Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
“Language,” Nolan warned as the boys shouted a chorus of “Hell yeses” and “Fuck yeahs.”
“Okay, then. Let’s make a few adjustments. First up…you gotta play with fire in your veins. You gotta play hungry every single time you get on the ice. Take all this angst happening right here”—I motioned between them all—“and channel it. Dig in when you skate, pass that fucking puck, take the shots, defend your goal. Don’t play scared. Don’t back down. Be accountable. If you’re telling me you can do all of those things, we can win, no problem. Whoa, whoa…wait up. But only if you play together, work together, grind together. The greatest shooter ever can’t win a game alone. The greatest defender can’t defend the net alone. Not possible. So, if you’re really serious about taking this to the next level, show me what you got. Show me your speed, show me those passes, show me that defense. Show me that you’re here to fuckin’ win. Show me it matters to you.”
The boys tapped their sticks on the ice as a new round of “yeahs” rumbled through them.
“All right, let’s do it.” I clapped my hands, then held them in the air and waved. “Hold up. One more thing…and this is important. You need nicknames. Max, you’re Hothead. Kinney, I love the simplicity, but let’s tweak it. Kinnster, Kinnmoney, K’dyver? What do you think? Tim, you’re tall, you have red hair, you’re Big Red. Jason…”
I spent the next fifteen minutes making up nicknames for knuckleheads before Nolan and I split them into smaller groups and got to work.
Two and a half hours later, Nolan pulled his truck behind my Jeep and met me on the doorstep. We wordlessly trudged upstairs, undressed, and hopped in the shower. Afterward, we sat on the deck and ate hoagies we’d picked up in town. We didn’t say much at first. Sandwiches were good, beers were cold, the sun was shining. And across the town, a dozen or so teenagers decided they wanted to be champions. For the Smokey Bear association, but still…life was good.
Nolan tilted his chin toward the sky. “You created a monster tonight, you know. I think they really want to win.”
“Everyone wants to win. The problem is that we want it to come easy. It never does.”
“Not even for you?” he teased.
I drained my beer bottle, shaking my head slowly. “Definitely not. I worked hard from the start. I was too afraid of being sent home as Elmwood’s biggest bust—and for other reasons we’ve already talked about. Long hours, sore muscles, body covered with ice packs every night, no social life outside of my team. It was tough. I didn’t make millions right away, ESPN didn’t want to interview me, kids weren’t saving up for my jersey. I couldn’t have been more average if I tried. Don’t get me wrong, I was good enough to be in the NH fuckin’ L, but I wanted to be more than ‘good enough.’ I wanted to be great.”
“You were. How’d you do it?”
“I drove myself to the brink of exhaustion every day at practice and home workouts. And I played harder on the ice than I thought I could. I created this good-natured asshole persona on the ice, and the fans ate it up. Suddenly, ESPN noticed, Sports Illustrated noticed, and…women noticed,” I added with a frown. “I fed off that energy and soaked up the limelight like oxygen…like I needed that praise to fucking breathe. To be honest, it wasn’t easy to adjust to being just plain ol’ me when I was alone. I got lost a few times along the way. And now…I’m home again.”
“Anticlimactic, eh?”
“No, it’s been good. I still don’t know what comes next, but I had more fun this afternoon coaching those terrible teenage menace hockey players than I should admit.”
Nolan barked a laugh. “You were amazing.”
“Nah, but it felt like we got through to them today, and I can’t help but think it must be cool to string a few days like that together. To light a fire under someone and make them believe they could be anything they want to be.”
He slipped his hand in mine and squeezed. “Did my dad do that for you?”
“Yeah, definitely. But…so did you.”
“Me?” He pulled back, cocking his head curiously. “How so?”
“Ah, Nol. I can’t explain. It’s just…who you are. You quietly take care of everyone around you. No fuss. You check in with your friends and your mom, you babysit your niece, you take over your dad’s business, you help your brother coach.…You give and you give, and all the while you’re cheering everyone on. The night before I left for college, you hugged me, wished me luck, and you said, ‘Go be a superstar.’ ”
“You remember that?”
“I remember everything about you,” I replied, staring out at the horizon where the setting sun painted streaks of pink and purple across the blue sky. “You didn’t ask when I’d be home or what would happen to us. Next thing I knew, a year or two had gone by and I figured we both moved on and that was…okay. You know, your dad called to congratulate me when I got drafted?”