“Hockey players tend to have that effect,” Hardy quips, his typical sarcasm on full display.
“You really do.” I look around the group, studying their apprehensive faces. “As much as I appreciate the kind words, they don’t change the fact that this isn’t working. I’ve been telling Coach and Dr. Banks that we just need more time, but after tonight, I’m not sure that’s true.”
Knox’s jaw hardens, and he gestures to his teammates. “Don’t give up on us, Ava. Give us one more chance. You won’t regret it.”
For an instant, I’m not sure if he’s talking about the team or about us.
There is no us. There’s only you and him and a situationship that includes a lot of banging.
Even so, I’d like nothing more in this moment than to crawl into his arms and forget this entire night.
Dvorak clears his throat, and when he speaks, his words are solemn. “We’ll do whatever you say. No questions asked.”
The rest of the team agrees, the commitments coming easily.
It’s the first time they’ve all agreed on anything. It’s also the first time they’ve truly committed to doing the work, but I can’t just take them at their word. Words are easy to come by; it’s actions that matter.
“You’ll do whatever I say, no questions asked?” Their heads bob, and a wave of verbal agreements makes its way around the room. “Prove it.”
20
KNOX
Ava opensher bag and begins passing out pens and paper. Even now, on a Saturday night, she’s got her tools of the trade at hand. It would be fucking adorable if she didn’t have tear tracks staining her gorgeous face.
My gut twists at the sight of her tear-soaked cheeks.
Seeing Ava cry is something I never want to experience again. Worse is knowing that I helped put those tears there. That my actions—or inactions—caused her to feel so hopeless. Ava is not a failure. She could never be a failure, and knowing she felt that way for even one damn second is like a blade to the throat.
Judging by the looks on their faces, the rest of the team feels the same way.
We may be brutes on the ice, but off it, most of us are far softer. There isn’t a man in this room who wouldn’t give you the shirt off his back…and yet somehow, I’ve failed to bring them together. To form the kind of bonds I had in San Jose and at Waverly.
It’s a new team. There wasn’t a lot of shared history to build on.
True, but we should have connected last season.
Over what? Losing?
It’s a cop-out. We may not have a winning record, but there are always things to celebrate. Personal milestones. Big plays. Nasty clappers.
“We’re going to do an exercise called Fear in a Hat.” Ava pauses, as if waiting for protests, but none come. She nods, looking pleasantly surprised. “I want each of you to write down one or two things that scare you, something you’ve been thinking about or struggling with.” She shoots us the side-eye. “And I’m not talking Michael Myers scared. I want real, raw emotions here. Dig deep. Your fears will be anonymous. We’re going to throw them in a hat and pull them out one at a time to discuss them. The point of this exercise is to build empathy and trust within the team.”
There’s a lot of uncomfortable shifting, but the usual complaints and snarky comments are absent.
“Look around this room,” Ava says, making a circular motion with her finger. “Whatever emotion you’re feeling, whatever it is that is causing you anxiety, I guarantee you there’s at least one other person here feeling the same way, which is why we need to normalize talking about it. That’s how we move forward as a team.”
I don’t miss the fact that she sayswe, including herself as part of the group.
That has to be a good sign.
She falls silent, and I stare down at the paper in my hand, unsure what to write. What am I truly afraid of? Another losing season? Finishing in last place?
My gut hardens at the thought, but it’s not fear, exactly.
Head down, I scan the room. All around me, guys are jotting down their fears, using their stalls and pads as makeshift writing surfaces.
Is the question really that easy to answer, or am I just terrible at being honest with myself?