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Berwyn looks at me for a long time. He doesn’t look at Greeley.
“Here’s where we are,” he says. “In a month, official practice opens. I’ve got one second-line center spot and two centers who both think it’s theirs, and I’ve got a captain who told his whole team nothing happened on his ice Friday and a team that didn’t believe him.” He picks up a pen and clicks it once. “I don’t care who started it. I care who’s going to finish it, because whoever finishes it isn’t going to be on my second line. You understand me? Both of you.”
“Yes, Coach,” says Greeley, immediately.
“Yes, Coach,” I say.
“Greeley. Go.”
Greeley stands and picks up his coffee. At the door he turns back. “Thanks, Coach. I really appreciate you hearing us out.”
Berwyn doesn’t answer him. The door shuts, and Berwyn waits until Greeley’s shape is gone from the frosted glass. I start to stand.
“Sit,” he says, and I sit back down. “You know what that kid just did?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me.”
“He made me look like the problem.”
“He didn’t make you look like anything.” Berwyn sets the pen down. “He sat there and said it’s on me too and for the team, and you sat there looking like you wanted to put him through my window. Which one of those reads better to me? To a scout? To anybody who wasn’t in that hallway?”
I don’t answer.
“I saw you standing over him when I opened the door. I don’t know what he said to you. I’d bet my house it was something. And I don’t care. You know why?”
“Because it doesn’t matter what he said.”
“Because it doesn’t matter what he said.” He leans forward. “You were right in here. He did put a hand on your face. I believe you. And it doesn’t help you one bit, because you told me after you’d already used your hands. Next time something matters, you say so. Out loud. Before your hands get involved. You hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“Go.”
Greeley is waiting at the end of the hallway by the stairs.
“Hey,” he says, as I come up. “Thanks for not making it weird in there.”
He’s smiling the hallway smile, not the office one, and I stop in front of him. “You’re a piece of shit, Greeley. It’s on me too. For the team. You don’t give a fuck about the team. You don’t give a fuck about anything except that spot.”
“And you do?” He tips his head. “At least I’m good at pretending, Kenny. You should try it. It’d help.”
“Don’t call me that.”
He pushes the stairwell door open with his shoulder and a stupid grin on his face. “Oh, and check the board before the skate. Dannebrog’s making some changes.”
“What changes?”
The door’s already swinging shut behind him.
The captain’s skate is at three. When I get to the rink a half hour early, the whiteboard in the hallway has changed.
BARNES — GREELEY — WALESKA.
And on the third line, between two juniors I barely know: KENNEBECK.
There’s no question mark next to Greeley’s name. There’s a new one next to mine. Behind me, in the locker room, somebody’s speaker is playing something with too much bass.
