Thanks to my lightning-speed plan, I'll be done after this coming semester. Dr. Ambrose has already counted my tutoring hours and issued a grade for the class I never finished. Van and I were meeting so frequently that I passed the minimum numberof hours a week before Thanksgiving. My graduation date is set, and May will be here before I know it.
Life is moving forward, even if my heart is still stuck in a run-down hockey house on the edge of campus.
43
Van
It’s been a little more than twenty-four hours since Pete basically yelled at me to get my shit together.
He told no lies, and I’m going to try like hell to make things right with Josie.
But first, I have to meet with Coach. I’m scheduled for my bi-weekly check-in and I know it doesn’t matter that I’m not on the active roster right now. Coach takes these meetings seriously and if I ditch mine, he’ll be pissed. Besides, I respect the hell out of
Coach Baylor, and I’ve very recently come to the realization that sometimes, showing up is the most important part.
Guys are scattered around the locker room because, just like me, this is the last stop for most of them before their holiday break begins.
Will leaves Coach’s office and gives me the nod. “Safe travels to Ohio, Franconetti,” I call as I make my way in and take a seat, leaving plenty of room to stretch my leg out.
“Van,” he says, sizing me up. “I’d ask how it’s going, but I think I already know.”
Like a lot of coaches, Hudson Baylor was a player first. He made it all the way to the pros and played three seasons before an injury cut his career short. Coach understands what I’m going through right now and it occurs to me a little too late that I should have leaned on him instead of pushing Josie away.
“I’m going to physical therapy and doing all the exercises they prescribe. I know my chances of playing again are pretty slim, but I’m putting in the work, Coach. It might only get me as far as the rec league, but it won’t be for lack of trying on my part.”
He nods, his face giving nothing away. If Baylor ever gives up his coaching career, he could make a killing on the pro Poker circuit.
“That’s good to hear, and exactly what I’d expect. There’s something to be said for the rec league, but have you considered what your life might be like on the other side of the bench?”
I’m a guy who needs straightforward words. I think I know what Coach is saying, but I’ve circled way too many wrong answers in my life to trust the thoughts running through my mind right now.
Thankfully, Coach keeps talking. “I’m sure you’ve heard that this is Coach Anderson’s last season with the Wolves.”
I nod, because I've heard the rumors. He's heading back home to Michigan to take on a coaching position for his alma mater, and who can blame him.
“Well, that leaves a vacancy. And we're sure to get plenty of applicants, but it's always ideal to promote from within, to find someone familiar with the team. You can apply for his job and see how it pans out. I can tell you now you'd be my choice. I said this a few weeks ago, and it’s still true: you know the game better than most, Van. You analyze and anticipate. You strategize and adjust. That’s what a coach does.” He leans back in his chair and takes a drink from his coffee mug. “Look, you're fresh off an injury. Don't make any decisions now, just keep an open mind, okay? You have more options than you think you do. I know it feels like you’ve lost everything you worked for, but I want you to consider the possibility that you still have a future in hockey. It might look different than you thought it would, but believe me when I tell you it can be every bit as rewarding."
Coach’s words aren’t all that different from what Josie said a few weeks ago, but the same thought that had me in a chokehold back then still sticks in my mind. “That means a lot, Coach, but I have to be completely honest with you. It’s no secret that I’m not smart. You’ve seen my grades—they barely make the cut. And even then, it’s only because I’ve had a tutor helping me. The truth is that I have a learning disability. It makes reading and writing not just difficult, but nearly impossible sometimes. There are workarounds that help a lot, but I just wanted to be up front with you.”
“The hell you aren’t smart. You’re people smart. You can read a room. You can sense a mood. You know exactly what motivates every guy in that locker room. When it comes down to it, I don’t give a flying fuck if you know the finer points of American history, or where to put a semicolon, or how to solve a goddamn equation. You know hockey. You know the players. That’s what matters. Look, Van, whatever accommodations you need, we’ll put them in place if you decide you want to join the coaching staff next year. Take some time and think about it, okay?”
I open my mouth, but Coach keeps right on talking.
"I’m gonna stop you right there. This isn’t a pity offer. You're talented as hell on the ice. But don't overlook the fact that you're talented as hell off the ice, too. I get it, okay? When an injury like yours hits and the choice is no longer yours, it feels like the rug has been pulled out from beneath you, like the world has stopped suddenly and started to spin in the other direction. I was lucky enough to get a couple seasons in the pros, and the transition was still hard as hell. You need to do what's right for you, whatever that is. And I'm fairly certain that girlfriend of yours would agree with me. I'd bet cash money she'll support you in any way she can."
Once again, I open my mouth to set Coach straight, but the words don't come. Sure, he's wrong. Josie's not my girlfriend anymore. But he's also right. She'd support me one hundred percent, no matter what. She's my biggest cheerleader. Hell, if I told her I was going to pursue a career as a magician, she'd buy me a rabbit and a hat.
Walking back into the locker room feels strange, and not just because I’m on crutches. I send Booker into Coach’s office and look around the room, trying to picture myself as a coach instead of a player. I always picture coaches to be old guys, and that’s true for some, I guess. But Coach Baylor’s only got about ten years on me, so maybe it’s not too much of a stretch to imagine someone my age as part of a coaching staff.
I’m trying to imagine if I can shift from being a player to being in charge of players, and I must zone out a little because the next thing I know, Ollie’s snapping his fingers in my face.
“Van, you okay? You need to sit down or something?”
“Nah, I’m all good,” I tell him, and for the first time in a few weeks, those words are actually true. Or, at least I feel like I might be heading in that direction.
“Van!” Mickey shouts, walking in from the tunnel. “Dude, you shoulda told me you were coming today. Tell him, Norris,”
Our goalie’s stripping out of his gear, but he still manages to call over his shoulder,
