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5

Lennon

T he distinct ping of a puck clashing into the crossbar echoes through my ears, and I scramble to locate where it lands. But before I can get an eye on it, Austen is already celebrating, and the puck is buried in the net behind me.

“Fuck,” I curse under my breath and skate the crease, dragging my stick along the way in the ritualistic manuever that comes after every goal scored. It’s a reset of sorts, as I try to channel the failure into refocusing.

It’s the third goal I’ve let past in this scrimmage. We’re only a week away from our first game, and if this is a sign, I’m fucked.

Charlotte, one of the defenseman on my practice team today, taps her gloves against my shoulder pads as she skates past. She shoots me a small, encouraging smile, but I’m not in the mood to return it.

Coach Packley blows her whistle. “Take five, and we’ll do one more ten-minute scrimmage before calling it today.”

I don’t need to be told twice. Shucking off my mask, I leave it on top of the net and skate over to the boards where the coach who is supposed to be helping me currently lounges on the bench, fiddling with his phone.

My blades spray ice as I stop, harsher than usual, and I glare at Coach Holloway.

“Can I help you?” he asks in a bored, monotone voice that further aggravates my already exposed nerves while he doesn’t even bother to look up.

“Yeah, that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? Isn’t that your job?”

He slowly looks up from his phone but doesn’t appear bothered by my attitude. I’ve never talked to a coach like this, but he’s barely been trying to help me or Grace.

“And your job is to stop pucks from going in that net.” He tilts his head toward the empty goal. “Isn’t it?”

A crushing wave of anger rises quickly to my cheeks. “At least I’m trying to do mine.”

“Who says I’m not trying?”

“Are you?” I lean against my stick.

He sits up and leans forward with his elbows against the boards. The veins in his forearms flex with the movement, and he pins me with a dark stare. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to help me! I want to be better. I want to win. Coach said she brought you here to help, but so far you’ve done nothing but sit on your ass and ignore everything that goes on at practice.” I can’t believe I’m talking to a coach like this, but I can’t help it.

He sighs heavily, as if I’m burdening him by asking that he does his job. Why did he even accept it if he doesn’t want to be a coach? The question is on the tip of my tongue when Coach Maver walks over to us.

“Everything alright over here?” she asks, eyes dancing back and forth between the two of us. I must not be hiding my frustration very well because she frowns. It’s not like me to show this sort of emotion on the ice. I’m usually better at keeping my cool.

But seeing Coach Holloway’s utter lack of interest in something that is so important to me is already wearing thin, even after only a few weeks.

“All good, Alice,” he says simply, and it takes every single ounce of muscle control I have to keep my jaw hinged shut. All good ? Is he joking?

Coach Maver looks to me. “Don’t sweat it too much, Lennon. It’s just a scrimmage. I know you’ll be ready by game time.”

She thinks that’s why I’m upset. That I’m unhappy with my own performance in today’s scrimmage.

I’m about to open my mouth and tell her exactly what I’m upset about, but logic overwhelms emotion. Despite him being completely disinterested in helping me or my teammates, he is still a coach. One that Coach Maver hired. And he seems pretty damn comfortable in that position.

I can’t complain about him. Not yet at least. It’s still too early in the season. I’ll just have to let her see it for herself. There’s no way she doesn’t see the way he sits on his phone during practice or still shows up late half the time.

“Just a little rusty,” I manage to say. “But I’ll be ready.”

She smiles. “Get back in there and finish out the practice strong.”

I nod and take one final look at Coach Holloway. I don’t know what I expect to see on his face. Maybe smugness that I didn’t get a rise out of him? Maybe satisfaction that I didn’t throw him under the bus? But I get nothing. His face is completely blank under the brim of his hat.

Shaking the entire interaction off, I finish out the scrimmage not letting any more goals in and file off the ice with the rest of the team shortly after. As I step off, Coach Maver pats my shoulder, and I stop as the rest of my teammates file to the locker rooms.

“Give it time,” Coach says with a knowing look and the patience of a saint. “Just keep doing what you’re doing, showing your potential, and I promise things are going to work out.”

I choke down how the hell do you know that? out of respect for her. It’s a promise I’m not sure she can keep or should even be making on behalf of him. I know she mentioned knowing him since he was a kid when she introduced him on that first day, but I think she’s giving him more credit than he deserves.

“Will do,” I choke out and head into the locker room.

I’m mentally and physically exhausted by the time I quickly rinse off and get dressed, and my day isn’t even over yet. In twenty minutes, I’m supposed to be holding my first tutoring session for the 200 level calculus class. It’s a job I’ve had for the last year, and as the semester goes on, the turnout usually grows to about fifteen students. Even though we’re still in the first couple weeks of the year, there will likely be at least a handful of students to get started.

It pays decently, but I’d love nothing more than to be able to head home and crash for the night. I already worked an opening shift at the café this morning before the day of classes, and then practice.

But the paycheck has me lacing up my sneakers and quickly shoving my equipment in my locker in order to make it back across campus.

On the way, the need for a pick-me-up becomes overwhelming, and I pull out my phone. It only rings twice before my mom’s comforting voice chirps through the line.

“Hey, honey, how are you doing?”

There should be a scientific study done on the instantly calming effect talking to your mom after a long day has on the brain.

“I’m alright,” I say on a heavy exhale. “It’s been a long week.”

“It’s only Tuesday.”

I groan. “Fully aware.”

She chuckles, and I can hear her pausing the television in the background. Likely one of her favorite true crime shows. “Tell me about what’s making it such a long week for you.”

Where do I even start? I want to say that I’m already feeling burnt out working both jobs, going to classes, and hockey. It’s a lot to juggle, and while I enjoy aspects of each of those things, it’s still a lot on one person. But I also want to protect my parents from feeling any guilt that they can’t financially help me make my way through school.

So I skim my reality. “We were short staffed at the café this morning, and I don’t know who decided that blended coffees were the new thing on campus, but everyone is ordering them, and they take forever to make…” I allow myself to whine without fear of judgment from her, and she listens patiently to each petty thing that’s stacked up to grate on my nerves so early on in the week.

“And to top it off, the new coach sucks.” I glance around, realizing I said that last part a little louder than I probably should’ve. But campus is quiet as the sun sets, and the few students walking on the sidewalks aren’t paying attention.

“Lennon, that’s not nice,” she scolds.

I shake my head even though she can’t see it. “No, Mom, trust me, he does.”

“Well then, why does he suck ?”

I stifle a laugh at hearing her say the word with such disdain. My mom is one of the sweetest women you’ll ever meet. She’s a third grade teacher, and anyone who meets her can totally tell. Her voice always maintains the kind, even tone, and like Coach Maver, her patience has no limits.

“He sucks because he is totally uninterested in doing his actual job. Coach asked him to work with me and Grace, and besides our introduction the first day, he hasn’t bothered to talk to either of us.”

“Hmm.”

“And I already know what you’re going to say. ‘ Well, have you tried talking to him, Lennon?’ And no, I haven’t put in as much effort as I could, but I mean, he’s my coach. Shouldn’t he be the one trying to engage with me?”

“Honey, you don’t have to be defensive with me. I’m only here to listen.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize. Now, who is he? When we talked last week, you didn’t mention you had a new coach. Alice is still there, right?”

The breeze pulls my hair across my face, tickling my nose, and I tuck it away. “Yeah, Coach is still here. He’s a new assistant coach.”

“Did he go to Haulton? What’s his name?”

Might as well rip the bandage off. “Luke Holloway.”

“Luke Holloway…” She trails off. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

“He played in the NHL for years.”

“Hey, Cam,” Mom calls out away from the receiver. “Does the name Luke Holloway sound familiar to you?”

Here we go.

There’s shuffling in the background, and my dad’s voice is muffled.

“Hold on, I’ll put it on speaker,” Mom says to him and then to me, “Honey, I’m putting you on speaker.”

I laugh at the clarification and say, “Hi, Dad.”

“My favorite daughter,” his warm voice rings out.

“Only daughter,” I correct.

“Doesn’t negate the fact that you’re my favorite.”

I smile despite the exhaustion weighing me down as I approach the library where I host my tutoring sessions.

“But what’s this about Luke Holloway? You didn’t text your old man that he’s your new coach?” Dad asks.

“Because I knew that’s instantly all you’d hear every time I talk about hockey now.”

Dad mumbles something I don’t catch, and Mom hushes him. I grew up watching and playing hockey because of how much my dad loved the sport. While I recognized Coach Holloway the second he walked in the room, Dad would’ve been able to hop up there and regurgitate his stats from his rookie season probably better than Luke himself could.

“She’s not a big fan of his so far,” Mom tells him.

“Why not?” he asks.

I repeat my earlier judgment. “He sucks.”

Dad chuckles, and I can picture Mom trying to stop him.

“It’s still early in the season,” Mom says. “Don’t make any harsh judgments just yet.”

“I know, I’m trying.” I really am. This is my final year playing this sport, and I don’t want to spend it annoyed with a coach. I’m just exhausted and in need of a full day where I can rot without any responsibilities to keep me on my feet. “I mean, he’s a Conn Smythe winner after all. There’s a lot he could teach me.”

If he’s willing to, that is.