Navigating the start of my NHL career straight out of high school was a difficult transition for me at first. The pace of the game was definitely a hurdle I had to get up to speed on, but trying to figure out the lifestyle of a professional hockey player at such a young age kind of fucked with my head. And that was twelve years ago when social media wasn’t quite as big of a beast as it is currently. Damn, that makes me feel old. But my point is, now, for Connelly, he’s got to deal with the pressure of being one of the league’s youngest rookies of all time, in addition to adapting to having his life put under a microscope for fans to scrutinize his every move.
Though, thankfully for him, he homeschooled and played juniors instead, so he was able to graduate early and play a year of college hockey before signing his first contract.
Coach asked if I’d take the kid under my wing and mentor him this season. I told him I’d be honored, and so far, I’ve enjoyed the hell out of the experience. The rookie is a good kid, and not that I’d tell him this, but he’s probably on track to become a generational talent. The way he possesses the puck is unnatural, and his speed and edge work are unbelievable. He’s six-foot right now and needs to work on putting on more muscle, but I know he’s not done growing yet.
“Things with Connelly are going great,” I assure Coach.
“Glad to hear it. He seems like he’s got a good head on his shoulders, and his focus and drive remind me of yours. Even though I wasn’t your coach for the early seasons of your career, I remember coaching againstyou, and you always had a look of determination that intimidated opponents.”
I’m caught off guard by his compliment. Coach isn’t a prick by any means, but he’s also not a guy who adds any fluff to a conversation.
“Thanks, Coach. I think Connelly will become an offensive weapon, creating scoring opportunities for our second line that we’ve been missing. We needed the depth on the second power play unit as well.”
“You’re exactly right, Bennett. I appreciate you taking him under your wing. You’ve got a knack for developing players and bringing out their potential.”
Again, I’m surprised by his praise. “Thank you,” I say simply, because I’m somewhat uncomfortable when given compliments or praise. I’ve been raised to thrive under criticism.
“If you can’t take criticism, then you don’t deserve praise,”was something my father always told us growing up, and the saying has stuck with me over the years. But if my father ever actually handed out praise, it would be an eighty-degree day in the dead of a Minnesota winter.
“Have you ever considered coaching after you retire?” Coach asks.
“Um, I’ve actually considered potentially going into team management for a franchise. General manager, that sort of position.”
“Put that well-earned degree to use, I like it. You’d do well in the C-suites,” Coach replies.
He’s not wrong, I did work hard to earn my masters in business while playing professional hockey. It might’ve taken me damn near ten years to do it online, but I did.
“That’s the hope,” I admit. “But not before we win a few championships. We’ve struggled the past few seasons, but I’ve got a feeling this year will be our season.”
It has to be.
While I’m not necessarily old in terms of NHL players still in the league, I do feel more desperate to hoist the cup over my head than I’ve ever been. Eleven seasons without a deep playoff run will do that to a guy. I’m determined to make my twelfth season the one where it all comes together.
“Well, I won’t keep you. I know you’ve got places to be and I’ve got to prep for morning skate tomorrow. Have a good one, Wilson,” he says before waving me off dismissively.
I shake my head and chuckle at his goodbye that is so far from the Midwest farewells I’ve grown up with—the ones where it takes a half-hour to leave if I’m lucky.
Grabbing my trusty old duffel bag from my locker, I feel like a walking hypocrite as I sling the bag I’ve had since I was in high school over my shoulder and head out of the practice facility to unlock my matte black Range Rover that still has the new car smell. What can I say? I’m a guy who not only enjoys luxury cars and top-shelf whiskey, but also a guy who refuses to replace a good thing. This bag has traveled with me to countless arenas throughout the years—it’s one of the only things I find myself attached to. The social media team likes to give me crap for it any time they take arrival photos.
I’ve just clicked the unlock button on my key fob, but before I get to my vehicle, I have to dodge out of the way of a white Mercedes as it screeches to a halt.
A wide-eyed Gemma is behind the wheel and a panicked Scarlett is in the passenger seat one moment, and then they’re both flying out of the SUV the next.
“Oh my gosh, are you okay?” Scarlett asks. Before I can assure her I’m fine, Gemma begins to freak the fuck out.
“I’m so sorry! Don’t sue me. Oh my god, Scar! Is he going to sue me? Can I go to jail for almost hitting a pedestrian? I didn’t hit you right?I don’t even have my license yet. Will this keep me from getting my license? He’s famous and on your team. Is Grandpa going to fire you? My life is soover!”
Scarlett turns her back to me and places her hands on Gemma’s shoulders. “Gems, calm down. You’re not going to jail, I’m not getting fired, and Bennett isn’t suing you. He’s alright, you didn’t hurt a hair on his pretty head. You’re fine, right Cap?” Scar asks, looking at me over her shoulder.
She’s right, I didn’t get hit by her car, but fuck if the way she looks right now and the way her whiskey eyes assess me doesn’t strike me right in the chest. And hearing her call me “Cap” most certainly turns me the hell on.
Scarlett looks stunning in an off-the-shoulder cream sweater that shows off one of my favorite features of hers—her freckled shoulders and collarbones. Her top is fitted and tucked into a pair of wide-leg jeans that cling to her ass in a way that has me finding it hard to look away.
And now that I know the truth of our meeting all those years ago, the resentment and frustration that I’d been hanging on to has been replaced by sheer want for this woman all over again.
Snapping out of it, I clear my throat. “You think I’m pretty? I’m flattered, Little Red.”
“The ego on this one,” she mutters to Gemma, turning to face me with her hand on her hip. “It’s a shame you didn’t hit him to knock him down a peg or two.”
