When my grandpa passed away, I had hockey.
When I moved away to play juniors, thousands of miles from home, I had hockey.
My teammates were my family. I kept in touch with guys I’d played with at every level—from youth hockey to juniors to college to pros. We had an unbreakable bond. It didn’t matter if we played together for one year or ten. We shared memories—triumphs and heartbreak—and nothing could take that away.
Maybe that’s why it was so hard shifting to this new position. Because I hadn’t moved on to a new team or level, gaining new teammates. This time, I was on the outside looking in.
The players started their day with a pregame practice before going home to rest and refuel. They returned a few hours before puck drop to warm up their bodies and prepare their equipment before fans were allowed entry into the arena.
Now that I was the head coach, my game day routine was different. I hadn’t left the building since my arrival this morning. After practice,I’d holed up in my office, going over last-minute game film of the Orcas—from this preseason and last season.
As the home team, we had the advantage of the last change. That meant when the Orcas sent out their lines, we would have an opportunity to choose which players we wanted to put against them. There was a strategic element to hockey, and personnel choices on the ice made a huge impact. Choices like sending out your strongest line versus their weakest before an offensive zone face-off gave you a higher chance of scoring, or putting your grittiest line against their top guys in the defensive zone minimized the potential for a goal against.
This was my job now. Analyzing every tiny detail of not only our game but that of our opponents and sharing that information with my players. Would I much rather have spent my day napping and working out with the guys? Hell yeah. But that was no longer an option, and I was forced to play the hand I’d been dealt.
The players sitting at their assigned stalls were in various states of undress. Some guys liked to remove their upper gear during rest periods while others unlaced their skates. Anyone who had spent time in a youth locker room would think it was nuts that they could suit up again in less than five minutes, but it was automatic for these guys, practically muscle memory after doing it multiple times a day their entire lives.
I stepped into the center of the locker room and cleared my throat loudly to be heard over the raucous chatter between teammates. Slowly, they quieted, and I took a cleansing breath before preparing my men to go to battle for the first time this season.
With all eyes on me, I said, “Someone toss me a roll of clear tape.”
“Heads up, Coach!” Jenner yelled as he chucked the tape at me.
Catching it easily before bringing the roll to my nose, I inhaled deeply. The scent of plastic and adhesive was nostalgic, reminding me of the game and all my years spent playing it.
Lowering my hand, I addressed the team. “I may not be out there with you on the ice, but I’ve always got your back. I’m one of you. Not only a former player but a proud member of the Indianapolis Speed.” The guys all cheered. “My heart lies with this team, just as it does with each of you. You’re my brothers. You always will be, even if I’m the one barking up your ass to skate harder or benching you after making one too many bad decisions. Know that it’s because I care about your growth as a player and the success of the team as a whole. Hockey is the ultimate team sport, and if you don’t know that by now, a coach has failed you along the way. There’s no room for selfish play; we work together, or we don’t win. It’s as simple as that.
“Forget about the past. We can’t change it, can’t rewrite it. So, looking backward is pointless. Today, we start fresh with a new season where anything is possible.Weget to write the narrative going forward. But nothing worth having is ever easy. It’s going to take dedication every single day in practice, in the gym, and at home with your nutrition choices. I know every man in this room has what it takes to become a champion, but you don’t get there by taking shortcuts. It’s gonna be a grind, and the road to victory begins tonight. We take each game as it comes, put one skate in front of the other, and never lose sight of the goal.”
I paused, pulling a piece of paper from the inside pocket of my suit jacket. “Here is tonight’s starting lineup. At center, Braxton Slate.” The boys gave their standard clap but added a little extra cheer. Braxton had worked his way from winger to center in my absence and had really grown into the role of leading a line. It didn’t matter that I was pissed at him at the moment; I wouldn’t let personal feelings interfere with coaching decisions.As I’d told the team, hockey had no room for selfishness, and I practiced as I preached.
“At right wing, Captain Jenner Knight.” An even louder cheer split the air of the room after their synchronized clap.
“At left wing, Asher Lawson.” Clap.
“At right D, Wyatt Banks.” Clap.
“At left D, Saint Booker.” Clap.
“In net, for his rookie debut, Sasha Gusev.”
Instead of a clap for our starting goaltender, the room called out, “Gooooooooose.”
I bit back a smile as the young goalie ducked his head. He was getting his chance. He’d earned it, and I only prayed he made the most of the opportunity I’d fought so hard to give him.
“Get ready for that rookie lap, Goose. The home crowd is waiting for you. Everyone else, execute your matchups, stay out of the box, and make every shift count.” With that, I turned on my heel and left the room with the rest of the coaches and training staff.
Tonight’s game might be the start of a new season for the boys, but for me, it marked a new chapter in my life. Like Goose, my performance would be carefully monitored under a microscope, looking for flaws, and it was up to me to keep my spot.
It was time to find out if I had what it takes.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I screamed at the closest ref to the bench.
We had taken the lead on Vancouver early, and once they were down by a few goals, they started to play dirty. Instead of playing for the puck, they were going out of their way to make hits—dangerous ones up high near my players’ heads.
The first few attempts were near misses; my guys recognized what was happening and spent their focus on avoiding an injury. But eventually, Asher took a hit that knocked him down and stopped play. He skated off on his own power but was immediately sent down the tunnel, entering concussion protocol.
The Speed—not to mention the league—was very careful with head injuries. With the discovery of CTE and its debilitating effects on athletes who’d had their bell rung a few too many times, there was a hard line drawn over prioritizing players’ health and safety. No victory was more valuable than a human life.
