Hutch

3

Hutch

"Hutch, get your ass in here!"

All eyebrows shoot up at Coach's yell. He didn't sound particularly happy. Can't be good.Coach Grimes is a balding man in his late fifties. Used to play in the NHL until he was taken out due to an injury in his third year. We're lucky to have him.

Until he's pissed at one of us.

Then we're not so lucky because he can get particularly creative in his punishments. My first year on the team, I got drunk off my ass and showed up to practice late. By the time he was done making me do ladder drills, I'd puked at least half a dozen times.

And he made the entire team do the same. One person screws up, we all screw up. Team building he said. More like fear of getting your ass beat by your teammates on the daily because you made them puke too.

"What did you do?" Raymond Andrews, one of our right wingers, asks in a hushed voice."No clue." I shrug and stand up, trying to appear unbothered when truthfully I'm shaking inside. This is my last year to impress the pros. I can't get benched, especially at the beginning of the season when scouts are paying attention to up and coming talent.

Coach is sitting behind his desk glaring at whatever paper is in front of him. I hope to God that has nothing to do with me. I haven't done anything recently that I can think of that would put that look on his face. At least I don't think so.

"Coach?"

"Close the door and sit down." He scowls at the paper and I do as he says. This is not good.

"What is this?" He tosses the paper at me.

It's a list of our last three practices stats.

"Uh...stats?"

His lip curls. "I know that, but why do you think I'm pissed?"

When I don't answer right away, he decides to tell me.

"You're four seconds behind the third line and two seconds behind the second line. Do you think that's going to get you attention?"

Shit. I didn't even notice that.

"You're a first line center for a reason, Hutch. We count on you to be faster than everyone else, to get the puck and move it before the other team can catch you. So tell me, what the hell is going on?"

"No one said anything to me about being slower."

"I'm telling you now and I want to know what's going on. What's got you off your game?"

"I don't feel off. Maybe it was just a bad practice. We all have them."

"For the last three in a row?"

My eyes swoop back down to the paper in my hand and sure enough, he's right. My time is off."I don't know."

"You'd better damn well figure it out. We have scouts at Saturday's game. You're the best player I've had in my locker room in years. I don't want you to throw your shot away on booze or women."

"I haven't drunk during the season since I was a freshman."

He purses his lips, not sure if he believes me or not. But it's the truth.

"I'm not dating anyone either."

He snorts. "Its not the steady girlfriend I'm worried about. It's all the one night stands. Partying and whoring, that'll kill your talent faster than anything else."

"So you want me to get a girlfriend?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying. I'm trying to find out why you're slowing down."