by R. J. Scott
I stood behind my players, my nerves a bit frayed despite how I tried to appear nonplussed—this was my first game as a professional coach—with a woman at my side as my second-in-command. Her short press conference with Jason Westman-Reid after lunch had sent shockwaves through the sporting world. The Raptors’ front office had been inundated with emails and texts from men in utter outrage over this woman daring to intrude on this last bastion of maleness and testosterone. I hoped Terri had not read the comments on any of the social media posts from the team, which were kind of shitty, to be honest. Guess the rebuild should include some new blood for the Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook followers, but that wasn’t my fish to fry.
Dallas was just as creaky and sloppy as we were in the first period. We’d all done some research on the team after Terri had been welcomed into the Raptors coaching family by Art, Craig, and Todd. She’d been quick on the uptake, grasping what I wanted from the players, and eager to start passing along the fine points of my coaching style and team dynamic of speed of hand, speed of foot, and speed of mind. My two healthy scratches, Alex and Aarni, were up in the owners box, which was fine. Terri was already hustling around, passing along my thoughts and scribbling down new plays on her whiteboard. The fans had been lukewarm and thin, only half the seats filled, but again, that was normal for preseason games.
The second period tightened up a bit when we first came back out. There were small flashes of personality and talent here and there. The rookies were all nerved up, and I could see how they were struggling to make the adjustment from collegiate hockey to professional hockey. Rink size variances in the NCAA and collegiate ranks was one example; others were rules differences such as hand passes in the defensive zone, pucks shot directly out of play in the defensive zone, goal scored during a delayed penalty, and overtime and tie game variances.
I’d studied hard myself since putting my name to that contract, and I expected the kids to know the differences as well.
“Good effort,” I told the second line as it rolled back over the bench. “I want to see more effort on the defensive side of your game, Sam.” He nodded as sweat ran off the end of his nose. “When I see you back-checking with your legs straight, that tells me you’re not putting in enough effort. Your whole line plays defense, right? It’s not just the two D-men out there. When the puck is in our zone, you cannot let defense become an afterthought. Don’t slow down on the forecheck.”
Ryker, who played on the second line with Sam Bennett and Lucas Polisnki for now, bobbed his head in agreement, then leaned into Sam and began talking at him about this thing that Tennant Rowe had told him about how all coaches see the lazy game and they hate it. Which was true. I could spot a lazy player a mile away, and lazy players did not make my teams.
“Coach, there’s a call from security for you,” Terri said, passing along her cell phone to me. I refused to have my phone with me during a game. Anyone who knew me knew that I hated cell phones in the barn almost as much as I hated lazy players.
I took the phone from her hand, turned from the bench, and placed the Samsung to my ear.
“Coach C, this is Drew, head of security, and we have a person of questionable persuasion here at the player’s entrance telling us that he’s supposed to be playing goalie for you tonight? And sure, he has funky red goalie pads and helmet, but, Coach, this kid looks to be about as far from a hockey player as I am the Duchess of Sussex.”
A mental image of the massive black man with the winning smile who sometimes worked the players’ entrance rose up and made me happy. Drew was a good guy and better than some of the security this team had in place. Also, I was smiling because my new goalie had somehow managed to get here in time to play the second half. Thank God. I’d penciled his name in just in case.
“Is he surly looking with shaggy black hair and tattoos and says he’s named after a state?” I shouted over the roar of someone scoring a goal. When I glanced back to see, it was Dallas celebrating down by our net.
“Oh yeah,” Drew replied.
“Let him in and show him to the dressing room. I need him up here in six minutes.” I ended the call and gave Terri her phone back. “That phone is not to come to the bench with you again,” I informed her and got a stunned look for a second before she gave me a curt nod.
Andre Lemans, our man in net, was shaken a bit but not overly upset. He was a steady sort of guy, nothing flashy, but a solid backup sort of goalie. If we could corral Colorado and get him to take the bit, he’d be one of the pieces of this new team rebuild.
The first line had a good shift, getting a nice flurry of shots on goal that never snuck through the massive man in net for Dallas. The second line rolled over the boards in unison, and I watched closely as the three forwards and two defensemen fell into a nice, tight forechecking pattern, Sam keeping on his man as Dallas made a foray into our zone. I suspected matching Ryker with Alex would be a prime pairing, but we’d not see that tonight as Alex was riding the bench. The puck was lobbed into the corner, and a small skirmish erupted as a knot of players battled to free the puck. Sam got his shoulder into the back of the Dallas captain, pinning him to the glass, and shoved the puck to Ryker, who spun and shuttled it out to Vladislav Nokikov, a burly bear of a Russian, who played defense with a drive that had made him legendary. He was an older player, grizzled and vocal, who played a clean but physical game. His greatest joy in life, it seemed, was throwing big hits and shoulder checks to anyone who dared to skate up on him.
Vlad set off down the ice, a locomotive of a man, eyes on the Dallas net, and took a slapshot that rang off the pipes and got a small “Ahhh” from the meager crowd. The forwards hit the Dallas end, Madsen falling on the puck as soon as it hit the ice in front of the Dallas crease. He kept his shoulder down and dug that puck free from a bigger and more experienced Dallas winger, kicking it off his skate to his stick, then ramming it past the goalie with sheer determination. The goal horn sounded, and Madsen threw his arms into the air as his linemates surrounded him to beat on his helmet.
“Nicely done!” I shouted to the line as they returned to the bench. Then Colorado arrived from the tunnel, and a kind of stunned hush fell over the rink as fans and the Tucson area local sports network got their first look at Colorado Penn on the Raptors’ bench. He sat there for two minutes, and then a TV time-out was called, and we made the goalie change.
“Uhm, Rowen?” That was Art Schaffer, my goalie coach. “Is this a surprise birthday present for me because if it is, I’ll be honest and say I wish you’d have shopped at a different store.”
I glanced over at Art. “Is today your birthday?”
“No, it’s in May.”
I grinned and clapped him on the back. “Well then, happy early birthday. Let’s see what he can do, shall we?”
Art looked reluctant, to say the least. I settled back onto my heels, glanced up over my shoulder at the owners’ box, and gave the uppity-mucks lounging around in there a smart little salute as Colorado Penn settled into the crease. Cue royal meltdown in the posh seats. This should be good.
Nine
Mark
“What the fuck?” I stood from my seat so fast that I stumbled forward and ended up gripping the barrier at the front of our box. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. When I saw the name flash on the Jumbotron, it didn’t even click what was happening, and then TV time-out was done and abruptly the Raptors were putting in a new goalie.
Not just a new goalie.
Colorado freaking Penn.
“What’s wrong?” Leigh asked. She was crammed into a corner with a blocked view—it seemed the previous owners weren’t that hot on accessibility. I’d already made a mental note for changing that to be a priority, but right now, that was pushed way down under my shock at seeing the long-haired rocker going out onto our ice. Not to mention that Rowen looked up and gestured to us. Or me. Whatever. That cocky bastard actually put his hand to his head and saluted the box.
“Can he do that?�
� I snapped and turned to face Jason and Cam. “Did you authorize this shit?”
Cam glanced at me with a bored expression on his face. “Sorry?”
“Did we do what now?” Jason asked.
I pointed wordlessly down at the ice, unable to form a sentence that included our coach’s name or that of our new goalie.
Jason frowned and glanced down. “What?” he asked again.
“I explicitly told him—I told him—and you—did you—?”
“Use your words, Marky-Mark,” Cam said and stared back down at his phone.
“Don’t freaking call me that,” I snapped. He damn well knew I hated it when he used the nickname he’d had for me when we were kids.
“Whatever,” he said and yawned theatrically. Fucker.
“Talk to me,” Jason said and touched my shoulder. I shrugged him off and saw the flash of hurt in his eyes. Well, I wasn’t here to make things good for my asshole brothers, so he could forget it if he thought I’d let them touch me.
“You know what,” I said with emotion, “if you three are going to leave this all to me, then I’m out of here.”
Jason was about to grab my arm, but I slid from out of his grasp and left the box.
“Mark, wait!” I evaded Jason and headed down the steps to the main corridor, passing out of security, and followed signs to the main concourse. My card got me everywhere, and by the time the game had finished, an uninspiring four-one loss, with the new goalie letting three by, I was in Rowen’s office, leaning on his desk and waiting for him. I resolved to sit calmly and process everything so that I was in a better frame of mind when he arrived. It didn’t matter how long he took to get his ass down there after his pep talk or whatever crap he fed the players to make them feel better than they were.
I pulled up the finances on my phone again. I’d spent all day looking at them, trying to get a feel for where the leaks were, and I didn’t have to be a financial genius to see that we were hemorrhaging money. No business survived when expenses outweighed income. Two of the biggest sponsors, Maddock Foods and Phoenix Datacom, had pulled advertising and sponsorship, and there was nothing in the pipeline to replace them.
I’d forwarded the details to Cam, Jason, and Leigh. I’d received a detailed response filled with positive wording from Cam, and a GIF of an ostrich with its head in the sand from Jason. Leigh at least sent me the truth, with a strongly worded we-know-we’re-in-trouble email. About the only thing I could draw from my family’s responses was that Cam was hopeful, Leigh was a realist, and Jason was a fuck-headed asshole.
Anger began to build inside me again. I should have stayed in New York. The team meant nothing to me. In fact no one there meant anything to me. This family didn’t want me, not really, except maybe Leigh.
Breathe. Calm the hell down. I breathed through my anger, recalled the moments of serenity I’d had, focused, and finally I had everything in place. My family and this team would not destroy the life I had carefully constructed for myself. More importantly, Rowen Carmichael needed to stop messing with my head, and I had to tell him that now.
“No, breathe, calm… peace…” I murmured and counted back from a hundred.
I’d gotten to thirty-seven when he walked in, and the minute I saw him, all my calm fled, and my anger spilled out as a way to defend my hurting heart.
“I explicitly told you that Colorado was not to be given any sort of tryout.”
He sidestepped me and went around his desk, shrugging off his suit jacket and hanging it on the back of his chair. “Uh-huh,” he said, in that infuriating nonchalant tone, which was guaranteed to get my back up.
“But you did it anyway.”
He glanced at me. “Are you done?”
What? Done? I was nowhere near done, and the last vestige of control flew out the window.
“It’s not bad enough that he was filmed with drugs, but he was drinking whiskey at the bar as though it was water, he’s unfit for this team, and if you’re not going to listen to my valuable insights, then why the hell are you even here? Your arrogance that you think you know better is beyond belief. Did you not even see the goals he allowed?” I waved my phone. “Believe me, I didn’t even have to be there to see them, because they were posted in all their glory on Twitter. Do you know what the hashtags are? Do you?”
“I bet you’re going to tell me.”
“Losers. Failures. Cocaine. Drugs. And my favorite? Craptors.”
He nodded. “I see what they did there.” He sounded amused.
“What? You think it’s funny?”
He huffed and looked thoughtful. “Well, it’s pretty far from genius adding a C to Raptors, but yeah—”
“For God’s sake, do you not realize social media can be our enemy as easy as it can be our friend? Do you even want this team to survive? How can you give Colorado a tryout?”
“Okay, you want to do this here? Did you actually reread the contract between me and the Raptors?” he asked in a tone that was eerily gentle.
“Every single time you do something wrong, you throw that back in our faces—”
“Your father seemed very happy to—”
“My father was an asshole who didn’t know his puck from his latest fuck.” Fuck, now I’m rhyming shit. I stalked to him and poked at his chest. “This whole team was just a tax write-off for him, and the stipulation in his will was a way to manipulate me into coming back. This team is nothing special, and it won’t get any better with you pulling this kind of stunt.”
“Hiring Colorado is not a stunt,” Rowen said and pushed my hand away. “You need to go now before I do something I’ll regret.” His eyes glittered dangerously, but there was no way I was walking out of this office before we had the hierarchy set in stone.
“You report to us, we hired you to do a job, and so far you’ve contracted a new coach who could end up being more of a liability with the amount of negative reaction we’ve seen on social media to her being a woman. You’ve offered a tryout to an alcoholic, drug-taking goalie who can’t stop pucks, even if the net was four inches across and hidden in his ass. And as for you? You have no cohesive plan in place and seem to have no idea what you’re doing.”
My hands were in fists at my sides. I was breathing heavily. I’d lost my cool, but it wasn’t just Rowen who’d turned my temper up to eleven. It was Cam and his stupid nickname, the lack of respect from him, and dark memories of my less than stellar childhood smashed into me. Then it was Jason and his hurt expression, and the fact that I was tired, and I needed to go back to New York, and the man in front of me was messing with my equilibrium. Everything was piling on me, and I’d even thought it was a good idea to kiss him. I was out of control, and he wasn’t doing a damn thing to help.
“Are you finished? Because you can go now.” He was deceptively calm. I could see the temper flashing in his eyes, but he was relaxed, and his hands weren’t in fists like mine.
“That’s it?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You’re not going to defend yourself?”
He tilted his head a little and frowned. “Oh, is that what you want me to do? Do you need me to defend my position? Do you want the statistics, the research, the scouting reports, drug tests, experience, personal recommendations, and most of all a detailed list of my gut feelings? Would that help you feel a bigger man?”
The fact that he was so calm was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. I wanted him to lose his control. I wanted him to push me up against the door and demand that I retract what I’d said, and then tell me I was wrong. At least anger and accusations would be reactions I could handle.
“Coach?” I whirled to face the person who’d dared to come into the office when I was there, belatedly realizing that the door was wide open and that anyone could have heard our discussion. It wasn’t just one person. It was Terri, her eyes wide, and her lips in a set line, and alongside her, Colorado himself. He looked like a deer in the headlights, part defensive, but stunned.
Very d
eliberately, Terri pushed Colorado inside and shut the door behind them.
“First, both of you, shut the damn door if you’re going to bicker, or you’ll destroy what’s left of team morale,” she snapped. “Colorado is here to submit his latest test results.” She placed a printout on Rowen’s desk. “The tests he himself volunteered to do at least once a day for the time he’s trying out with us so there’s absolutely no blowback on the team for what he was alleged to be part of.”
“And for the record, I did not hire a groupie to pee on me or in a cup for me,” Colorado tossed out rather blithely. “We save that for the tour bus. Not that Binks, the drummer, would appreciate me talking about his kink but eh.” He shrugged a well-padded shoulder.
“There was—”
“I haven’t finished,” she interrupted and turned to face me head on, six inches shorter, but I had no doubt that right this moment she would take me out. “Mr. Westman-Reid, what I have between my legs does not determine my ability to do my job. If I hear anything like that again from you or any of the management team, players, or staff, I will sue you and this sorry ass team for every cent you have.”
“I was talking about your impact on social media—”
She ignored me, gripped Colorado’s arm, and tugged him outside, slamming the door shut behind her. Rowen stared at me, his expression closed, and I ran out of steam. Something about the way Terri had spoken to me, demanding respect, made me hot and cold with misery and shame.
