This is not a surprise to me as Callum emailed the coaches this morning about the news. But it is unsettling as evidenced by some of the grumbling.
Ordinarily, this would be a good thing for any team or player. The rule is, if trades occur after the deadline, which ironically was three days before the crash, any players traded could not dress for the playoffs. That rule is being removed for the Titans.
Callum holds up his hands, asking for silence. “I know this might cause some distress as many of you just got your call-up from the minors, and you don’t want anything interfering with your shot to make it in this league. While the chances are slim, it’s possible someone could offer for one of you and then release you back to the minors. Brienne Norcross has made a commitment not to release any of you from your contracts this year. She wants your shot to be a good one, and you can’t do that with fear of that shot ending hanging over you. It doesn’t matter if a great opportunity comes our way. We are not going to sacrifice a single player in this room.”
Big applause.
Huge.
Brienne made the right decision, and Callum’s delivery was perfect. This team will have safety and security for the rest of the season, and it’s exactly what they need.
CHAPTER 12
Baden
If the men were expecting to get immediately on the ice, they were sorely mistaken. Coach Keller wanted to do more talking. After a brief introduction of himself—including background—as well as the other coaches, he decided this team needed to get to know one another a little better. However, I’m not sure the manner in which he chose to do this was the wisest.
Coach Keller wanted every player to stand and take a few moments to tell the rest of the team about himself. But he also wanted them to have a moment to express their feelings about coming to the Titans and the path that led them there.
I thought this was a horrible idea. He was essentially starting a support group of men who did not know each other and may not want to talk about their feelings. I realized early on in my post-injury mental health journey that you have to want to feel better. You have to commit to being able to express your feelings. You have to be able to confront your demons, and you have to be in a secure place to do so.
Sitting in The Bowl after having been plucked out of their lives to start brand-new ones, under pretty awful circumstances, and among fifty strangers, is not a secure place to be forced to discuss feelings.
Had I known Coach Keller planned to do this, I would’ve had no problem expressing my hesitancy of this process. But he did not tell us coaches what he had planned, and I certainly cannot call him out in front of everybody.
So when he calls on the first player to stand and introduce himself to his new team, my gut tightens in anticipation of shit that might start flying.
It only takes five players to know that Matt Keller has made a monumental mistake in requiring this type of participation. The first five players were reticent and withdrawn. They offered basic facts about themselves, a faux amount of excitement to be on the team, and refused to talk about their feelings, as is their right.
Looking around the room periodically, it’s clear no one wants to be here listening to this. As happens over time with teams, these men will get to know one another. They’ll develop solid friendships with everyone and closer friendships with a few. Some might even discuss their feelings down the road.
But today is not that day.
Coach Keller prides himself on having memorized the entire roster and can identify every player on sight. I cannot do that yet, but within a few days, I’ll have all the names down.
When Keller calls on Stone Dumelin, he’s a player I clearly recognize from our discussion during that first meeting after I arrived in Pittsburgh. His brother was on the plane, and I’d looked them both up as it truly is a tragic circumstance.
Everyone in the room, probably except Keller, can tell by the expression on Stone’s face that he’d rather float in a pool of lava than stand in front of his new team and talk about how he came to be here.
Still, he dutifully introduces himself. “I’m Stone Dumelin. I play left wing, and I came up from the Cleveland Badgers.”
Keller has his arms folded across his chest, and he nods along with Stone. “And what do you think your driving force is to be here?”
I duck my head and wince. That has to be the dumbest question on the face of the earth.
I twist in my seat to look at Stone two rows back and to my right.
Fury is etched upon his face. “I’d say the driving force is the fact that my brother was on the plane. His death gave me a shot to come back into the big leagues. Fortuitous, some would say. Don’t you think?”
There are a few coughs and some murmurs of disbelief at the way Stone attacked his head coach. Frankly, Keller had it coming.
My head whips back to look at Coach Keller, and his face drains of color. “Fuck. I’m so sorry. I got you confused with someone else, Stone.”
My head drops again in mortification for not only Stone but this entire team. How the fuck could Keller forget that Stone’s brother was on the plane?
I glance back at Stone, and I can see he has not accepted Keller’s apology. He sinks down into his chair and glares at the head coach.
Keller stammers and looks around the room trying to figure out who he should call on next. If he had a lick of sense, he would shut this shit down and get them out on the ice.
But I’m starting to understand that Keller wants to do things the way he wants to do them, and he’s not looking at the bigger picture. I’m also concerned because he’s forcing something on these players that is not being well received, and it’s going to ding their respect for him.
Keller locks eyes with a player in the first row to my left.
Coen Highsmith.
One of three players who were not on the plane, and the leading scorer for the team up until the crash. Keller stares at him as if he’s a saving grace and eagerly says, “Highsmith… stand up and tell the team about yourself.”
I don’t know much about Coen Highsmith. He’s young and brash, but so are most players in this league. Got a bit of an ego, but I don’t know if it’s healthy. I expect him to stand up and maybe tell a joke to try to lighten the mood or even brag about himself.
He does neither. Instead, he remains seated, hands clasped on the table flipped over his lap. He slouches in the seat, and at first I don’t think he’s going to say anything, but then he drawls, “I think everyone here knows who I am. One of the lucky three.”
And he says nothing else. Keller tries to wait him out, looking at him expectantly, almost begging with his eyes for him to say more.
Coen glares back at the coach.
I have to say that behavior shocks me from the guy who is known as a fairly easygoing player. Along with his brashness and ego and cocky attitude, he’s known to be a fun-loving sort.
Right now, he looks pissed. Keller finally gets the hint and moves on.
Before Keller can call on anyone else, from the corner of my eye, a player stands in the fourth row, and I recognize him as Gage Heyward. The well-respected veteran who retired at the end of last season. He’s the man Callum wanted to be the fount of wisdom for this team.
“Coach,” Gage says in a jovial voice, “I may just be speaking for myself, but I would rather get to know my teammates on a more one-to-one basis. But beyond that, I think I can safely say that everyone in this room is eager to show you what we can do. Am I right?”