The Tao of Hockey (Vancouver Vice #1)

C
opyright
© 2015 by Melanie Ting

First Edition, December 2015

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Development editing by Jodi Henley

Copyediting by Amy J. Duli

Cover design from Indie Solutions by Murphy

A
fter being selected
in the first-round of the NHL draft, Eric Fairburn was in a car accident that destroyed his career. Now, five years later, he’s getting one last chance. If he can make the Vancouver Vice of the AHL, it could be the first step to making his hockey dreams come true. There are only two things standing in his way—the coach from hell and his own self-destructive ways.

The one talent he hasn’t lost is his way with women. So he’s surprised to be turned down by a mysterious woman he meets in a bar. Eric finds himself pursuing her when he should be focusing on hockey. Yet he’s drawn to her confidence and independence, believing that might be the key to fixing his own on-ice issues.

This is the first book in a new series about the Vancouver Vice.

P
lease join
my mailing list
to get advance notice of new works and bonus stories.

“
H
arder
, Eric,” Donna urged me. “Go hard!”

My legs were pumping as fast as I could go, but I could feel the lactic acid burning in my quads. All I wanted to do was stop, but I kept pushing and ignored the pain. Mentally strong.

“Go, go, go! Don’t slow down. Ten seconds.”

Pedal. Pedal. Focus.

“Five seconds.” She was right in my face, grasping the handlebars of the stationary bike, but she was a blur to me. I tried to rise above the excruciating pain.

“Two, one…and you’re done.”

I groaned and eased off pedalling. Donna undid the Velcro monitor on my bare chest. She looked at my expression and motioned with her hand.

“Bathroom is that-a-way.”

I got off the bike and rushed into the washroom. I puked into the toilet and then flushed it. At least this cubicle was clean, unlike the many other places I’d thrown up. I went to the sink and cleaned up, rinsing out my mouth and washing my face.

Donna was inputting readings into her iPad when I came out. She looked up at me.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Sorry about that.”

Her smile was broad and sincere. She reminded me of my favourite teacher in grade school, this gigantic woman from the Prairies who was so kind. “No worries, Eric. At least you made it to the bathroom. I figure it shows how hard you’re working. If you’re not barfing, you’re not trying.”

I picked up my technical T and put it back on. “I hate Wingates.”

“Who doesn’t? But it’s the best way to measure anaerobic power. Well, we’re done with this portion of the testing, but I’m guessing you don’t want to break for lunch right now.”

“Yeah, not really hungry at this moment.”

“Okay, let’s do the psychological testing now.”

“The what?” Extra sweat began beading on my skin.

She ignored my question and led me back into the lobby. It was furnished with leather couches and huge framed photographs of hockey players in action. Nobody recognizable, but blurry, arty stuff. Everything at the Tony Sano Institute of Human Performance looked slick and professional. Given how much I was paying for this training, that only made sense. This was unlike any place I’d ever worked out at. But for my big chance, I was willing to go huge.

Donna handed me a clipboard and a pencil. “There are two types of questions. The first set asks you to rate statements on a scale from one to five, one being agree completely and five is disagree completely. The second set presents you with situations and ask you how you would respond. Please fully colour in the circles so we can scan the answer sheet. Tony will want to see the results before he meets with you.” She looked at her watch. “I’ll check back in a bit and see how you’re doing. If you need me, I’ll be in the office or the gym.”

I nodded and looked down at the question sheet. The first two statements were:
You believe that the past shapes the future.
You frequently contemplate the complex nature of life.

No fucking kidding.

I took a deep breath and began filling in the little circles. There was no cheating on a personality test. I knew enough not to indicate I was a sociopath, but similar questions were worded in slightly different ways, so I had to be consistent.

One hour later, I was done and sitting in an empty lunchroom with Donna.

“Everyone else has already eaten,” she explained. She walked over to a large industrial fridge and pulled out two plates. “There’s usually a choice at lunch, but I put away stuff for us. While you’re working out here, if you need to hydrate or refuel, there’s always something in here.”

My lunch plate had a kale salad with apple slices and pumpkin seeds. There was a grilled chicken sandwich on dark, dense bread. I tried some of both. “This is great.”

Donna chuckled. “No complaints? Guess we won’t have to convert you to Tony’s dietary rules.”

“I’ve always eaten clean. Kinda second nature in my family, and even in the town I come from.”

“Where’s that?” The question was muffled through her chewing.

“Nelson.” It was only yesterday morning I’d driven the eight hours to Vancouver.

She tilted her head. “Sorry, I’m geographically challenged. That’s still in B.C., right?”

“Yeah, up in the Kootenay Mountains—it’s beautiful. And there’s an alternative vibe—you know, around diet and spirituality.”

Donna stared at me. “You’re a little different from most of the guys at training camp. How come you’re here so late?”

It was early August, and everyone else had probably been here since June.

“I just got a chance to try out for an AHL team. It’s a big deal for me, so I wanted to go full out. I’ve got six weeks before camp. My agent recommended Tony’s facility.”

“Who’s your agent?”

“Lance Bertrand.”

Donna whistled. “You must be a big deal prospect.”

I shrugged. I used to be, but not any more. My high-profile agent was the only thing I had left from those days.

After lunch, we switched to on-ice evaluations. The rest of the guys were doing drills and skills training at one end of the ice, and Donna had commandeered a corner for us. I finally got to see Tony for the first time. He had dark, short-cropped hair and tanned skin, and he was the shortest guy on the ice, but he had an intensity that I could sense even from across the rink.

Donna was very skilled on skates. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised since she worked here.

“You’ve played hockey before.”

“University, while I was getting my kinesiology degree.” She made a face. “And a women’s pro team that only lasted one season.”

We finished up our session just in time. The guys were switching into full-ice drills. I lingered on the bench to watch. All the players were really good, miles ahead of everyone I’d been practicing with back home.

“Okay, we’re pretty much done now,” Donna said. “You’ve got time to shower, hydrate or grab a snack, and then you’ll be meeting with Tony around 5:30. He’ll probably be late though.” She chuckled, and I sensed the respect she had for her boss.

“Okay,” I said. I watched the other guys circling the ice, warming up for some complex drill. Since the first moment I hit the ice, I had loved skating and playing hockey. When my parents were fighting, when I was worried, whatever was wrong in my life—all that crap disappeared at the rink. The crisp scraping sound of my skates on ice was like a signal to my brain to shut out everything else.

“I can see you’re dying to get on the ice with them,” Donna remarked. “Hopefully, that will happen tomorrow.”

Hopefully? I frowned. This training was urgent for me. Why wasn’t that a sure thing?

I
was waiting
in Tony Sano’s office. It was glass-walled, so he could keep an eye on the gym next door. If he could have, I was sure he would have wedged the office above the rink so he could watch that as well. I wiped my sweaty hands on my shorts.

Tony burst in. He was probably in his late thirties, but he was so fit and healthy it was hard to tell. “Eric. Sorry, I’m late.” He shook my hand. His expression was friendly, but I could tell he was taking stock of me.

He settled in behind his desk, unzipped his track jacket, and carefully placed it on the back of his ergonomic chair with muscular, well-defined arms.

“So, what’s your timeline here?” He fired up his computer and stared at the monitor.

“My tryout camp starts in the middle of September. I’ve been training all summer, but Lance told me that if I wanted to maximize my chances, I needed to work with you.”

He nodded. “It’s late, but six weeks is better than nothing. Did you just find out you were getting a tryout?”

“Yeah. Only 48 hours ago. It’s been a crazy two days.”

Tony consulted his monitor. My results were undoubtedly in a database comparing me to every other hockey player Tony had worked with. “Well, your fitness test scores are not bad. Usually I have to ride my guys about diet, but your body fat percentage is already at 12%. That’s almost optimal, and the season is still over a month away.”

He nodded as he scrolled through more results. “Your flexibility is excellent, especially for someone of your build. I see you’ve been practicing yoga for years.”

I nodded. “Pretty much since I could crawl.”

“It’s probably helped to prevent injuries. Your medical record shows no serious injuries throughout your playing career.”

I swallowed. “Nope. I’m like Superman.”

Tony turned away from the screen towards me. “When we spoke on the phone, you told me your goal was to make it to the NHL.”

“Yes. That’s all I want.” Admitting that out loud made my stomach flip. Everybody wanted to make it, but my journey had been complicated.

“Well, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that being in great shape is only the first step. Nutrition, rest, preparation—there are literally hundreds of tweaks I can make to your program. But it’s the second part of your evaluation I’m really interested in—the psychological testing.”

I held my breath.

“When I read your personality evaluation, I feel like I’m looking at the reincarnation of Ghandi. You’re calm, controlled, and at peace with mankind. If this is really you, I’d have to question your fire to make the NHL. It’s a tough game, and you need more passion than this.”

I waited for him to continue.

“But when I read the scouting reports on you, Eric, I couldn’t believe you’re the same guy.” Tony put on some reading glasses and opened a file folder.

“Driving Under the Influence charges, suspension in juniors for deliberately injuring an opponent. AHL: fined for under-aged drinking, team disciplinary action for intoxication, three trades, 160 penalty minutes for a top six forward. And then when your last AHL team cut you, you disappeared completely. Off the map for nine months until you turned up in Switzerland.”

He cleared his throat. “And that’s just the official stuff. There are confidential notes as well. Player was seen smoking marijuana. Incidents of binge drinking. Eric was observed to have multiple sexual episodes without regard for team rules or curfews.” Tony raised his eyebrows. “I don’t even want to know what that means.”

My stomach dropped. This guy knew everything. Now I understood Donna’s remark. You couldn’t just sign up to work with Tony—he had to accept you first. I blew out a long breath to quiet the rising panic in my body.

“I’m not that person anymore.”

“That’s a start.” He took off his glasses. “Look, I want players who are going to reflect well on what I’m trying to build here. Players who screw up and make it appear that I didn’t prepare them for competition set me back. I took one look at your history and said ‘no way.’”

He stood up and scowled towards the gym where a couple of young guys were fooling around. They noticed him watching and got back to work.

Tony sat down and continued. “Then Lance Bertrand had a long talk with me. He explained how you had changed. In Switzerland, you were not only the highest scorer on the team, but winner of a sportsmanship award. I called your coach from the Swiss League. Mike Guildford sang your praises. It’s like you’ve gone back to the top-grade prospect you used to be.”

That was the hope. I had succeeded in Switzerland where the pressure was off, but could I translate that success into something bigger? Making the AHL was the first step in that process.

“Before I commit my time and effort into training you, I want to hear from you. Why are you different now?”

“I’ve done a lot of work on myself.” I motioned towards my chest. “You know—personal, spiritual stuff.”

“What exactly?”

“When I got cut from my last AHL team, we had just finished this series in Texas. So, I shipped my hockey gear home, then I went to this retreat in Sedona. They dealt with addiction recovery. It wasn’t fancy or anything, just a simple monastery. But there was this shaman there who helped me a lot. We did desert meditations.”

A lot of people checked out as soon as I said the word shaman, but Tony was still listening. “Shaman Felix helped me to realize that I could never escape the demons that were inside me. I needed to exist in peace with them. I was there for weeks and at the end, I underwent a fire-cleansing ceremony.

“And then I went home to Nelson. Next season, Lance found a team—Ambrì-Piotta—that would take a chance on me. I had a good season, so I got this offer to try out with the Vancouver Vice.”

Tony’s forehead creased when I named the Vice. “That’s not the team I would have picked for someone in recovery. So, you’re not drinking anymore?”

“Felix believed that not drinking alcohol at all meant that you were susceptible to complete relapses. He’s a proponent of all things in moderation. I have the occasional drink, but never when I’m driving. I still have an interlock system on my truck—a screening device. My ignition won’t start if I have alcohol in my system.”

My chest constricted. I took deep, cleansing breaths and tried to relax. My whole fight-or-flight reaction got triggered by this topic.

“Tell me about the accident, Eric.”

His knowledge didn’t surprise me. “I was eighteen. I rolled my car. Totalled it.”

Tony’s intense gaze was fixed on me, but he said nothing.

I felt like a moth pinned to a board. I tried hard to keep my voice normal, but it cracked slightly. “My best friend got injured.”

“Gary Lysenko?”

Fuck this shit! If he already knew everything, why did I have to talk about it? Everything always boiled down to this one night of my life. I tried to appear calm, even as Gary filled my head. Even sitting here, memories seeped back into my head—the terrible darkness, the sound of Gary sobbing—but I pushed all that crap to the back of my mind. This was my chance and I had to stay in control.

“Yeah, it was Gary. He had some internal injuries, and… his leg got—” I motioned to my thigh.

Tony waited, but when I didn’t finish the sentence, he did something on his keyboard. “You guys played junior together, right? What’s he doing now?”

I cleared my throat. “He’s got his own business back in Nelson. He works as a landscaper.”

“So you guys are still friends?”