Jagged Edges

by Denise Bower

  I wondered what my mother would have said to him about losing his youth. Only it wasn’t really lost, he was just getting older. My mother would be horrified if she could read my thoughts. She probably had her plastic surgeon on speed dial.

  “Jesus,” I muttered because being around my dad always made me slightly crazy. Actually, just thinking about my parents could give me a severe eye twitch.

  I wasn’t the only one affected. My dad took a few deep breaths before signaling me to follow him into the room. With a sweep of his hand, he shoved aside a stack of papers, clearing a space so he had an unobstructed view of me.

  “Have a seat,” he said.

  I set my purse on the floor and dropped into the chair.

  “I thought you should hear it from me,” I said.

  “If you’re speaking about your sudden departure from the world of figure skating, I’ve already heard. Leo called me several days ago, trying to persuade me to change your mind. Your mother is also very disappointed.”

  “I’m sure she is. Are you?”

  “Nothing you do surprises me anymore,” he said with a sigh. “So why are you really here?”

  I shrugged. “Brace yourself, Dad.”

  He eyed me cautiously, and I had to stare at the floor for a few seconds to gather my courage.

  “I saw a notice online that the Ritchfield Ravens are looking for a strength and conditioning coach. I’m applying for the job. I know your team is affiliated with them, and I thought, maybe, you could put in a good word for me, since I don’t have a lot of actual job experience,” I said in one breath.

  “You want to train hockey players?” He furrowed his brow, looking perplexed. “But you’re a figure skater.”

  “I’m not anything right now, Dad.”

  “Are you serious about this?”

  “I need to do something, and it’s either put on some stupid costume to skate in a show or teach snotty nosed kids how to skate. I’d rather not be a dancing bear or fairy princess, and I’m not in the mood to put on a happy face for a bunch of hopeful parents who think their kid is the next Olympic gold medalist. Hockey players always seem to be pissed about something. I figure I’ll fit right in with them.”

  “You’re not exactly what the team is looking for.”

  I tilted my head and narrowed my eyes. “It’s not the dark ages anymore,” I said. “And I bet I’m in better shape than most of your players. Pretty sure I could skate that guy you were yelling at right into the ice.”

  He sniffed and rubbed the tip of his nose, leaving a small ink smudge. “Carter is not the best example of a great conditioned hockey player.”

  Mentioning Carter’s name brought forth unwanted images of his body, and questions about testing his stamina flowed through my brain. I tamped down the thoughts and kept my gaze focused on my dad. After a few minutes of staring at each other, he broke. “Okay, fine,” he said. “I’ll contact Johan and have him tell his staff to find your application, but I’m not going to guarantee anything.”

  “I’m not expecting you to get the job for me.”

  “I’ll call you when I know something.”

  “Do you have my phone number?” I asked as I reached for a pen.

  “Oh, Victoria, of course I have your number.”

  “Just checking. It’s not like you’ve ever used it,” I mumbled and shoved the pen back into the metal cup.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he said as he shuffled some papers around his desk, which was his way of letting me know I was dismissed.

  Even though he said he wasn’t surprised about my skating, I could still feel his disappointment filling the air. It was a feeling I knew well. I’d been disappointing the guy since birth. It wasn’t a secret that he’d wanted a boy.

  I gave him a weak smile, stood on shaky legs, and bolted before he could say goodbye. My emotions were on the edge of boiling over, and I didn’t need my dad seeing me freak out. Early in my life, he’d drilled it into my head that one never showed weakness in front of anyone. It probably prepared me for competition because reporters always said I seemed to have nerves of steel. Right now it felt like my nerves were made of aluminum foil, easily crumpled and tossed in the trash.

  Chapter 2

  Yesterday my dad told me nothing I did ever surprised him, but the same couldn’t be said about him. His early morning phone call stunned me, not only because he had done what I’d asked, but there also seemed to be an actual chance I could get the job.

  It wasn’t until after I hung up that I had to decide whether to be pissed or thankful. The opportunity came with a stipulation. I wasn’t going to get a normal sit-down interview. Instead, I was being tossed into the lion’s den to prove I had the fitness and know-how to motivate a bunch of hockey players. The coaching staff would evaluate my job performance. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Zamboni driver had a say in whether they hired me. It was a bit over the top, even for my dad.

  My first interview would consist of meeting with the head coach so he could get a feel for how I wanted to bring his team around. My dad said something about the owner of the team also wanting to meet with me, but that was only if I passed the initial rounds of the interview.

  It all made me feel sick to my stomach. I’d never been on a job interview before. My teen years had been spent training and traveling to different cities and countries to compete. I’d never had time to wait tables or man a cash register.

  I thought about calling Sawyer again, but he’d spent his youth on the ice as well. He was lucky though. He’d been blessed with the ability to choreograph good routines, and people begged him to work for them. He’d even done a program for Viktor and me that we were supposed to perform this year.

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  The last thing I needed was to think about Viktor. But this whole mess was Viktor’s fault for being a complete jackass. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be searching how to handle a job interview on the internet. Instead we’d be on the ice, training hard for the upcoming season. I wrung my hands together, resisting the urge to google Viktor and his new partner.

  Better use of my time would be to write up a proposal of my plans for the hockey team. I opened a blank document and wrote down all the stuff Leo used to make me do to keep me in tip-top condition. By the end of the day, I’d tweaked everything and made the workouts more focused on hockey. I had no idea if they would succeed, but on paper it looked good, and I was happy with what I would be bringing to the interview tomorrow.

  My stomach growled and reminded me it had been a long day. Unfortunately, the hotel didn’t have a restaurant, but the clerk at the front desk pointed me to a nearby pizza place. The thought of eating pizza made me dizzy with excitement. At this time of the year, I usually was on a strict diet to get in the best possible shape since the competitive season was about to begin.

  I raced across the street, following the enticing smells of cheese and tomato sauce, and I ordered a giant pepperoni pizza with extra cheese. When they handed over the hot cardboard box, I almost ripped the lid off in the entryway. I managed to stave off my hunger until I was safely in my room, where I devoured two slices without thinking. Long strings of cheese clung to my lips and wrapped around my fingers. Clumps of pizza sauce dripped down my chin, plopping onto the napkin I’d placed on my lap. I was in heaven, pure nirvana.

  “To a new adventure,” I said, toasting my reflection in the giant mirror opposite the bed. I stuffed the slice into my mouth and smiled around the glorious mess. Clearly I’d gone off the deep end.

  After I’d eaten my fill, I spent the rest of the evening learning all I could about the Ritchfield Ravens organization. There wasn’t much information since it was a new team, so I had to do separate searches on coaches and players on the recently formed roster.

  I also did some research on the Minnesota Hawks. When I stumbled across the almost-naked player who had been arguing with my dad, I immediately searched deeper.

  A few years ago, Carter Mu
rphy had been a top-ten draft pick who was billed as the next savior of the team. He’d signed an outrageous contract and now wasn’t living up to his potential. Instead of concentrating on hockey, he was partying and going through women and money like water. Several articles blasted his lack of commitment, saying he was barely doing enough to stay on the Hawks’ roster. Some of the writers insisted the team try to trade the guy, but in the same sentence, they said no other team would take Carter. They also mentioned it was my father who had pushed to sign him. The writers questioned his sanity.

  The articles included several pictures of Carter. Most of the photos featured him half dressed, partying hard, and surrounded by women who were hanging all over him. He was incredibly lovely to stare at, fantasize about, and drool over. It was easy to understand why he was popular with the ladies. And I’m sure his salary helped as well.

  When I stumbled onto a blog that proudly featured the boys of sport and their physical assets, I slammed my computer shut and tried to focus on what I should wear for my interview.

  To my chagrin, I realized I hadn’t thought this whole job interview thing through. I didn’t have a nice suit or skirt to wear. I hadn’t kept anything that resembled something professional.

  By the morning, I’d worked myself into a frenzy and emptied the contents of my suitcase on the floor, only to be thoroughly disappointed. I’d also attacked the boxes in my car. Everything I owned was workout gear. I finally settled on a pair of black leggings and a black hoodie. I felt like I was heading off to the gym rather than to talk to people about a job.

  As I dressed, I tried to stay positive, which wasn’t really working for me. I had to remind myself they were not going to hire me because I looked good in a skirt. I shoved everything back into my suitcase and checked out of the hotel. Before I left, I called Sawyer for a little moral support.

  “Tell me I’m not a moron,” I said frantically.

  “What did you do now?” Sawyer asked.

  “I’m going on a job interview to become the strength and conditioning coach for a bunch of hockey players.”

  “You’re a moron,” he said.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said brightly and hung up on me.

  A few seconds later, a text came through featuring a picture of a skating bear. I expanded the photo, staring at the frilly skirt around the bear’s middle, and shivered. I texted back a thank you because I did not want to be that person.

  Spurred on by the crappy thought of stuffing myself into a hot bear costume, I jumped in my car and started the two-and-a-half-hour drive to the end of the earth. Being trapped in the small space that long meant I had plenty of time to question my sanity. What made me believe I could handle a job? I couldn’t even pack the right clothes. I parked the car, glanced at the bear picture again, and called Sawyer.

  “I can’t do this,” I muttered.

  “Vika,” Sawyer said. “You signed up for this. This was your choice. The least you can do is try. If they say no, then you move on and do something else. Do I have to pull out the speech about how long it took you to master the triple Lutz?”

  “Don’t be dumb,” I said.

  “You’re dumb,” he replied. “I can totally remember the day you flipped out and threw your skates in the garbage.”

  “I should’ve left them there.”

  “Why? You finally mastered the jump. You succeeded.”

  “And look where it got me.”

  “Stop it,” he said. “After the interview, call me and we’ll talk hot hockey players. You owe me.”

  I groaned. “Fine. I’ll go to the interview, and then I’m going to suggest the players do yoga and use bands instead of the heavy weights during the season. I want them to work on flexibility and balance. The coaching staff will probably laugh me out of the office.”

  Sawyer squealed so loud my ear rang for a few seconds. “Oh my god! Yoga. Be still my heart. I know what you can get me for Christmas. Just let me sit in on one workout with the team, and I’ll be set for life. Sweet Jesus, you need to get this job.”

  “You’re right. I’ll do it for you.” I giggled into the phone. “Call you later.”

  “Love you, doll,” Sawyer said before he hung up.

  I took one deep breath, climbed out of my car, and trudged across the parking lot. If someone saw me, they might think I was heading toward my own execution. It all changed when I opened the door and the smell of ice and hockey filled my nose. I couldn’t stop the smile that spread across my face. I’d grown up as a rink rat. This was my home, and I could do anything here.

  Three men dressed in Raven team jackets came around the corner and eyed me. I’d spent half the night doing research on these guys, and now, I couldn’t remember anything. I swallowed loudly and tried to keep from panicking.

  “You must be Ms. Campbell. I’m coach Johan Jakobsen. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Please, call me Victoria, or Vika,” I managed to say as we shook hands. Johan proceeded to introduce me to Phil Dresser, the assistant coach and Henry Abrahamson, the equipment manager.

  “People call you Hank,” I blurted.

  The burly, blond guy nodded. I wanted to run toward the nearest exit.

  “Tell Hank what you’ll need for today’s workout,” Johan said. “While he’s rounding up the items, Phil and I will take you on a tour of the arena, and you can tell us what you envision for our team.

  When I told Hank I wanted yoga mats, balls, and bands, he looked at me like I had a horn growing out of my forehead. He glanced at Johan and I started to doubt my plan.

  “If this is too short notice, I can do something else,” I said. “I’ll need to see what equipment you have available or we can always run the stairs. It’s just that it’s so close to the season, I don’t want to work the guys so hard they won’t be able to play.”

  “Get her what she needs,” Johan said.

  Hank raised his eyebrows but pulled out his phone. As he walked down the hall, I could hear him barking orders at someone to dig out the yoga shit from the dungeon.

  I followed Johan and Phil for a tour of the facilities. The space and equipment allotted for off-ice training impressed me. They asked me a ton of questions about my goals for the team and how my ideas would make the guys better hockey players. I answered everything they asked, but I couldn’t get a read on where I stood with them. They also told me what was expected of me if I was offered the position.

  “Since this is a new team, we want to make a fresh start with everything. It’s our goal to bring all the athletes into the twenty-first century. I want everyone to know what it means to work hard. We want to challenge for the Calder Cup this year. We also would like to be able to say we have the best-conditioned athletes in the league. When the boys get a call-up, I don’t want to worry about their readiness to play in the NHL. You have no education, no experience in hockey. What makes you think you can do this job?”

  And there was the question I’d been waiting for.

  “I’ve been on the biggest stage in the world. I know what it means to be in good shape, both mentally and physically. I’m not afraid of hard work.”

  “I’ll be interested to hear what you have to say after you meet with our players,” Johan said.

  The thought occurred to me that he might want me to take one look at the guys and run screaming from the building.

  “I’ve been around a lot of hockey players,” I said. “I’ve been on the ice with the Cup. I’ve actually sat inside the bowl. Not that I remember it, but like I said, I know what it takes to win. I think I can handle whatever the guys throw at me.”

  Famous last words, I thought when I walked into the weight room and came face-to-face with twenty-three scowling hockey players, glaring at me and assessing my every move. Most of the guys stood between five-ten and six foot five inches tall. I measured at five foot four inches and weighed less than 115 pounds. I felt like a blade of grass in the middle o
f a forest of redwoods. And I was pretty sure the redwoods wanted to stomp me out of existence.

  Phil introduced me to the team using their nicknames, which was counterproductive to the research I’d done online. But their names didn’t really matter because the reception they gave me felt colder than the sheet of ice. I ignored them and launched into my workout plan for the day. They all looked like they wanted to check me into the wall.

  “A lot of people feel learning yoga is beneficial for any sport. It will improve your flexibility, balance, and core strength. All useful in the game of hockey.”

  “I don’t have my yoga pants today,” one guy shouted.

  The entire room snickered.

  “Feel free to purchase a pair, because we’ll be doing this same workout tomorrow,” I said. “You guys need to catch up with the times. A lot of professional athletes have added yoga to their daily routines. Doing these exercises will let me see exactly where your fitness is at.”

  More groans filled the room. “So are you a yoga instructor?” someone asked.

  “What I am is your nightmare or your dream come true. I’m here to get you guys in shape for the long season.”

  I’d swear on my life that everyone in the entire room rolled their eyes at me.

  “Listen, honey.” A large guy with gray scruff on his chin stepped into my personal space and crossed his arms over his giant chest. I stared at his clenched fists and defined pecs, wondering what it would feel like if I punched him in the gut. But hitting a player was probably frowned upon and I really wanted this job, so I sucked it up and stared him down. It took me a few seconds to realize this was the captain, Cameron Hart.

  “What can I help you with, darling?” I said.

  “Er,” he huffed. “Let’s just get this over with so you can quietly disappear and we can get back to hockey.” He frowned and turned his back to me.