The Seat Exchange

Chapter 4

The chill of the Fenton High School locker room seeped into my skin, a sharp contrast to the heat still radiating from my body. My ragged breathing from practice finally settled as I clutched a damp towel and wiped away the water off my hair. The cold shower soothed burning muscles coiled beneath the surface. It was a reminder of the hell Coach Miller had put us through. He had pushed us to our limits, relentless in his pursuit of making us a winning team. Every muscle in my body throbbed and burned from the gruelling drills we had endured. But despite the pain, I knew this was all part of the game–a game that held my heart in a vice grip.

"Man, Coach really kicked our asses today," I said, sinking into the bench next to my teammates. They all looked as exhausted as I felt. Hendrix hadn't even made his way to the showers yet and was still stretching out his legs.

The back of my head hit the locker as I breathed out a sigh. My teeth were still chattering from the freezing cold water that had assaulted my body moments prior. Icy showers were not my favourite part of practice, but absolutely necessary to numb the pain I was sure was on its way.

"Tell me about it," grumbled Easton, one of our defensemen, as he tossed his gear back into his locker. He was always one of the first guys out of the locker rooms once practice was done. Two weeks into the semester and his excuse was that he had shit for class he had to work on. It made me glad that half of mine were a joke. I don't know what I would have done if I had a more demanding major–or professors that weren't partial to Fenton athletes. "I thought my legs were going to give out during those last couple of laps."

"No offence, man." Maverick draped a used towel around his glistening shoulders, eyes settling on our team captain. "But your dad's a dick."

McKinley slipped a t-shirt over his head with a scoff. "You're telling me. I've lived with the guy."

I grimaced at the image. There was a certain breed of hockey parent–one that most guys on the Falcons were familiar with. They were the ones that picked fights with coaches your first Mini Mite game for not giving you enough ice time. The ones who lectured you the whole way home after a loss while you held back tears. They were the same ones who wouldn't let you go to a friend's birthday party because you had to go to additional back-to-back training camps. Most of us on this team we're no strangers to what it was like to be pushed to your limits. But living with the coach of your D1 college hockey team? That was like one's own personal hell.

"Look," Cole started from next to Maverick. "While Coach is hard on us, he isn't wrong. I don't want us shitting the bed again this year."

"We didn't shit the bed last year," I muttered, rubbing my aching shoulder. A few weeks into training and I was already falling apart. I tried my best not to show it. Since I was old enough to lace up my own skates, my dad always told me that pain was temporary, but pride was forever. There was no room for weakness. Especially if you wanted to be the best. But at that moment, all I could think about was how much everything hurt.

Maverick slid on a pair of loose grey joggers, the deep V of his abdomen disappearing beneath the waistband. "Losing in the semi-finals of the Frozen Four is the definition of shitting the bed."

"Okay," I murmured. "We sharted a bit. It happens to the best of us."

Hendrix commented with a wince. "It was more like a scary onset of the runs."

Cole ran a calloused hand down his face. "I can't believe we're sitting here comparing our performance last year to different types of shit."

"At least we can all agree we dropped the ball," McKinley muttered.

"This year's going to be different, okay?" I said, leaning forward until my elbows pressed against the soft towel that was still wrapped around my waist. "We're bringing this team all the way to the Frozen Four championships. We're going to make sure that you two graduate with that trophy under your belt." I pointed my finger at Hendrix and McKinley.

If we didn't, I wouldn't hear the end of it from my father. You want a spot in the NHL? You and your team need to start playing like it.

"Damn straight," Maverick grinned, messing with the wet mop of hair on my head. I shooed his hand away.

Light conversation filtered through the locker room as we continued getting ready to reconnect with the outside world. It was a funny feeling. I don't know if any of the other guys would have thought I was crazy, but whenever I was anywhere near the ice I felt like I was in another world. Nothing else mattered when I was with my boys. I could forget about any other problems that were going on in my life. All that mattered was me, the blades under my feet, and the puck. It was like meditation to a Buddhist monk. Maybe that's why, no matter how much my father made me hate it growing up, I stuck with it. Hockey was my outlet–the one thing I was born to do.

I was tucking a fresh t-shirt over my head when my phone buzzed on the bench beside me. The word Dad flashed across the screen. I contemplated ignoring it and letting it go to voicemail, but I knew I had to talk to him sooner or later.

"Hey, Dad. What's up?" I said into the receiver. I avoided the eyes on me as I made my way out of my seat.

"How was practice?" His voice belonged to a business man and not that of a loving parent. Anyone who didn't know him and overheard our conversation would have thought something was wrong. My father was a straight shooter when it came to anything revolving my hockey career. An undemanding tone didn't come naturally to him.

Well, hello to you too.

"Coach is working us," I replied, keeping my tone even as I rounded the corner and stepped out of the main area of the locker room. Chatter from the rest of the team hummed from behind me. "We're hopeful for this year."

"That's good." I could picture the stiff nod he would have given me. "Have you been sticking to that meal plan I had sent over?"

I drew in a breath, pinching the bridge of my nose. "I told you, Dad. Fenton's got us on their own–"

"I don't think you're getting enough protein in."

Another reason to be grateful you aren't here.

The last thing I needed was for him and Coach to be in the same room. One of them wouldn't be coming out alive.

"I'm getting plenty of protein. Hendrix has been keeping up with the nutritionist's demands."

"I still think you should let me hire you guys a chef."

"Really, Dad, it's not necessary," I replied, not wanting to hash down this road again. The last thing I needed was for my father to have any more control of what goes on while I'm at university. "I'll ask Hendrix to add more protein to each meal."

A grunt of approval made its way through the receiver.

Before he could bombard me with more hockey stuff, I changed the subject. "How's Mom doing?"

"Fine," his reply was brief. "You know how it is. She's always neck deep in work. Any news on recruiters yet?" The question hung in the air between us. The season hadn't even officially started yet and he was already pestering me about NHL prospects.

"You know they can't contact me until January," I reminded him.

"I'm sure your Coach has heard something through the grapevine. He knows people."

Running a hand across the back of my hand, I tried to ease the tension forming there. "I'll let you know as soon as I hear anything."

The rest of the conversation fell off after that. After exchanging brief goodbyes, I slipped my phone into the pocket of my track pants and made my way back into the main area of the locker room with the rest of the guys. Along with the ache in my body, a headache was brewing.

The most frustrating piece was that I knew he meant well. I couldn't be mad at him when he was doing what he thought he needed to do in order to help me reach my goals. But the constant nagging was exhausting.

I needed to decompress. And I knew just the way to do it.

_ _ _ _ _ 

author's note:

Any guesses on how this wild child is going to choose to decompress? I can guarantee whatever he decides to do won't be quiet lol

Happy reading!