Him (Him #1)(18)

“Yeah?”

Pat, the camp director, has come over to the penalty box to talk to me. I don’t take my eyes off the scrimmage I’m coaching, but he won’t think I’m rude. “Got you a roommate,” he says.

“Really?” That’s good news, because every summer Pat scrambles for coaches. And this year is no different. Guys like me keep graduating and moving on. He wants the best coaches at his camp, but the best guys are in high demand.

This year I’m one of those. I’m due in Detroit for training camp six weeks from now, which means Pat will have to find someone to fill in for me when I go. I glance at him for a split second before looking back at the boys’ game in progress.

He’s sizing me up, and I don’t know why. “Be nice to him, okay?”

It takes me a moment to answer, because I don’t like the direction the scrimmage is taking. Tempers are about to flare. I can feel the tension mounting. “When am I not nice?” I ask, distracted.

A firm hand lands on my shoulder. “You’re the best there is, kid. Although your goalie is about to lose his shit.”

“I can see that.”

It’s like watching an accident. I know what’s about to occur, but forces are already in motion and I can’t stop them.

My best goalie—Mark Killfeather—has stopped twenty shots in this scrimmage already. With quick reflexes and a big, agile body, Killfeather has all the physical traits a good goalie requires.

He also has, unfortunately, a lightning-quick temper. And the talented French Canadian forward on the other team has been playing him like a fiddle all day—taunting him and teasing him on every offensive push.

I see the play the Canadian is about to make. He passes back to his buddy on the blue line then takes the puck again as the other side’s D-men get hung up in the corners. He fakes left, then right…and sends a flying saucer past my man Killfeather. It is a beautiful play until the Canadian kid sprays the goalie with ice shavings and calls him “un stupide.”

As if it were a boomerang, Killfeather throws his stick with enough force to crack it like a matchstick against the boards. It falls onto the ice, splintered.

Check, please. I blow the whistle. “That’s the game, we’re out of time.”

“Pourquoi?” protests the aggressive forward. “Zhere is time on zee clock!”

“Debrief with your offensive coach,” I say, waving him off. Then I skate over to Killfeather, who stands panting in the net, helmet yanked off to reveal his sweaty head. He is only sixteen and looks it. While other kids his age are kicking back under the sun or playing video games, he’s spent his hours duking it out on the rink today.

I’d been that kid, too. It was a good life and I wouldn’t trade it for anything, but it helps to remember these are still kids. So I don’t open with, “Hey *, you just trashed a hundred dollar stick.”

“Who’s your favorite goalie, kid?” I ask instead.

“Tuukka Rask,” he says immediately.

“Good pick.” I’m not a Bruins fan, but the man has an excellent record. “What does his face look like after he lets in a goal?”

Killfeather quirks an eyebrow. “Why? He just takes a drink and puts his mask back on.”

“He doesn’t lose his shit and throw his stick,” I say with a smile.

The kid rolls his eyes. “I get that, but that guy is such an ass.”

Leaning down, I tug the net off its spike so the ice can be resurfaced. “You did great goaltending today. Truly exceptional.”

Killfeather begins to smile.

“But you have to learn to keep your cool, and I’m going to tell you why.” His smile fades. “Rask is calm after he messes up. But it’s not because he’s a better person than you or me, or because he meditates or never gets mad. It’s because he knows that putting it all behind him is the only way to win. Seriously—when he’s having that gulp of water, he’s already moved on. Instead of saying, ‘Man, I wish I hadn’t done that,’ he’s saying, ‘All right, now I get a brand new chance to stop him.’”

The kid is scowling at his skates now.

“You know that thing they say about goldfish? Their memories are so short that each time they swim around the bowl, it’s all brand new again.”

The corners of his mouth lift up. “That’s deep, Coach Canning.”

Aw. It kills me to be Coach Canning for a few weeks a year. I freaking love this job.

“Be my goldfish, Killfeather.” I give him a little punch on the chest pads. “Forget every stupid thing that guy says to you. Because the world is filled with dicks who will rile you up for fun. You’ve got the moves. You can do the job. But only if you don’t let him wreck it for you.”

He finally looks up at me. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Hit the showers,” I say, skating backwards away from him. “Then get your credit card out and buy another stick.”

I leave him, unlacing my skates and slipping into my Chuck Ts. When you’re the coach, you don’t have to gear up. Just skates and a helmet. I’m wearing hiking shorts and a Rainier College sweatshirt. And they feed me three meals a day in the camp dining room.

Did I mention this is a sweet job?

Leaving the rink takes me past every kind of Olympic sports memorabilia. The rink where I stood a minute ago trying to talk some sense into a sixteen-year-old goalie is the same ice where Team USA won Olympic gold in 1980. So there are “Miracle on Ice” pictures everywhere. During the winter months, there are more athletes per capita in this little town than most anywhere. People move here to train for hockey, skating, ski jumping and alpine events.