Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84200 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84200 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Coach West circles his fingertip around the edge of his coffee cup as he contemplates my question. When his eyes rise to meet mine, he says, “Again… a little disappointed you would think I’m that type of coach. First, you know damn well I delegate a lot of shit to my assistant coaches. They’re more than capable of carrying on with practice without me being there. But as head coach, I’m ultimately responsible for everyone on this team. And if you were dead or dying, by God… I was going to be the one who found you. I’m not putting that on anyone else’s doorstep. But most importantly, the reason I’m here is it’s time to have a transparent conversation about what in the hell is wrong with you.”
My eyebrows rise. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. What’s wrong with you? This isn’t the first conversation we’ve had. Your play has been off. And now you’re missing practices.”
“A practice,” I clarify hesitantly, not wanting to piss him off but not willing to be labeled as someone who’s routinely late.
Coach inclines his head as if to say touché. “I still want to know what’s wrong. You may think you’re hiding it, but you’re not. And if you want to keep your position on this team, I suggest you give me a good reason to help you figure out how to accomplish that.”
I don’t know where to begin to tell him all the things that seem wrong, so I pick up my coffee and take a sip. It immediately scalds the top of my mouth but I swallow it, burning my throat along the way.
When I set it down, I say, “I’m having a little trouble sleeping. That’s all.”
“Are you self-medicating? Drinking? Is that why you overslept?”
“No, Coach,” I exclaim, leaning forward in my chair. “I’m not doing that. Only having some bad dreams is all.”
“Because if you were self-medicating, the league has great resources to—”
“I swear I’m not doing drugs or drinking alcohol to help sleep.”
He nods and I see he accepts my declaration at face value. “Okay, then… let’s move on. Why are you having trouble sleeping?”
That is the million-dollar question, isn’t it?
And one I haven’t bothered to try to answer yet.
To fill the silence, Coach prods me. “When we last talked about your level of play on the ice, you said you were having some family issues. Is that it?”
My mind buzzes, trying to remember exactly what I said. He did indeed call me on the carpet about my play not being quite up to par. I think I did tell him I was dealing with some family issues, but that’s not the truth. I mean, there’s some truth to it… but they’re not the root of my sleepless nights.
I choose to be vague. “My family isn’t keeping me up at night.”
Coach West settles back in his chair, taps an index finger on the table. The way he’s looking at me is daunting, as if he can see deep into my soul.
“Is it because your friends and teammates and coaches died in a plane crash?”
I flinch.
And it’s noticeable.
“Are you having nightmares about plane crashes?” he asks, and I feel the blood leaving my face.
Coach West takes it in and nods with understanding. “Did you get therapy after the crash?”
I shake my head. “Not really. We had to see someone for an evaluation, but that’s all I did.”
He knows what I mean by we. Coen Highsmith, Hendrix Bateman and I are called the Lucky Three. The trio of players who weren’t on the plane. The ones who escaped death and the ones who should be grateful for the lives we have.
Coach pokes at me without hesitation. “Is there a reason you didn’t attend therapy?”
I shrug. “I thought I was handling it fine. I mean… I grieved. I mourned the losses. I asked a lot of whys and why-nots. But I handled it fine. Ask anyone who knows me.”
“I’m asking you,” he says pointedly.
“I handled it fine,” I repeat but there’s no hiding my defensive tone. “I don’t want or need therapy.”
Coach West stares at me a good long moment before giving what looks like a resigned nod. There’s a release of tension from my chest, something I hadn’t realized I’d been holding in this entire time.
“Okay,” he says, pushing up from the table and I rise as well. “I respect you don’t want to do therapy. I’d never force that. But I am going to require you to do something.”
“What’s that?” I ask suspiciously.
“Brienne created a support group for all the loved ones and friends left behind. At first, it was pretty structured with regular meetings. She had a certified counselor there to moderate discussions. Now it’s more of a social network. We meet every Sunday afternoon at a different place to get together and talk.”