Shutout

Chapter 1-Logan

My sweat tickled my neck, making me flinch at the feeling and wipe it away. It wasn't completely disgusting because it was still off-season practice, which was never super intense, plus hours of the hockey BootCamp. I didn't have time to shower after practice and it's only gotten worse. 

"Okay, kids, wrap it up!" Henson, the main coach for college and, therefore, the main coach for this middle-school boot camp, blows his whistle with all the air in his fairly round body. The kids stop their scrimmage, the losers and the winners faces make it evident who is who, "Gather around so we can reassess, so clear by the looks on there  and then you're good to scram."

Any emotion in their awkward bodies flies away with abrupt eagerness to end the day of BootCamp. It's day four of eight, and the kids have been worked to the bone. Part of me pities them because it's the middle of summer break, and here they are, spending nearly four hours a day playing frustrating hockey drills. But another part of me thinks it's fair because I did all this when I was their age, and look where I am. They might not all want to enter the NHL, but every little minute counts if they plan scholarships in college, as get hockey school, their parents are clearly eager to achieve. 

The other assistant coach, Winston, and I skate over to where Henson stands, foreboding with a gaggle of 12-year-olds panting in front of him. Henson, from what I've gathered during the past four days of working with him, probably dreamed of being in the NHL but never got past the AHL, so he gave up on teaching English at the college and coaching various hockey things just because he couldn't let go of his first love. He's serious and scary at times, but Winston is always calm, so I try to appear calm around the dude, too. 

I don't really bother paying attention to Henson's Q&A about the skills and techniques they used today. The clock on the wall above the locker room doors read 5:53 pm. I haven't eaten since breakfast today, and it's killing me slowly. But I think I ate my last microwave meal. Fuck, what will I have for dinner? I could stop and get something, but the drive-thru lines will be literal hell, not to mention the normal street traffic. 

"Winston, Logan," I snap back to reality where Henson turns to us with his arms crossed like he wants to be more intimidating than he is, "Do you have anything to add from today?"

Winston replies before I can even think, "I know it's tiring doing this for hours every day, but this is the future of your practice and games if you keep playing like Logan. But I still think you're all doing good, so thank you for your hard work."

Well, shit, "Um, yeah," I blink, but the kids blink back, so that's not helpful, "I don't really have any comments from today, but as Winston said, thank you for your hard work, and I hope to see the same fighting spirit tomorrow."

Henson takes it with a nod, "We'll see you at the same time tomorrow. You're dismissed." 

Before he can even finish his sentence, the hoard of children breaks away to dart for the locker rooms. That makes me laugh because adult players as so fucking similar to middle schoolers it's amusing. 

"Didn't y'all have some kind of practice before the camp this morning?" Winston has a Southern accent that only comes out occasionally, but when it does, I laugh in my head. Mainly because Winston is a bald tree of a man, not some southern hunk. Maybe I'm biased. 

I nod, heading to the other side of the rink to get the net, "Yeah. 12-2."

"I don't know how you do it. This already feels like a long day, and I've only been on the ice for four hours."

I shrug, skating off the ice with the net, "I don't know either. I really want a shower and food, but other than that, I could stay on the ice longer." That's basically enforced that I do this if I want a pay raise on my new contract. However, I don't see any of the rookies or new trades teaching kids, so that's something to ponder.