Seven Ways to Be Late To Practice

Yikes! This season has seen a lot of hockey players arriving late to practice. What is it about 2014-2015? Electrical disturbances shutting down alarm clocks? A distaste for breakfast foods? A strange overpopulation of crows? Overwhelming, soul-crushing ennui? Any of those are completely valid reasons for missing a day of work or school if you're a normal person, but we all know that hockey players are above things like social responsibilities and the "law."

Anyways, we've compiled a list of ways that any hockey player could be late to practice. If you aren't a hockey player, imagine you are! If that's difficult, here's a tip: imagine you have a lot more money and a lot more leeway than you have ever had in your entire life. Phew, that should get you in the mindset!

1. Classic: You Accidentally Slept Through Your Alarm Clock!
You sleep through your alarm clock. You were considering changing the sound of the alarm—suspicious that you had gotten used to the tone in the months since you've started using it—but had never actually gotten to it. Waking up thirty minutes after the fact isn't the end of the world, but you need a shower and feed the dog. You rush through the shower (is conditioner really that important?) and throw some kibble Fido's way. As long as the stars align and the I-15 stays relatively accident free, you won't be that terribly late. As you find yourself trying to start your car, you see a crow on a branch. You squeeze into the locker room only a few minutes late. No one bats an eye.

2. A Late Night Out!
It's a Tuesday night. Something ironic in you sings, Club goin' up / On a Tuesday, but the bass line is already thumping through the club. You see her across the room, the way she presses her palm to her mouth when she laughs, her hair shining softly in the dim light, her delicate hand wrapped around a smooth, half-empty glass. You gravitate towards each other like it was destined, her eyes meeting yours, your feet and her feet moving you closer and closer until you can see her, really see her, the way her eyes glimmer, her hand around your wrist, the smooth wave of her hair between your fingers. She's so close. She smells beautiful, something rich and deep, something you won't forget. She smells beautiful. She is beautiful. The way she looks at you—if this was it, if she was it, you wouldn't slight it at all. You lean in slow. Close your eyes. Wait for the soft press of her lips against yours.

Your eyes snap open. You're staring at the ceiling, the sharp bark of a crow penetrating the closed windows of your home. You touch your lip with your fingers—did you imagine her kiss? The soft scent of her skin seems drilled deep in your brain—did you imagine the way she felt in you arms? Your alarm clock says you'll be late to practice even if you get up now. You don't know if you want to stumble down the stairs. You don't know if you want to be alone.

3.  You're Just Always Late!
You've never been the type of person to run on time. You don't mean to always be late; it just happens.

You've never understood why. The tick tick tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway of your Aunt's home has been in the back of your skull, deep and potent ever since the Accident. Occasionally, when you're on the ice, you skate to that unrelenting beat: in, out, in, out. It's a constant reminder of how you are running out of time. You hate yourself for wasting it. Sometimes, late at night, you can see the pendulum sway back and forth behind your eyelids; the double thump as your heart expands and contracts, matching the momentum. This night, you wake up in panic to a sound almost like nails on a chalkboard. The clock on the windowsill reads 4:00 am. A crow flies away, obviously the source of the noise. You can't go back to sleep, the tick tick tick relentless tonight.

You're 30 minutes late to practice, heart still beating hard.

4. Oops! The Schedule Changed!
Your coach calls you at 11 am, while you're sitting at the dining table of your empty apartment, slowly working your way through a bowl of cereal. There's a flutter in the corner of your eye; a crow lands on the windowsill, pecks at unidentifiable smudges. Your coach is speaking. He says that practice was at 8 in the morning. He says that missing practice is unacceptable. You open your mouth to speak, but he talks over you. He says he doesn't know your old team did it, but skipping a mandatory skate isn't how they do it here. But the assistant coach said practice was optional. He says that you're going to be a healthy scratch. No one noticed I wasn't there, why didn't anyone notice I wasn't there? He says no one survives in the league like this. Why doesn't anyone remember me? He says no second chances. I wish I never came here. He says to be better. I wish I was gone. He hangs up, and you are left with an empty line and a silence ringing in your ears. The crow screams. You squeeze your eyes shut.

5. Car Issues!
You've never understood the reasoning behind buying a luxury car right after the ink dries on your entry level contract. The jeep your dad gave you works just fine, most of the time. It gets you places just as well as any of the pretentious sports cars the other guys drive. Well, just as well everyday but today: whatever that smoke is, it's not good. The car won't start. You try to call one of the other guys—any of the other guys—to come and pick you up, but you get voicemail after voicemail. On a whim, you end up trying Tim's number, the new trainer. You've been given it in passing. You've never spoken before, but you know the trainers have to report around the same time the players do.  A crow settles on a branch across the street, a stark black against the white winter surroundings. The phone rings three times before you hear a shrill scream. You collapse to the floor, head pounding. The high pitched sound is still coming from your phone; you try to disconnect, but you can't. You throw it. The screen cracks and it's finally silent. You go into your house and use the landline to call a taxi.

The taxi driver gets you to practice forty five minutes late. You make a side comment to the assistant coach about Tim.

He's confused. "Tim who?" He's never heard of Tim the trainer. Later that evening, you transfer your contacts to the phone you ended up buying after practice. There is no contact for Tim.

6. Ugh, A Disaster At The Coffee Place!
You have an extra fifteen minutes before you have to show up at the rink, so you decide to get some coffee. The bell above the door jingles merrily, and the smooth, warm scent of coffee envelops you. You order your usual: a medium coffee, black, with a pump of hazelnut syrup. It only takes a few minutes before it is ready. Have a good day, the barista says with a smile. Something about his—his smile, it worries you. It feels like his skin is stretched over something sinister. You shake off the feeling as best as you can and take the cup, but the barista doesn't let go. His grip is like stone. You can feel sweat prickling along your spine. Have a good day, he says, still smiling, and his face is contorting, twisting as if in pain, thick gobs of flesh sliding from his face. His hand is warping around yours, melting and slimy and ice cold, molding against your skin and the cup. Have a good day, he says, his voice shuddering and deep, like the sound of a roar from deep within the ocean. You can see his skull, the fragments of white embedded in red like buckshot in flesh. His tongue flaps uselessly against his jaw, his snow white teeth dropping, one by one, against the countertop—once flecked with gray stone, now smeared with blood. Have a good day, the barista says, his voice like the sound of a thousand crows demanding release. You open your mouth to scream. No sound comes.

7. The Subway Is Late
The second best part of living in NYC is the subway, which is very fast and makes you feel like you're in a movie. The best part is that it's not Edmonton. You still haven't mastered the timing of it all, but you think you're getting it. You're already late as you pass through the turnstiles, but hopefully, you'll be on a train ASAP and not too behind. You rush through staircase after staircase to reach the train. The station is completely empty. The marquee that usually flashes the arrival times flickers for a second, before finally turning dark. It's eerily silent. On the support beam across the tracks, there is a sticker of a crow. You try to read what it says underneath the bird, only to have the train finally pull in.

You get on. There is someone sleeping at the other end of the train, hoodie pulled up. The doors close behind you as you finally sit down. The lights flicker as the car pulls itself through the station but you've learned by this point that that's normal. You look through the window. The dark walls are almost mesmerizing; your eyes keep trying to trace patterns as the bricks rush by. You imagine a large snake slithering along the wall to the speed of the train, weaving back and forth with the patterns of the bricks. The train all of a sudden erupts in a burst of speed, shooting past the snake. The train just gets faster and faster. Your ears pop with the extra pressure. The person on the other side of the station continues to sleep. You aren't passing any more stations; through the broken windows you can see your childhood pass. You watch yourself as you go through practice, as you work your way to the OHL, as you stand on the podium as you get drafted, the proudest moment of your life. Time seems to slip by faster and faster. You see yourself as you go through the monotonous  rigors of NHL practices and games. You see yourself walk down the stairs, about to get on this train. Everything gets then dark.

You never make it to practice.