Chapter 2
DECLAN
Tiny was on the couch again.
Not half on it. Not testing boundaries with one paw like an animal capable of shame.
All one hundred and sixty pounds of him sprawled across the cushions, head sunk into the throw pillow Olivia had bought during a weekend in Santa Fe three years ago, eyes closed as if he had endured a long day at the office.
“Get down,” I said.
Tiny opened one eye.
I pointed at the floor. “You heard me.”
He sighed. It was a dramatic sound, wet and exhausted, like I’d asked him to refinance the house.
I went back to the kitchen island, where my laptop was open between a stack of player reports and a plate of chicken that had gone lukewarm while I watched defensive-zone clips.
The rice had clumped together. The broccoli tasted like the container it came in.
I ate it anyway because cooking for one person after a twelve-hour day felt like pretending.
The house was quiet in the way it had become quiet lately.
Not empty. There were shoes by the door, Olivia’s blue raincoat still hanging in the mudroom from her last trip home, framed photos on the shelves, a half-burned candle on the coffee table she’d told me smelled like cedar and fig. There were signs of a life here.
Just not much living.
The place was too big for one man and a dog who ignored furniture rules.
Too polished in the rooms nobody used. Too clean except for the places Tiny shed, which was everywhere.
I had moved in six weeks ago, and most of my books were still in boxes in the office because I kept meaning to put up shelves and kept finding film to watch instead.
On the screen, Milo Brooks turned a puck over at the blue line for the third time in two games.
I made a note.
Brooks: Skilled hands. Rush decisions under pressure. Needs simpler first option.
Tiny snored.
“You’re contributing nothing,” I told him.
His tail thumped once without him opening his eyes.
My phone buzzed on the counter. Olivia.
I wiped my hand on a napkin and accepted the video call.
Her face filled the screen, polished but tired, hair pulled into a sleek knot, hotel room lighting washing the color out of her skin.
Behind her, a room service tray sat untouched beside a laptop and a black blazer hung over a chair.
Chicago, I remembered. Or Boston. No, Chicago had been last week. Tonight was Atlanta.
“Hey,” she said, smiling faintly. “You eating?”
“Trying.”
“What is that?”
“Chicken.”
“It looks sad.”
“It gave up before I did.”
She laughed, soft and familiar. It hit me somewhere uncomfortable because I could remember when making her laugh had been easy. Before calendars had become the third person in our marriage.
“How was the first full day?” she asked.
“Productive. Players are adjusting.”
“That means someone annoyed you.”
“Several people annoy me professionally.”
“Only professionally?”
Tiny chose that moment to heave himself upright and lumber into frame, placing his enormous head on the island beside my plate.
Olivia’s smile widened. “There’s my favorite man.”
I looked at the dog. “You hear that? Betrayal.”
Tiny licked his chops and stared at my chicken.
“He still on the couch?” she asked.
“No.”
“Declan.”
“He is currently not on the couch.”
“So yes.”
I moved the plate out of reach. “He’s having a difficult transition.”
“He has a custom orthopedic bed and no responsibilities.”
“He misses you.”
Her expression softened. “I miss him too.”
Not you.
She didn’t mean it that way. I knew she didn’t. Still, the omission sat there between us for half a second before she looked off-screen at something on her laptop.
“Sorry,” she said. “They just sent the revised deck. I have to present at seven tomorrow.”
“Go. I know you’re slammed.”
“No, I have a minute.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I wanted to call. We keep missing each other.”
“We do.”
“I’m back Friday night. Late, probably. Then Dallas Sunday.”
I already knew. It was on the shared calendar in green, her travel color. Mine were blue. We had become blocks of color sliding past each other.
“I have the home stand starting Saturday,” I said. “But Friday night I’ll be here.”
“If my flight isn’t delayed.”
“If it is, I’ll pick you up whenever.”
“You don’t have to. I can Uber.”
“I know I don’t have to.”
She looked back at the screen, and for a second, I saw the woman I’d married.
Not the consultant with three devices and no time, but Olivia in my old college sweatshirt, feet tucked under her on a couch in Raleigh, telling me I was impossible to buy gifts for because I never admitted wanting anything.
“I know,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”
We should have said more. There was room for it. A small door cracked open.
Neither of us walked through.
She asked about the staff. I asked about her client. She told me Atlanta traffic was still a crime against civilization. I told her Tiny had tried to fight a sprinkler head and lost. She laughed again, then a notification chimed on her end and her attention split.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I really do have to go.”
“Do your thing.”
“I’ll text when I’m done?”
“Yeah.”
“Night, Dec.”
“Night, Liv.”
The call ended.
Tiny put his chin on my forearm, heavy and warm.
I scratched behind his ear. “Don’t look at me like that.”
He looked at me exactly like that.
I worked for another hour. Clips. Notes. Staff comments. Practice adjustments. It was easier to understand men on ice than a marriage losing shape by inches.
My brothers made their nightly attempt to lower the collective intelligence of the Reid family at 9:13.
Owen called first. Nate was already on the line, judging by the sound of someone chewing directly into the phone.
“Please tell me you’re not both on speaker,” I said.
“We’re both on speaker,” Owen said. “And Nate is eating cereal like a raccoon in a dumpster.”
“It’s granola,” Nate said.
“It’s gravel with branding.”
I leaned back in my chair and pinched the bridge of my nose. “What do you want?”
“Wow,” Owen said. “A man becomes an NHL head coach and forgets the little people.”
“You’re six-two.”
“Emotionally little.”
Nate snorted. “We watched your press conference.”
“That was weeks ago.”
“We’ve been busy preparing feedback,” Owen said. “First, you looked terrifying. Second, you blinked four times in nine minutes. Third, Mom says you need better lighting because you look like you sleep in a bunker.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Don’t,” Nate said. “Dad wants to know if you’re eating enough.”
“I’m thirty-two.”
“He said that’s not an answer.”
I looked at the sad chicken. “I’m eating.”
Owen made a noise. “That means protein out of a plastic coffin.”
“It had broccoli.”
“Jesus,” Nate said. “He’s feral.”
Tiny nosed my knee, then shoved his face toward the phone when Owen started making kissing sounds.
“There he is,” Owen crooned. “Tiny, buddy, blink twice if Declan is emotionally neglecting you.”
Tiny sneezed.
“Evidence,” Nate said.
Despite myself, I smiled. “You two done?”
“No,” Owen said. “How’s Denver? How’s the team? Any divas yet?”
“All NHL teams have divas. Some are just better at hiding it.”
“That’s coach talk for yes.”
I thought of Holloway arriving late, shoe untied, mouth running ahead of his judgment. Thought of him spotting the seam on the entry before half the room had processed the clip. Thought of the sharpness in his face when I asked if I could count on him.
“One or two,” I said.
“Don’t sound so excited,” Nate said.
“I’m not excited.”
Owen laughed. “That means he is. He gets that dead voice when he has a project.”
“I don’t have projects. I have players.”
“Sure,” Owen said. “And I don’t have commitment issues, I’m just building community.”
“You went on three dates with a woman and changed grocery stores to avoid her.”
“She shopped aggressively.”
The conversation went nowhere for ten minutes, which was exactly why I stayed on.
They complained about Owen’s shifts at the firehouse, Nate’s neighbor learning bass guitar, Mom’s new obsession with pickleball, Dad pretending his knee didn’t hurt when everyone knew it did.
They took shots at my beard, my diet, my inability to understand TikTok, then signed off with the kind of casual love none of us ever named directly.
After the call, the silence came back, but warmer around the edges.
Tiny abandoned me for the couch again.
I let him.
Near midnight, I opened the player files I’d been avoiding because reading other people’s judgments before forming my own always irritated me. Still, history mattered. Patterns mattered.
Roman Vega’s file was clean and brutally honest. Veteran goaltender.
Technically sound. Dry room presence. Trusted by core players.
Divorced last year, performance dip temporary, recovered.
Protects younger teammates. Can be resistant to rest days.
I added my own note: Sees everything. Use him, but don’t lean too hard.
Milo Brooks was next. Twenty-four, winger, high skill, confidence tied too tightly to scoring. Needed direct feedback without theatrics. Responded poorly to being benched, responded well to specific targets.
Eli Serrano: defenseman, steady, underappreciated, likely playing through something he wasn’t reporting.
Grant Lowell: fast, coachable, too eager to please, needed permission to make mistakes.
Dmitri Sokolov: brilliant when engaged, moody when underused, not lazy despite reputation.
I read, compared, marked up the margins. The work settled me. People liked to pretend coaching was speeches and systems. Mostly it was observation. Find the lever, understand the pressure, know when not to touch it.
I left Jace Holloway for last.
The file was thick.
Elite offensive instincts. Franchise center. High marketability. Charismatic. Emotional. Prone to lateness. Inconsistent adherence to team processes. Requires repeated reminders. Can challenge authority. Disruptive when disengaged. Competitive to a fault. Management concern mitigated by production.