"I can tell you with one hundred percent certainty that a long, healthy career is what most professional athletes should want, but few are willing to do all the things necessary to get that."
"I can see how the current situation would be less than ideal—"
"There's not a single person on this island who seems to be taking the team's move seriously. My comment last night was dead serious."
"People on the island are invested. They just aren't necessarily knowledgeable yet."
"Forgive me for not wanting to be Bellerive's guinea pig when it might fuck up my career. This team isn't some cute lark for me. It's my life."
"I can do the job you need," she says again, more firmly than before.
"How much do you know about the game?"
"Ice hockey?"
"No, break dancing. Yes, ice hockey."
"Absolutely nothing. I've never even seen a game."
"Jesus Christ." I close my eyes.
"I'm a fast learner." This is said with slightly less certainty, as though there's something she's holding back in that statement, or some recollection that makes her question her own claim.
"I need strength, endurance, power, speed, agility, and flexibility training that's geared towards what I do on the ice. If you don't know the game, you're basically useless."
Her eyes widen, and she seems taken aback by my bluntness, which immediately makes me regret how I said it. 
"That was harsh," I say, my voice gruff. "You need to know the game to train me. The two go together."
"The team must already have some training."
"Basics that everyone has to complete, yeah. I've never been looking to be the same as everyone else. I want to be better. Fuck it, I want to be the best. Always. At everything. To me, there's no such thing as too competitive, too driven."
"Win at all costs?" She suggests, eyebrows raised.
"No," I say, carefully, "which is why I want a trainer. When all this is over—which is inevitable—I want to be able to have a real future outside hockey. I don't want to be crippled up, brain full of CTE. But when I'm in a game, I'm only focused on winning, which is why I need to be certain I've done everything I can off the ice to prepare for those moments on the ice."
"You don't want me?"
Her words cause that same twinge in my chest, as though some part of me longs to protest in some way. "Being forced to come here has probably damaged my career. I can't mess with my life too."
She takes a deep breath and releases it before standing. "I can understand that. If you ever need a physiotherapist, I'm your girl." 
"Look," I say, suddenly not so sure I want her to leave, "I've got some old game tape. If you seem to pick up the basics, and if you've got some training ideas, we can do a trial. A few weeks. It'll take that long to fill the position to my satisfaction, anyway."
"I appreciate that your natural instinct might be to speak to people who don't know hockey like they're idiots, but if that's how you're going to be while you teach me, I'd really rather not."
Our gazes lock, and I see something in the depths of her eyes that reminds me of how I felt as a kid—before I found hockey—a little untethered, and if I've done that to her, it makes me feel like a total piece of shit. 
"You don't think I can keep my inner asshole in check?"
"Inner?" 
I can't help the grin that rises at how hard she came at me with one word. "Fair," I say with a bit of a laugh. 
"You're a twenty-one-year-old star player who's probably pretty used to getting what he wants. I just—I made a promise to myself that I'd set clear boundaries around how I let people treat me. You've said a few things since we met that were—"
"I didn't intend—"
"Intention and impact aren't the same thing."
It's not the first time I've been told that, but it might be the first time it's actually hit home. 
"How old are you?" I ask, my curiosity piqued.
"Thirty-one. Old enough to know what I will and won't take from someone."
But the way her voice wavers makes me wonder if that's totally true. I don't know how old I thought she was, but ten years older than me wasn't it. 
"I'll tuck my inner asshole away. Bury him under my little kid coaching persona."
"You have a little kid coaching persona?"
"I do. It's a real winner, you'll see." I push off the mantle at her skeptical expression and head toward the primary bedroom suite. "I'll get dressed, and we'll watch a game."
She sinks back into the couch, and I realize I have no idea how the next few hours are going to go. We might get along great, or she might never want to talk to me again. Because the truth is, my little kid coaching persona isn't that far removed from who I am all the time. 
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