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And I’m going to learn everything I can from Reid. I need to stay off his nerves and observe the best I can without getting frozen in the process.
REID
I’ve broken two professional records. I’m one of the most feared hockey players in the league, earning the nickname The Reaper throughout my seven years in the NHL.
However, I can’t get the kids to stop crying. And what good is being feared if you’re just annoyed all the time?
The evening started like all the rest. The little human beings are already privy to being required to do laps to warm up before practice. They don’t like it, but who does?
Meanwhile, I do what I’m supposed to be doing: I teach them. Yet, the moment I raised my voice an octave, I’ve got crying children.
Hollyn swoops in and gets them off the ice in her tennis shoes until yesterday when I told her to stop being a damn liability and let the damn kid do it on his own.
Mario.
Mike.
Marshall, I don’t remember the fuckin’ kid’s name, but he’s not cut out for this shit, and I’m already over this publicity stunt times ten.
It’s why I’m on the phone with Dylan to get me out of it, or I’m gonna walk myself.
“Calm down, Reid,” he lightly chides me, but his voice says anything but. He’s finding this amusing and that I’m somehow overreacting, but he knows me. I’m not a guy that teaches kids. I barely do interviews with grown-ass adults after games. My social levels are at eight percent, and that’s because I have to communicate with my damn team to win games. “It can’t be that hard.”
“How about you tell these kids that?” I leer back. “They cry every two minutes, and I can’t instruct crybabies and be interrupted—”
“They’re kids,” Dylan chimes in like I didn’t already know. “You have to be gentle with them.”
“Hockey isn’t gentle,” I carp back in a hushed but lethal tone. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me? What part of your brain broke when you thought this was going to be a good idea? I don’t even have a backup, Dylan. I have a washed-up coach, and we’re gonna use that term loosely. He never made it to the league, he somehow got this position, and he’s in his office jacking off to fuck knows—”
“Calm down.”
I bite my tongue because I’m about to calm my entire self-down when I beat the shit out of my manager over this shit.
I’m in awe that he signed me up for it, let alone believed I could do it. I might perform miracles on the ice, but that’s all on me. I can’t make other people do things, let alone a bunch of minors who still drink juice boxes and talk about Pokémon cards.
“It’s three weeks,” Dylan continues through my silence. “No one is expecting you to turn them into talented individuals who are going to make it pro one day.”
I scoff. “Then what’s the point?”
“The point is that they want to play for fun.” The fuck? “And they might be just trying it out. Meanwhile, you’re putting too much effort into this and driving yourself insane over it.”
“You’re talking to the man that lives, breathes, and shits hockey, Dylan. That’s not my style. I don’t cheat on the thing that gave me everything I have.”
It’s given me a nice home out in the middle of a rural area where I live in peace. Where the media wouldn’t dare venture out to because, if their car broke down, good luck grabbing a signal to call for help.
Hockey has also given me a purpose. It’s my outlet and what I’m constantly trying to improve at.
I’m good at it.
And why would I not throw the effort into my God-given talent when it’s been so good to me over the years?
“Well, if you want to suffer a brain aneurysm while you’re at it, fine,” my manager replies. “However, I’m telling you that no one is expecting a supernatural phenomenon while you’re there. Now…tell me, what’s going on with this coach?”
“Nothing,” I reply, mindlessly glancing to my right and connecting eyes with one of the moms. Her blonde hair is pulled up in a messy bun and she blushes furiously the moment our eyes meet. I ignore it. “I couldn’t even tell you because he’s never around, like I just got done saying.”
“It’s like that, huh?” I roll my eyes because what’s getting lost in translation here? I speak fluent English on the rare occasion that I do speak, and Dylan isn’t picking up what I’m throwing down. “I’ll have a talk with him.”
“Don’t bother,” I grumble, overlooking the ice. “The dude is as worthless as you are right now with this make-believe bullshit about how you thought I’d be alright doing this.”
