Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fifteen
Grady
The team spends a lot of time on the plane to and from away games, which means that they’ve had plenty of opportunities to come up with dumb, time-wasting activities to make the trip pass. At first, they did normal shit, like play cards. Then they played Cards Against Humanity. Now, we’ve reached a point in the season where they’re coming up with their own games.
Their current game is called Casual Nuts. I’m a little hazy on the point system, but as far as I can tell, the general aim of Casual Nuts is to tell the group a story while sitting with your legs spread. At random, other members of the team will try to balltap the speaker, either by hand if he’s within arm’s reach, or using some sort of impromptu projectile. After a few mishaps, rules have been implemented about the size and heft of acceptable missiles. If the speaker can deflect the balltap, he gets a point. If he fails, the person who achieved the balltap gets a point.
At this point in the explanation, I tuned out, because life is too short to memorize all the rules of a game I never intend to play.
“Jesus Christ,” Noah mutters under his breath as he watches the guys play. “Were we ever this dumb?”
Ranger snorts. “Honestly, I’m surprised that Latham didn’t come up with this game.”
Noah smirks. “Or Briggs.”
“Besides, I’m pretty sure your son was the one who devised this little gem.”
“Yeah, well.” Noah sighs. “Past a certain point, you’ve got to let them do their own thing, don’t you?”
One of the right wingers takes a hit to the groin in the form of a thrown granola bar, and his turn ends.
“How about you?” Ranger asks. “Did you have a game like this back when you were their age?”
I tap my phone screen.
“Grady?” Ranger asks.
I whip my head up. “What?”
“Did you ever do dumb stuff like this when you were in your twenties?”
“Dumb stuff like…?” Before I can finish the question, my phone vibrates again. I turn the screen face-down. Fortunately, my brain catches up with the random nonsense they’ve been talking about. I’ve been listening, kinda. I’m just a wee bit distracted. “Oh, sure. We had the towel game.”
Viktor twists in his seat to look at me. “What’s the towel game?”
I shake my head. “I’m not putting ideas in your head.” My phone buzzes again, and I can’t help but glance at the screen. As expected, it’s another text from Viv. We’ve been trying to one-up each other’s tree-related puns.
VivaLaViv : My bark is worse than my bite.
Grady : I can’t believe you went for such low-hanging fruit.
VivaLaViv : You’d better be-leaf it!
Grady : That one SAPped me of the will to live.
VivaLaViv : Hah, that was good, but I guess some puns are evergreen.
Grady : How do you FIGure?
VivaLaViv : How come all of your puns are so acorny?
“Holy shit, Coach. You’re smiling.” Viktor’s voice drags me back to reality. Casual Nuts has apparently been put on hold so all the guys can stare at me, assistant coaches included.
“You never smile,” Camden adds. “At least not with your whole face.”
“Who has you grinning like that?” Knight asks.
At least fifty percent of my brain is still trying to think of tree puns. The words slip out before I can think twice. “My future wife.”
Viktor’s eyes just about pop out of his skull.
Camden snorts. “More like your imaginary wife. Has anyone ever actually seen Coach around a woman?”
“Nah,” Tristan says. “He’s too grouchy. Even the puck bunnies are terrified. He’s got the look, but then he speaks, and it’s all over.”
Another text comes through.
VivaLaViv : I take it from your silence that I’ve finally got you STUMPED.
I turn the screen off and narrow my eyes at the players. “Get your heads in the game and out of my love life, or puking during practice will be the least of your worries.”
That puts the fear of God in them. They all turn away, but Casual Nuts seems to have lost its appeal. Most of them pull out their phones and lapse into silence.
Pretty soon, Noah is snoring to my right, while Ranger zones out to a movie on my left. I wait until I’m confident that I can get Viktor’s attention without drawing too many curious eyes before getting up from my seat and heading toward the back of the plane. On the way past, I tap Viktor’s shoulder twice. He takes the hint and follows me to the flight attendant galley at the back of the plane.
“If you want help going to the bathroom, old man, I’m not going to wipe your ass,” he quips.
I snort. “Speaking of asses, I trust that yours has healed?”
Viktor hunches his shoulders and sulks. “It has, no thanks to your hellhound.”
“Your sister loves my hellhound.”
“Yeah, well.” Viktor waves a hand. “She’s always got dogs sniffing around her, doesn’t she?”
I lean closer. “Are you insinuating that I’m a dog, Abbott?”
“Coach.” Viktor presses one hand over his heart. “I would never.”
“Good.” Heaven help me, how did I end up with this kid as my wingman? “And I hope you know better than to tell Vivian what I said.”
“Which part, Coach?”
I’m sure that he knows what I mean, but just so that we’re perfectly clear, I reply through gritted teeth. “The future wife part.”
Viktor widens his eyes. “Oh, was that Vivian you were talking to?” I bet that shit worked when he was little, but it’s not flying now.
“You may be an idiot, but you know better than to play dumb with me. Things are complicated enough.”
He scoffs. “You mean because I play for you, because our dad wrecked your career, or because our dad works for you?”
His comment about my career catches me off-guard. “Who told you about your dad ending my time in the NHL?”
“The internet.” He holds up one arm to show off his holowatch. “I looked you up. I even saw the play. You were really good. I hate that it happened, and I mean that.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t mind Viktor knowing the truth, but I hate the idea of him watching the play. The worst moment of my life can be streamed at any time, by anyone. I never thought about it much, because what can I do? It’s not like it’s a secret.
“Listen.” Viktor lowers his voice to a whisper. “Before I say anything else, let me ask you something. Are you going after Viv to get back at Dad?”
“What? No!” My eyes fly open. “No. When we met, I had no idea who she was. I didn’t even know her first name. The fact that she’s Noah Abbott’s daughter, niece, whatever, that has nothing to do with why I like her.” I hesitate. “Although it’s a big part of why I’m in no rush for him to find out about us.”
Viktor nods once. “Good. I get to troll my family, but she’s my sister. Nobody else gets to mess with her. Insert obligatory threat about breaking her heart here.”
“I’m not going to do that. If anything, she’s going to break my heart.”
Viktor stares at me for a moment. “Yeah, that makes sense. She’s way out of your league, so if anyone’s going to end up emotionally devastated, it’ll one hundred percent be you. Does Viv know how you feel about her?”
I shake my head.
Viktor sucks his teeth. “Ah. Are you afraid of scaring her off?”
“More than I care to admit.”
“Damn.” Viktor rubs his hand across his face. “So my sister doesn’t know that you’re thinking about a future with her, and my dad doesn’t know that he wrecked your career?”
I sigh. “Pretty much.”
“Shit. That’s rough. And oh, so complicated. I wouldn’t want to trade places with you, Coach.” Viktor pats my shoulder as he shuffles past me, heading back to his seat up front. I’m left staring out the window at the clouds and little patches of farmland beneath us.
Shit, that’s rough pretty much sums things up, doesn’t it?
* * *
The locker room hums with energy—nervous, electric, like the air before a thunderstorm. The guys are pulling on their gear, cracking jokes to shake the tension, but I can see it in their eyes. They know what’s at stake tonight. I stand at the whiteboard, marker in hand, walking through the last-minute strategy.
“First line, listen up. Hale, stay wide on the breakout. Abbott, keep your head up in the neutral zone—they’re going to try to trap you. Dubois, communicate out there. Loud and clear.” My voice is steady, authoritative, but my stomach churns. Camden is tying his skates too tight, a nervous habit. He looks up when I call his name, and his expression indicates he might puke again. “Beck, stay disciplined. No hero plays tonight. Stick to the system.”
They nod, but I can feel the weight on their shoulders. It’s not just another game. It’s against one of the top teams in the league, and every mistake will be magnified.
Behind me, Ranger leans in. “They look good. Focused.”
I grunt in response, keeping my eyes on the players. “They need to be. The Cyclones eat hesitation for breakfast.”
Noah steps up beside us, clipboard in hand, his expression calm and unflappable. “Ox’s dialed in. He knows their tendencies.”
Good. We’re going to need every edge we can get. Our gentle giant in the net, Owen ‘Ox’ Dalton, is six foot six of impenetrable human wall. Not much gets through him unless our defensemen are off their game.
As the players file out to the ice, my thoughts drift. Viv would tell me to breathe. She’d tell me I’m overthinking, to just let the guys play their game. The memory of her teasing smile softens the knot in my chest for half a second before the tension returns.
I watch Knight and Viktor as they step onto the ice, both brimming with confidence. Camden trails behind, his nervous energy palpable, while Tristan stays quiet, like he’s lost in his own head.
After warm-ups, the anthem plays, the puck drops, and I feel that familiar rush of adrenaline. This is it. Time to see what we’re made of.
We survive the first period, but barely. The score’s 0-0, and it feels like a miracle. The Houston Cyclones came out like they were shot out of a cannon, pinning us in our own zone for the first ten minutes. Ox’s been standing on his head, and Noah keeps leaning into my ear with updates: “He’s tracking well. Staying square. He’s locked in.”
But I know this kind of pressure doesn’t hold forever. Something’s got to give.
I glance down the bench. Knight’s focused, jaw tight as he nods along to my instructions during the intermission. Viktor slouches next to him, but there’s fire in his eyes. I know he’s itching to make something happen, to take control of the game. Camden looks like he’s still trying to catch his breath, and Tristan’s bouncing his knee so hard it’s shaking the bench.
The second period starts, and we finally find some rhythm. Knight pulls off a highlight-reel goal three minutes in, dragging the puck through two defenders before roofing it over their goalie’s shoulder. The bench explodes in cheers, and for a moment, I think we’ve shifted the momentum.
But the Cyclones don’t waste any time answering back. A bad turnover at our blue line, and their sniper lasers one into the top corner. I slam my hand against the boards. “Tighten up, boys! No more freebies!”
The cracks start to show. Viktor gets caught reaching with his stick, and the refs don’t hesitate to call him for tripping. Their power play unit doesn’t miss. It’s 2-1 Cyclones by the time Viktor’s out of the box, and the frustration is boiling over.
By the end of the period, we’re down 3-1. The guys look gassed, and I feel that old, familiar ache in my chest. We’re in a hole, and I’m not sure we can climb out of it.
The second the guys hit the bench, I let them have it. “Are we playing hockey, or are we just here to watch the Cyclones have a practice?” My voice echoes off the boards, cutting through the clamor of the arena. “You’re chasing pucks like Peewees. Tighten the hell up out there!”
Knight yanks his helmet off, jaw clenched. “We’re trying, Coach. Their forecheck’s—”
“I don’t want excuses,” I snap. “I want execution. You’re better than this.”
Ranger steps in beside me, his voice lower but no less intense. “You heard him. Heads on straight. Stop puck-watching, and start moving your feet.”
The third period starts, and for a few glorious minutes, it feels like we’re back in control. Tristan threads a perfect pass to Knight in the slot, and he buries it. The horn blares, and the bench erupts.
“That’s how it’s done!” I yell, slapping Knight on the back as he skates by. “Keep it up!”
But the Cyclones aren’t backing down. They push harder, faster, pinning us in our own zone. Viktor scrambles to clear the puck, and it barely squeaks past the blue line.
“Get off, Abbott!” I scream, motioning for the change. He slams onto the bench, panting. “You’ve got to stop lunging, or they’re going to eat you alive!”
“I know, Coach,” he snaps, grabbing a water bottle. “They’re fast.”
“They’re human,” I bark back. “Act like it.”
With two minutes left, I pull Ox for another forward. “Abbott! Hale! Dubois! Beck! Get your asses out there and make something happen!” The guys pour over the boards, desperation written all over their faces. They press hard, circling the Cyclones’ net, but nothing connects.
A bad bounce sends the puck flying the other way. The empty net goal is a dagger.
I slam my hand on the boards as the final horn sounds. 4-2.
Game over.
The locker room is silent, except for the hiss of showers and the occasional clatter of gear being tossed into bags. The guys are exhausted—physically and emotionally—and I don’t blame them. I feel it, too. I give them a short speech emphasizing effort and accountability, but it’s mostly for formality. They know we left too much out there tonight.
Ranger gives me a nod as I head to the press area. Noah pats my shoulder. “They’ll bounce back.”
I hope he’s right. Dante’s going to be pissed, and I’m going to have to deal with him because Sergio hasn’t figured out how to handle his father yet.
The lights in the press room feel harsher than usual, and the cameras seem closer. The reporters are already murmuring among themselves as I take my seat. I tug at my tie, trying to ignore the knot in my stomach.
The first question comes fast. “Coach Metcalfe, this is your fourth loss in five games. Do you think this team has what it takes to compete in this league?”
My jaw tightens, but I keep my tone calm. “We have the talent and the drive. Tonight wasn’t our best effort, but this group has the potential to be great. We’re building something here, and I believe in the process.”
Another reporter doesn’t wait for the mic. “Was pulling the goalie with two minutes left a mistake, given how aggressively the Cyclones were forechecking?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “It’s a calculated risk. We needed to tie the game, and you can’t score if you don’t take chances. Unfortunately, the puck didn’t bounce our way.”
A third reporter jumps in, their voice sharper. “Some fans feel like this team lacks leadership on the ice. That Viktor Abbott is too young to be a real calming presence in this league. Do you think that’s fair?”
That one hits harder than I’d like to admit. I take a breath, gripping the edge of the podium. “Leadership isn’t about one player. It’s about everyone pulling in the same direction. We’re still finding our identity as a team, but I have no doubt we’ll get there.”
The questions keep coming, each one chipping away at my patience. Why didn’t we adjust to the Cyclones’ speed? Why is our power play struggling? Do I think Viktor’s penalty cost us the game? By the end, I feel like I’ve been dragged through a verbal gauntlet, but I keep my answers professional and concise. No excuses. Just the promise that we’ll be better and what we’re working on to reach our goals.
As soon as the interview wraps, I make a beeline for the exit, my shoulders stiff with tension. The hotel isn’t far, and all I want is to crash for the night. But as I step into the quiet of the team bus, my thoughts drift to Viv.
I pull out my phone, staring at her contact photo—a candid shot I took when she wasn’t looking, laughing at something I said. Just seeing her face eases some of the weight pressing down on me.
I can’t wait to get back to my hotel room, already anticipating the sound of her voice. I need her tonight—not just for comfort but because she’s the one person who makes me believe that no matter how rough things get, I can handle it.
Her smile appears in my mind, and just like that, my chest loosens, and for the first time all night, I feel like I can breathe.