“Bad? It’s simply great. But why can’t you transmit a bit of that dash into hockey? You’re doing some nice straight skating but that reckless abandon isn’t there. I believe in you, Fred, or I wouldn’t have urged you to play, against your own inclination.”
The champion fancy skater dug the point of his skate into the ice.
“I know that,” he said, with his first show of feeling, “but I can’t help it, coach—I’m doing the best I can.”
Coach Howard eyed the new left wing shrewdly.
“You’re just kidding yourself, Fred,” he said, pointedly. “There’s something troubling you, boy. It’s been troubling you for a long, long while and it’s time you were getting it off your chest. Come clean—what is it?”
A hurt expression came into Frederick’s face which he ordinarily kept well masked beneath the external attitude of indifference.
“You wouldn’t understand if I told you,” he returned, huskily.
“Perhaps I would.”
“How could you when I don’t really understand myself? All I know is that I’ve never had a desire for direct competitive sport. It dates back to the days when I was sickly and my parents discouraged me from taking part in the games and bucking up against the stronger fellows. I was disappointed, of course, and it sort of killed something inside me.”
“You can get it back,” reassured Coach Howard. “Give yourself a chance.”