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The fourth line finishes the drill, and Coach blows his whistle for a final time.
“That’s it, boys. See you tomorrow.”
I’m pissed and relieved. That was a terrible fucking way forme to end practice, but I’m so exhausted I’m not sure I could have made it through another shift.
All I want is a hot shower, a cold pack, and to be relaxing in bed.
Everyone hustles off the ice, except for me.
I skate slowly, irritation about missing that pass dulling the throb of my side a little.
“Phillips.”
I pause, reluctantly, just past the bench. Coach Keller is standing with Coach Zimmerman, the two of them comparing notes on a clipboard.
Coach Zimmerman heads toward the opposite end of the bench.
Coach Keller stays put, rubbing his chin as he studies me. “Did you hear from Professor Carrigan?” he asks.
I nod. “She emailed me.”
Short and to the point, letting me know my tutoring sessions would be taking place on Tuesday evenings, and to meet my tutor on the first floor of the library.
I’m obviously not her favorite student.
Wonder why.
“Good.”
Coach doesn’t mention the wholeyour tutor is my daughteraspect of it, which is a relief. Considering I actually need to pass this class, I’m grateful to him for interceding and ensuring that I have a tutor who a.) knows what she’s talking about and b.) I won’t hook up with.
Coach continues to study me, and I resist the urge to fidget under his scrutiny.
This is the one and only way in which he reminds me of my father. A commanding presence with the ability to wield silence like a weapon.
“Break is over, Phillips,” he tells me. “Seems like you could use the reminder.”
I nod, running my tongue along the backs of my teeth.
Technically, break for anyone playing a winter sport ended two weeks ago. We’ve had daily practice and a few games while most of campus was still off enjoying themselves. But as of tomorrow, classes resume. My final semester of college will start, and I don’t feel any closer to figuring out the next phase of my life than I did when I committed to attending Holt.
It seems like everyone else already does. Or at least hassomeclue.
I’m not sure exactly what Conor will do if he doesn’t get signed as a free agent, but he’s majoring in English and, unlike me, gets straight As. Hunter is majoring in Political Science and is waiting to hear back from the graduate programs he applied to. Jack Williams is moving back to LA to join his family’s accounting firm. Robby Sampson just got offered a job as a market research analyst.
Basically, it feels like everyone except for me has some sense of what they want to pursue, and I somehow missed out on how that gets decided.
But that’s not Coach’s problem, and I’m trying to pretend it’s not mine either. Semi-successfully.
“Just an off day,” I tell Coach, assuming he’s referring to my pathetic performance during practice today.
Another few seconds of uncomfortable appraisal, then he nods. “Go shower, Phillips,” he tells me, then calls, “Dean! Meet me in my office so we can go over those plays again.”
I take the dismissal, stepping off the ice and stomping along the rubber mats that lead into the locker room. It’s in its usual state of chaos, guys pulling off their gear, guys leaving the showers, guys headed into the showers.
I keep my head down as I walk straight toward my locker.
My mood is the same dark one that’s fueled by a thundercloud I can’t seem to shake lately.
