“You heard me. What’s wrong with you? This isn’t the first conversation we’ve had. Your play has been off. And now you’re missing practices.”
“A practice,” I clarify hesitantly, not wanting to piss him off but not willing to be labeled as someone who’s routinely late.
Coach inclines his head as if to say touché. “I still want to know what’s wrong. You may think you’re hiding it, but you’re not. And if you want to keep your position on this team, I suggest you give me a good reason to help you figure out how to accomplish that.”
I don’t know where to begin to tell him all the things that seem wrong, so I pick up my coffee and take a sip. It immediately scalds the top of my mouth but I swallow it, burning my throat along the way.
When I set it down, I say, “I’m having a little trouble sleeping. That’s all.”
“Are you self-medicating? Drinking? Is that why you overslept?”
“No, Coach,” I exclaim, leaning forward in my chair. “I’m not doing that. Only having some bad dreams is all.”
“Because if you were self-medicating, the league has great resources to—”
“I swear I’m not doing drugs or drinking alcohol to help sleep.”
He nods and I see he accepts my declaration at face value. “Okay, then… let’s move on. Why are you having trouble sleeping?”
That is the million-dollar question, isn’t it?
And one I haven’t bothered to try to answer yet.
To fill the silence, Coach prods me. “When we last talked about your level of play on the ice, you said you were having some family issues. Is that it?”
My mind buzzes, trying to remember exactly what I said. He did indeed call me on the carpet about my play not being quite up to par. I think I did tell him I was dealing with some family issues, but that’s not the truth. I mean, there’s some truth to it… but they’re not the root of my sleepless nights.
I choose to be vague. “My family isn’t keeping me up at night.”
Coach West settles back in his chair, taps an index finger on the table. The way he’s looking at me is daunting, as if he can see deep into my soul.
“Is it because your friends and teammates and coaches died in a plane crash?”
I flinch.
And it’s noticeable.
“Are you having nightmares about plane crashes?” he asks, and I feel the blood leaving my face.
Coach West takes it in and nods with understanding. “Did you get therapy after the crash?”
I shake my head. “Not really. We had to see someone for an evaluation, but that’s all I did.”
He knows what I mean by we. Coen Highsmith, Hendrix Bateman and I are called the Lucky Three. The trio of players who weren’t on the plane. The ones who escaped death and the ones who should be grateful for the lives we have.
Coach pokes at me without hesitation. “Is there a reason you didn’t attend therapy?”
I shrug. “I thought I was handling it fine. I mean… I grieved. I mourned the losses. I asked a lot of whys and why-nots. But I handled it fine. Ask anyone who knows me.”
“I’m asking you,” he says pointedly.
“I handled it fine,” I repeat but there’s no hiding my defensive tone. “I don’t want or need therapy.”
Coach West stares at me a good long moment before giving what looks like a resigned nod. There’s a release of tension from my chest, something I hadn’t realized I’d been holding in this entire time.
“Okay,” he says, pushing up from the table and I rise as well. “I respect you don’t want to do therapy. I’d never force that. But I am going to require you to do something.”
“What’s that?” I ask suspiciously.
“Brienne created a support group for all the loved ones and friends left behind. At first, it was pretty structured with regular meetings. She had a certified counselor there to moderate discussions. Now it’s more of a social network. We meet every Sunday afternoon at a different place to get together and talk.”
“We?” I ask curiously because Coach West isn’t a loved one or friend to any of those who perished.
“Brienne invited me to one of the meetings when I first started. Wanted me to talk about overcoming loss and dealing with grief.” He shrugs with a fond smile. “I’m sort of an honorary member now.”
Coach West lost his wife to cancer several years ago. He would know all about what it’s like to mourn someone. And I knew about the support group. Brienne Norcross, the owner of the Pittsburgh Titans, emailed me, Coen and Hendrix about it. I never replied or went to any meetings.
“I expect you at tomorrow’s get-together,” he says. I immediately close off, wanting to tell him to go to hell, but he adds, “If you want to keep your position on the second line, you will do this.”
That pisses me off, but I’m polite when I say, “With all due respect, not sure it’s fair to require something like that just to keep my job. I missed one practice.”
“Your play has been substandard all season and you know it,” Coach says, and gone is the affable man we all know and love. His tone is hard and unforgiving. “Now, one of the reasons I’m a great coach is because I can see beneath the surface and coax out the best in my players. You can sit there and tell me until you’re blue in the face that you’re okay, but something is weighing on you. If it’s not the crash, my apologies. You’ll still have a great time at the get-together. You’ll know a lot of people. If it is the crash, you can thank me later for pushing you to get help.”
“And if I don’t go?” I ask, so I’m very clear.
“You’ll go down to the third line until your play improves,” he says simply. “You get a pass today for missing practice. Next time, you won’t enjoy my visit.”
“Didn’t enjoy this one,” I admit truthfully.
Rather than take offense, Coach West grins. “That means I’m doing my job then.”
CHAPTER 2
Danica
“Travis,” I yell up the stairs as I bend to pick up three pairs of his shoes from the living room. “Don’t forget… I want two extra layers under your coat.”
“I know,” he calls back, his tone a low drawl of frustration that I’m micromanaging his wardrobe choices.
I smile and place the shoes on the staircase, each pair on a different tread. I’m almost gleeful at the idea of when he comes down, I’m going to make him carry them back up to his room. He hates making the trek up for some reason, despite the fact he has the energy of a thousand battery-packed bunnies.
Same as he hates to unload the dishwasher and roll the trash cans out to the curb.
I turn for the kitchen, intent on filling a travel mug with coffee when I hear his pounding feet on the stairs. Swiveling back that way, I meet him before he can reach the very bottom, pointing to the shoes. “You know the rules… no leaving your shoes in a place that is not your bedroom closet.”
“Ugh,” he groans in an overly dramatic fashion. “Can’t I take them up tonight when we get back home?”