Page 2

Chapter 2

ZACK

The last thing I was expecting was to see Amber Morrison, of all people, come waltzing back into my life.

She looks beautiful. Irritatingly so.

She was cute back when we were kids, but she’s a woman now, and my God, does she look good. Curves in all the right places, the same flaming red hair that made everyone in the room look at her.

She wore it long in high school, cascading in waves down to her waist and I was always tempted to tangle my hands into it. Now it hits just below her shoulders. It makes her look older, more professional. But no less gorgeous.

I knew the league was sending a couple of shrinks to help get us out of our rut. I had absolutely no way of knowing that one of them was going to be my high school girlfriend. The girl I once thought I’d never get over. The one I tried to forget. And now? She’s back to haunt me, or dare I say tempt me.

Remembering everything that happened between us, I almost laughed when Coach Green introduced her. Almost. But instead, I clenched my jaw and let the moment drag out—waiting to see if she’d flinch first. She didn’t. She just stood there, perfectly composed, like she had no clue who I was.

I almost believed that until I saw the way her eyes blazed when I laughed at Blake’s little

comment. She looked right at me, and I knew right then that I can still get under her

skin.

Good. After what she did to me, trying to ruin my entire future with one scathing, vindictive article in the school paper — she deserves a little torture. I decide right then that I’m not going to listen to a word she says.

Blake is right–we need more time on the ice to build our skills as a team. I don’t see how talking about our feelings or meditating or whatever else the psychologists want us to do will help us win.

Amber stays in the stands for a little while after her stuffy colleague walks away with Coach Green. I try not to look her way, but I see her typing away on her little keyboard. I wonder what she’s writing, if she’s already judging us without knowing us at all.

I start to get a little self-conscious, knowing that she’s analyzing every move I make. If she’s as hyper-aware of me as I am of her, who knows what she’s going to pick up on. I try to ignore her, but it’s like an itch I can’t scratch. Every stride, every shot, I feel her watching. What’s she writing down? What does she see? More importantly — why do I care?

Coach Green returns, and I try to get my head back in the game. It doesn’t matter what Amber thinks. What matters is doing well for my team, and that means bringing my A-game to every practice.

Plus, I know Coach Green will notice if I start slacking because I’m distracted, and I’m not in the mood for a lecture.

After a few minutes of observing the practice, Amber stands up and calls, “Donatello Rossi? Can you come here for a second, please?”

Donnie’s head pops up, and he skates over to the side to talk to her. Coach Green joins them briefly before sending Donatello away with Amber. A few of us have stopped skating to watch, and Coach yells at us.

“Focus up, guys! Five on five, half ice. Let’s go.” He calls out a few names to make the teams, sending the rest of us to the bench.

“It’s like getting sent to the principal’s office,” Blake says, shaking his head with disgust as we skate off the rink. “Poor Donnie doesn’t know what’s about to hit him.”

“You have a bad experience in therapy or something?” Jason, our team captain and one of our best defensemen, throws himself down onto the bench with us and guzzles water. “I’m pretty sure it’s good for you.”

Blake snorts. “Don’t need to have a bad experience to know that it’s stupid, and we don’t need it.”

“Yeah, we just need to do more team-building or something,” I agree. “I don’t see the point of a couple of people we don’t even know getting in our heads.”

“Exactly!” Blake thumps me on the shoulder. “They’ve never played hockey. They just don’t get it.”

Jason shrugs. “I dunno, man. They’re educated, and they must have spent a lot of time learning about hockey to be hockey performance coaches and sports psychologists. The league wouldn’t have sent them if they were idiots.”

“I’m not saying they’re idiots, I’m just saying we don’t need them.” I shake my head. Jason’s right though, they understand enough about the game to probably be able to help us. Amber knows hockey better than half the guys in this locker room. Her brother and I played together, and their house was full of the sport. I can still hear her dad yelling at the TV, her mom calling out stats like a broadcaster, Amber curled up next to me on the couch, pretending she didn’t care while sneaking glances at the screen. She cared. She always did.

If it was anybody else, I might even be open to it. I want my team to do well, and after the last season we had, we need all the help we can get.

But it’s Amber Morrison. So unless there’s a way for me to only talk to her colleague and avoid her entirely, it’s just not going to work.

I squirt some water into my mouth and watch the team practice. Griffin Young is at center on offense, and he’s stinking it up out there. He’s one of our second-stringers, but Blake got into so many fights last season that Griff ended up on the ice more often than not replacing him. He’s strong, but still green. He doesn’t seem to trust himself entirely, which is a problem when he’s supposed to be our main point man.

“Come on, Griff,” I mutter under my breath. “Be aggressive.”

Coach Green seems to agree with me. “Get after it, Young!” Griffin glances over to the bench when Coach calls his name, and loses possession of the puck. I groan, dropping my head into my hands.

Blake winces. “They better not put him in when we get to the preseason games.”

“You’d better not give them a reason to.” I nudge him, and he elbows me back, nearly knocking me off the bench. I’m about to smack him when Coach Green calls our names for the next scrimmage.

It’s my turn to square off at the center, facing off against Clint Harris. He’s a few years older — was on the team before I got drafted.

Now that I've landed on a team with a guy named Harris, I'm grateful that, back in college, I started going by Zack, short for my middle name, Zachery. Coaches yell whatever comes to mind — first name, last name, whatever sticks. Harrison, my first name, playing with this guy, Clint Harris, could have been confusing on the ice.

I never felt like a Harrison growing up. Too polished. Too proper. Sounded like some prep school kid with straight A's and a family ski cabin in Vermont. I was bagging groceries by age twelve trying to help Mom keep the lights on at home.

Zack fit better, more like a jock. A jock who worked hard for the "B" in school and knew hockey was his only way out of his sad, small town life. I haven't made the NHL yet, but playing for the Blades minor league earns me more than enough to pay the bills — to give my mom a better life. And that's all I ever wanted.

Coach Green blows the whistle to start the drill, and I immediately check Clint with my stick and snatch the puck out from under him. He falls back, and I take off.

“Zack! I’m open!” I slap the puck to Blake, my right winger, and he carries it closer to the goal. I pour on the speed, trying to get open again, but I can’t get around Clint. I drop my shoulder and ram into him, but he takes the hit, sliding backward and staying firmly in my way.

I growl, locking sticks with Clint’s. “Easy, tiger.” He laughs, breathing hard, and this only pisses me off more. It’s nothing to him, just another drill. But for me? It’s everything. I have to be the best. I have to dominate. If I’m not the guy leading this team, who am I? The thought claws at me, and before I can stop myself, I slam into him again, this time aiming for the wall.

“Colt!” My eyes close and my head drops back, the fight leaving my body when I hear Coach Green’s reprimand. “Save some of that fire for the real game, kid. No need to go so hard in practice.”

“Yes, Coach.” I shake my head, embarrassed. Clint shoves me off and skates back to the action.

Coach Green motions me over to him. “Zack, come here for a moment.”

I glide over to him while the scrimmage continues behind me. “I’m sorry, Coach. I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t mean to hit Clint so hard–”

“It’s not about that.” Coach Green looks me in the eye, his expression serious. “Zack, you know you’re one of the best players on the team.” I blink, taken aback. Praise like that still catches me off guard.

Growing up, the only time anyone noticed me was when I was scoring goals or paying bills. But here, now, Coach is looking me in the eye like I’m worth more than just my stats. It throws me. “You’re our star center, and you’re a veteran. The younger guys really look up to you.”

“Thanks, Coach,” I say, surprised. “I’m doing my best.”

Coach Green nods. “I know you are. That’s why I need you to take this mental performance coaching seriously.”

I frown, backing away a step. “Coach, I’m not so sure…”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Coach Green holds up his hands, stopping my complaints in their tracks. “I need you to set a good example for the rest of the guys. Listen to Dr. Stone and Dr. Morrison, and encourage the others to do the same.” My disgust must show on my face, because Coach gives a short laugh. “Come on, don’t look at me like that. It’s not like I’m asking you to scrub the locker room toilets.”

“That would be much worse,” I agree. “But there’s still plenty of time left in the preseason. We can run more drills, do more team-building exercises, maybe send Blake to anger management classes–”

“You know as well as I do that there’s nothing wrong with our technique. And the sports psychologists will help with the rest.” Coach claps me on the shoulder. “Accepting these performance coaches will help bring everyone together, but only if everyone gives it a fair shot. Can you do that?”

“Yes, Coach.” I try not to let my voice betray my nerves.

I start to skate away, but Coach stops me. “Oh, no you don’t. You’re up next.”

My eyes widen, and I swallow hard. It’s time for me to face Amber again, and I’m not sure I’m ready.