He should be pissed at himself.
He made it through camp, through preseason, and now he was on the fourth line — just like I’d predicted he’d be. And with the teammate at center in my line on his way out at the end of the season, I needed Carter sharp. I needed him to care more than he’d ever cared before, and toplaylike every game was afucking playoff game. We were Stanley Cup champions, and we had the chance to either defend that title, to bring the Cup back to Tampa at the end of this season…
Or, to be a one hit wonder and let it all go to some other team.
“Just clean it up,” Coach said. “You’re slow, you need to bag skate every day after practice. I want to see that speed you brought in the preseason — that will be what sets us apart when we play Boston.”
Carter’s jaw was still tight as he nodded, and Coach moved on, offering up feedback to a few more players before he was addressing us like a team.
Coach McCabe was one of the youngest in the league, a man who had earned respect not just as a player when he was younger, but as one of the most influential coaches, too. He’d come in as a fresh face to Tampa and completely reshaped the team, taking us from a consistent losing record to the Stanley Cup champs.
It was an honor to play for him — even when he annoyed the crap out of me.
He was so wholly focused on our team, always at the stadium even when I came in early to skate or stayed late to hit the bikes in the gym upstairs. I wondered if he ever slept. I wondered if he ever didanythingother than work his ass off to make this team the best it could be.
I liked that about him, though. I could relate to that feeling, to not having a wife or kids or a life outside of this sport we loved — or sometimes loved to hate. He was just as consumed as I was, maybe even more so, because where I sometimes fell into a numb state of routine with hockey, he was always alert.
Calculating. Planning. Engaging.
If we had nothing else in common, at least I knew we both wanted to give this season everything we had — just like lastseason and the one before it, and just like every season we’d ever play in the future.
After a quick run-through of what Coach wanted from us over the next forty-eight hours leading up to the next game, he told us to hit the showers, and my smelly, sweaty teammates filed into the locker room.
All of them except for Carter.
Coach frowned at him, his eyes catching mine before he nodded subtly toward my dejected center. I rolled my eyes at what he was insinuating — because I did not want to be anyone’s fucking babysitter — but I obeyed his unspoken command. I stayed back, waiting until Coach rounded into the tunnel that led to the locker room before I flopped down on the bench next to Carter.
“You good?” I asked him, spitting near my skates with my eyes on the ice.
“What do you think?” He shook his head. “I looked like cat shit out there today.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” I lied. “And it was just a practice.”
He leveled me with a glare then, sweat dripping down his nose and onto his pants. “Says the man who cursed me out in multiple languages for most of the hour.”
I sighed. “Look, I won’t lie and say I don’t want better from you. But I want better fromeveryone— myself, included. I know bad days happen. Sometimes at practice, sometimes at a game. But every bad day costs us. So, yeah, I’m going to push you. I’m going to curse you out sometimes and call you names and try to get under your skin.”
“Let me guess —‘but it’s because you care?’”
“It’s because I don’t do shit like this,” I corrected, gesturing between us. “If you want a pep talk, go to Daddy P. You want someone to go out with and drown your sorrows, you know where to find Tanny Boy and Brittzy.” I leaned over toward him,leveling him with a stare. “You want the truth about what you need to work on? You want someone not afraid to call you on your bullshit?” I thumped my chest. “That’s my role.”
Carter looked ready to scoff, but instead, he held my gaze, blowing out a long breath after a moment and hanging his head between his shoulders. He stayed that way for a beat before speaking again.
“I want to be better,” he said, his voice low. “I feel like all I’ve ever done since getting drafted is try to be better, to be… good enough.” He swallowed, turning to face me, and I saw a vulnerability there that made me as uncomfortable as it made me feel sorry for the guy.
It also made me a bit sick in the stomach.
Because I understood that feeling more than he knew.
“I finally have a chance again, Su Man. I made it through camp. I made it through preseason. I… I’mhere, as an Osprey.” He shook his head. “I can’t get sent down again. I can’t go back to New York. This is my team. This is where I want to be.”
I nodded, throat tight. I didn’t know what that was like. I’d been drafted and remained in the NHL since then. I’d never been sent down to the AHL, never had that kind of pressure riding on my shoulders to prove something — at least when it came to hockey.
For once, I felt like I saw Carter for more than just the annoying punk who frustrated me with his lack of talent.
I saw his potential.
I saw his drive.
