Page 71 of Delay of Game

He said, “Yeah. Thank you. I’ll take you up on it.”

Chapter Ten

April

Nate should have been satisfied.

The Cons finished the season with the lead in the division and a momentum that they would desperately need to keep going. The Hornets had struggled enough in the post-Cup season that they had the wildcard spot, which meant that for the third year in a row, the Cons would have to get through them to make it to the Cup.

There were a few other surprises: the Boston Beacons had missed the playoffs for the first time in almost a decade after suddenly taking a leap off of a cliff around the middle of the season and finishing below .500, again for the first time in a decade. The Scouts, on the other hand, had made the playoffs for the first time in a few seasons thanks to stellar goaltending and a strong defensive performance.

In the first round, the Cons would be playing the first wildcard, the New York Railers, which always promised to be an unpleasant grind. The Railers counted on smothering you with defense, but they had hot and cold streaks with scoring. Especially if they were on a cold streak, it was a winnable series. He should have been satisfied.

He should have been satisfied, but of course he would never be fully satisfied until they won the Cup. Two seasons ago had been the heady, overwhelming euphoria of making the playoffs for the first time in years, last year had been the heartbreak of missing it when they had beensofucking close, and this year...what was this year? He was afraid to try to look into the future, like that might jinx it, somehow.

But no matter whatactuallyhappened, Nate was keenly aware that this year was the prove-it year. Gordon Smith, the Cons’ general manager, had walked it back after last year. Given them all another chance. Despite the second-round exit, there hadn’t been any major trades. The core was still there, and it was only guys on expiring contracts who didn’t fit the timeline and hadn’t been producing as expected that had gone in free agency. Nate and Zach and Bee, Mike and Lindy and Graham, all of them were still here. Mäkelä and Socks were still here. They had the chance to do it as a group.

If theycoulddo it as a group.

It somehow didn’t feel like a group anymore, not when there was still the gaping distance between him and Zach, not when the rest of the team was still dancing awkwardly around it, like Sally’s kid had spilled Legos all over the floor.

Sometimes Nate thought the guilt was actually going to eat him alive, that they had this chance and that he had ruined it. The group was still a group, but it wasn’t the same at all, and he didn’t know how to fix it. It washisjob as the captain to hold the team together, to motivate them and keep them going, but all he had done was to act selfishly to get things he’d wanted, things he’dknownwere a terrible idea but had wanted too much to think with his head.

If the team didn’t make it through the playoffs, it would be all his fault.

So no. Nate couldn’t be satisfied.

He went to the rink and he talked to the coaches and he made sure the rookies were doing the things they needed to do the same way he always had. But it was all empty. It didn’t mean anything. He knew he was a fraud; he knew he had fucked up, and he couldn’t fix it.

“Singer,” Coach said, after practice.

“Yes, Coach?” Nate asked, unsure.

“Can we talk in my office?”

“Uhh...sure?”

“Great,” Coach said. He wasn’t smiling.

The coach’s office was just like any other room in the Frank. He’d chosen it for its proximity to the dressing room and the players, and it was clear that he’d been very utilitarian about that choice. It still had the kind of cinderblock walls, painted white, that gave it an institutional feel, like a hospital or a prison. Rather than personal decorations, the room was filled instead with notes and books and as many whiteboards as the walls could hold. All of them were covered in diagrams, notes, and the depth charts. Cote’s desk itself felt almost like an afterthought, buried in the corner out of sight.

Although Cote shut the door behind him, he didn’t go to sit down at his desk. He paced around the middle of the room instead, arms folded over his chest. He was a handsome man in his late forties, but when he was frowning at Nate like that, he looked years older.

“Uh,” Nate said after a minute, “Coach, do you want to tell me what this is about?”

“I was going to ask you the same damn question,” Coach said, brusquely. He didn’t sound mad, just disappointed. “What the hell’s been going on out there?”

“I don’t understand,” Nate said, even though he knew all too well.

“You’re playing like shit, to put it bluntly. And the room is fucking rotten.”

Nate opened and closed his mouth and wondered whether everyone had figured it out. Whether he was that fucking obvious. Nate respected the coach, of course. Cote was the one who had decided that Nate had it within him to be the captain. But their relationship had never been like that: they weren’tfriends. This wasn’t something he could confide in him.

“Uhhh... I don’t understand,” he said, finally.

“Whatever issue you and Reed are having, I need you to get the fuck over it. We’re starting the first round of the playoffs this week and I can’t afford to have my leadership group fractured like this. You’re hurting theteam.”

The guilt was overwhelming, nauseous and sick. A confirmation of all of the worst things he’d suspected about himself. “I know,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”