gulped down the water, Eddie leaned in. "Coach Z’s kinda intense, huh?"
I chuckled. "Pete? Nah, he's just full of hot air. Well, mostly."
I glanced over at Pete, who was intensely focused on explaining a drill to another group of players. When he looked up, our eyes met briefly, and a jolt of something unidentifiable zinged through me. God, what was that about? Couldn’t I just look at him and see another human being?
"Alright, back to it," I called, shaking off the moment.
We resumed practice, but this time, something was different. Eddie was catching on, reading the defense like he'd been doing it for years. He snagged a pass out of the air and executed a perfect shot into the net. I was like a proud parent watching my boy take his first steps.
Just then, Pete glided over. "Mind if I interrupt?"
