The Mistake

For the fourth time this week, I skate off the ice after practice wanting to pound my fist through a wall. The sheer lack of skill and common fucking sense I’m seeing from some of the other defensemen is appalling. I’m willing to cut the freshmen recruits some slack, but there’s no excuse for the way the juniors have played this week. Brodowski literally stood motionless in the defensive zone looking for someone to pass to, and Anderson lobbed pass after pass to covered forwards instead of cross-passing to me or carrying the puck so the forwards had time to get open.

The hinge plays we ran were a disaster. The freshmen skated in slow motion. The upperclassmen made stupid mistakes. It’s becoming painfully obvious that our roster is weak. So weak that the chances of making it to the post-season are looking slimmer and slimmer—and we haven’t even played our first game yet.

As I strip my gear in the locker room, I realize I’m not the only one who’s frustrated. Far too many surly faces surround me, and even Garrett is surprisingly silent. As team captain, he tries to offer encouragement after every practice, but he’s clearly starting to get discouraged by the dismal state of our team.

The only guy who’s actually smiling is the new kid Hunter, who received so much praise from Coach for his performance today that he’s going to be shitting out lollipops and kittens for weeks to come. I have no clue how Dean managed to convince the guy to join the team—all I know is that my buddy dragged Hunter to the bar one night after tryouts, and the next morning, the kid was on board. Must’ve been some night out.

“Logan.” Coach appears in front of me. “Come talk to me after your shower.”

Shit. I quickly search my brain for anything I could’ve done wrong on the ice, but I’m not being arrogant when I say I played well. Dean and I were the only ones even trying out there.

When I enter Coach’s office thirty minutes later, he’s at his desk, wearing a somber look that heightens my agitation. Fuck. Was it the dropped pass at the start of practice? No. Can’t be. Not even Gretzky himself could have held on to the puck with two hundred pounds of Mike Hollis ramming him into the boards.

“What’s up?” I sit down, trying not to reveal how rattled I am.

“Let’s cut right to the chase. You know I don’t like to waste time on preamble.” Coach Jensen leans back in his chair. “I spoke to a friend in the Bruins organization this morning.”

Every muscle in my body freezes up. “Oh. Who?”

“The assistant GM.”

My eyes nearly bug out of their sockets. I knew Coach had connections—of course he does, he was in Pittsburg for seven seasons, for fuck’s sake—but when he said “friend” I assumed he meant a lower-level minion in the head office. Not the assistant general manager.

“Look, it’s no secret you’ve been on the radar of every scout since your high school career. And you already know I’ve had inquiries about you before. Anyway, if you’re interested, they want you to come in and practice with the Providence Bruins.”

Jesus Christ.

They want me to practice with the development team for the Boston fucking Bruins?

I can barely wrap my head around it. All I can do is stare at Coach. “They’d want me for Providence?”

“Maybe. When they’re interested in taking a look at you, they don’t usually put you on the ice with the big boys. They test you out with the minor team first, see how you do.” His voice rings with intensity I rarely hear off the ice. “You’re good, John. You’re really fucking good. Even if they choose to develop you in Providence first, it won’t be long before you’re called up and playing on the roster you deserve to be on.”

Christ. This can’t be happening. I’m in the Garden of fucking Eden, salivating over that goddamn apple. The temptation is so strong I can taste the victory. This isn’t just a pro team holding out the apple—it’s the team. The one I grew up rooting for, the one I’ve fantasized about playing for since I was seven years old.

Coach studies my face. “With that said, I wanted to check if you’ve reconsidered your plans after graduation.”

My throat goes drier than dust. My heart races. I want to shout Yes! I’ve reconsidered! But I can’t. I made a promise to my brother. And as big of an opportunity as this is, it’s not big enough. Jeff won’t be impressed if I announce I’m going to be playing for a farm team. Nothing short of a plum contract with the Bruins will convince him to let me have this, and even then, he’d probably still balk.

“No, I haven’t.” It kills me to say it. It kills me.