Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 114951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 575(@200wpm)___ 460(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 575(@200wpm)___ 460(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
And everyone knows if you kill the heart and soul of anything, it doesn’t take long for the rest to decay.
So, I walked into the first day of preseason training camp with a promise from Perry that he’d have an answer for me. It was the first time since my rookie year coaching that anxiety thrummed through me on the first day of camp — coffee full in my hand, stomach too tight to take a sip.
If I had to rebuild our team around our backup goalie or, worse, a new goalie altogether — I was in for a tough season ahead.
To add to my misery, we’d lost our General Manager unexpectedly over the offseason.
Richard Bancroft, or “Dick” as we all called him, had been a jolly old man. He was everything you might think Santa Claus might be in his down time when he wasn’t running the North Pole. And though a bit eccentric, he’d helped me turn this program around. We went from a losing team that could barely fill half the arena to a championship one that frequently had sold-out games. Between his off-the-wall marketing and my knack for bringing out the best in players, we had what it took to achieve greatness.
And we did.
Up until the very moment he passed from a sudden heart attack.
Grief didn’t like to play by any rules you tried to set out for it. I’d learned that at a very early age. Still, now that camp was here, I didn’t have the luxury of grieving my old friend anymore.
Because I had to prepare for his replacement.
The Tampa Bay Ospreys had scrambled to get us a new GM before the season started, but by the time negotiations were settled, we were right on the cusp of preseason. That meant this new guy was walking into a team already settled for him. There was no time for him to make any of the changes he might want to, unless he decided to do so in the middle of a season, which wouldn’t be the most ideal situation for anyone.
I didn’t consider myself a very religious man, but I did pray. I’d been praying since I was a kid, since the day I lost my parents in the most unfair way imaginable.
And so, when I walked into camp that day, I was praying — that somehow my goalie would stick around for a couple more seasons, and that my new general manager wouldn’t be a prick.
Fortunately, once I stepped behind the bench and heard the familiar slice of skates over ice, my nerves settled. The rink was alive with motion — pucks clanging off the glass, coaches barking drills, trainers hauling gear across the bench, the low thud of sticks meeting the boards. The smell of fresh ice and sweat was like a candle scent poured just for me.
We were off to the races, transitioning from rookie camp, which had taken place over the summer, to seeing the full team together for the first time. The energy was different now — the rookies trying to impress, the vets not giving a shit what the rookies thought at all. The veterans didn’t move like the kids did; there was rhythm in their stride, muscle memory in every pass and stop. You could almost feel the rookies shrinking under the weight of it.
But some of them were inspired, lighting up from the inside out and chasing the challenge. Those were the ones I had my eyes on the most.
I scanned the ice, watching for chemistry, for hesitation, for anyone who looked like they’d forgotten what it meant to belong here, and anyone new who might be hungry for a chance. It was my job to know who was ready and who was bluffing it.
I caught sight of Perry at the far net, mask off, water bottle tipped to his lips. He was laughing at something our defenseman, Jaxson Brittain, said, that familiar crooked grin making him look ten years younger than his body felt. But when he dropped back into the crease, I saw it — the hesitation, the guarded way he planted on his left side. It wasn’t enough for anyone else to notice, but it was plenty enough to make my stomach knot.
The vets were ribbing him between drills, tossing a few “old man” jokes his way, and he was giving it right back, glove raised in mock salute. Typical Daddy P — the heartbeat of the room. And yet, under all that noise, all that routine, I could see it in his posture. The heaviness. The finality.
He hadn’t given me his answer yet, but I could feel it coming.
I turned to Kozak, one of my assistant coaches, nodding toward the net. “Soon as this drill’s over, tell Perry I want a word.”
Because whatever decision he’d made — it was time I heard it.