Page 85 of Slapshot Baby

"I'm protecting my team because the variables are unknown and the stakes are too high for guesswork."

My jaw works.

I stare past him to the players running through formations I built. Systems I installed during the years I can't remember but apparently taught well enough that they survived without me.

"Those are my systems out there. I taught them half the breakout patterns and the penalty kill rotations. And now you can’t trust me to execute them?"

He rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

"This isn't about trust."

"Yes, it is. You put me on LTIR without a conversation. You let me walk in here, lace up, get on the ice, and skate like I'm back. Then you pulled me in front of the entire roster. If that's not a trust issue, it's a communication issue. Both are worse coming from you."

His hand drops. "You're right that the communication should have been better. I'll own that."

"And the LTIR?"

"Stands."

"For how long?"

"Until I see evidence that your game translates under pressure. We’ll have private sessions where we can evaluate without risking a roster spot."

I snort. "Private sessions. You want me to audition for a position I earned years ago."

"I want you to prove what your doctor's form can't. That form might clear you, but it doesn't say your game is NHL-ready."

"There is no test for ready except playing. You know that. You've coached long enough to know that a player staring at game film and running private drills is not the same as a player reading live action with the puck on his stick."

"Which is exactly why I need to see you in controlled situations first."

I'm running out of angles. Every argument I make is logical, sound, and completely useless against a man who's already made his decision.

"This is wrong," I say.

"It might be. But it's my call and I'm making it."

Behind me, the ice is still. Practice has stopped entirely. I don't turn around because I know I'll see my teammates standing in a loose cluster, sticks down, watching their captain get told he can't play.

"Is there anything else?" I ask.

"Start with private ice time. Early mornings, before the team's session. I'll have my assistant set the schedule. When you're ready, I'll know it. And so will you."

I pull my gloves off and set them on the boards.

"You'll hear from me tomorrow about the schedule."

I walk toward the tunnel. The rubber matting grips under my blades with each step.

Wyatt intercepts me at the tunnel entrance. For once, his face isn't bright.

"Cap."

"Not now, Wyatt."

"That was bullshit."

"It was Coach's call."