As I was going into the coach’s office, Axel walked out. His head was down, and he didn’t glance in my direction, but he mumbled, “Good luck.”

I grimaced and braced myself for the news. Up until I’d seen the devastated expression on Axel’s face, I’d been confident I’d made the team, but that very confidence eroded with every passing minute. My preseason play was as good as any rookie’s, and better than many of the veterans’ performances. I’d done everything asked of me by the coaching staff, laying my heart and body on the line to make this team.

Getting sent down wouldn’t be the end of the world and only meant a player needed more development time, but I’d wanted to be one of those guys who didn’t have that happen. Besides, in my way of thinking, I was already behind most of my peers. I’d played four years of college hockey and had sat out an additional year for an injury, which equated to more development time than most of the players in rookie camp. Five years spent at the college level. In some ways, maybe I’d been stupid to go that route, but at the same time, I knew in my heart I’d done the right thing for me. The injury had shown me I had what it took to come back and deal with adversity.

Drawing in a deep breath, I steeled myself for whatever was to come and opened the door.

Coach Gorst glanced up from his computer monitor and waved me toward a seat. “Be right with you, Easton.” He tapped on his keyboard for a very long, excruciating minute. I studied his face, but he gave nothing away.

Gorst was relatively young in the world of NHL coaches. I doubted he was even forty yet. When he’d been hired by the Sockeyes four years ago, his coaching methods had been progressive and unorthodox. With the success he’d had, including winning the Cup last season, many other teams duplicated his approach to coaching.

He was fiery, tough, and had high expectations. He was known for his ability to get the best out of his players by capitalizing on their strengths and improving on their weaknesses. He emphasized basics, such as good skating and using your edges like a figure skater did. He even employed figure skaters to teach the finer points of skating.

I’d been the model student for Gorst’s teachings, never complaining and always giving 100 percent, yet here I was, worried I might not make the team. I clasped my hands in my lap, gripping them so hard that I was cutting off the circulation. Loosening up the viselike hold, I took a few deep, calming breaths.

And waited.

Gorst looked up and pushed his chair away from his desk. He rose and crossed from behind the desk to sit next to me at the small conference table in his office. There were a few short raps on his door, and he shouted, “Come in.”