Chapter Three #2
It’s not as though she doesn’t know the sport at all. She comes from a hockey dynasty. Her brother led the Bend Brawlers in Oregon to two cups, and their father was the coach for the Washington Wolverines in Spokane before his untimely death, so she’s been around the sport her whole life.
The more involved Fury fans—the ones who would study an entire coaching roster—had a lot of opinions about me hiring Vivi. One woman is bad enough, but two? Outrageous. A reasonable few saw the value of someone with her deep well of skating knowledge and how that could subtly transform our game.
Key word: few.
I never would’ve brought her on board if I didn’t think she could hold her own, but I worry nonetheless.
I peer back at my phone. “The Axpert has great reviews…”
“Yes, because he hand selects the reviews that go on his website.” She shrugs once. “But I trust you. If this is how you want to set the tone, then slap my ass and call me president of The Axpert fan club.”
“An Axperette?”
“Let’s workshop that later.”
I give my lemon a squeeze. “I have a good feeling about this. It’ll be great for morale and team building.”
“I have my doubts.” She eyes me over the rim of her thermos. “But I will bottle them up real tight and support you.”
“Thank you.” Mollified, I rise to my feet and grab my skate bag. “Let’s get out there.”
Vivi and I both arrived to work ice-ready today, given the fact that the ladies’ locker room space has a little bit of a no-central-heating-or-air problem that Andy and his purse strings don’t seem all that motivated to fix.
We’re the only two women who would regularly be using it, so I’m not surprised it’s not a priority.
They did, at least, install a doorbell into the men’s locker room so we can more efficiently warn the guys when we’re walking in. But I advised the team to meet us on ice today, along with the rest of the coaching staff.
We drop onto the bleachers near the entrance of the rink.
I swap my new leather boots for broken-in Baurs.
The durable laces tickle my fingertips as I thread and tug, the familiar ritual activating my adrenaline.
My body knows that lacing skates means something is coming.
Something exciting, even if it’s not the same kind of excitement as when I was a player.
Despite the chill in the rink, my arms and legs warm from the inside out.
My first day of practice coaching an NHL team—a day all twenty-nine years of my life in the making—is here.
Years of fixation on a sport that didn’t always love me back as a player, of absorbing and executing plays until my body and brain were equally fluent in the language, of meticulously studying every facet of the game…
it all brought me to this moment. Dreams I never even dared to speak aloud are coming to fruition—
“I’m back in the cursed shithole. Call you later.”
I cut a look toward the owner of the harsh voice.
Ivan, the captain of the Fury and Tag Heuer’s biggest ambassador, presses his earbud and throws his bag on the bleachers, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Vivi and I are sitting here, two feet away.
He sits down and sets to work tugging his shin guards into place, shoving his feet into his skates, and pulling on his gloves without acknowledging us in the slightest.
If Mona Lisa exudes wry mystery, Ivan exudes I hate this place.
The last Fury coach didn’t leave me with much in the way of parting wisdom, but he did take the time to say two things as he carried his ceremonial brown box of belongings out of the office: good luck, lady and get Ivan Czernecki on your side or your life will be a waking nightmare.
He then retired from coaching entirely. Rumor has it he works in a surfboard rental shack in Waikiki. One can’t help but assume Ivan had something to do with that.
“Good morning, Ivan,” I say.
He points to his headphones as if to excuse him from responding, though that clearly means he heard us just fine.
Vivi and I exchange a look.
After his skates are laced, Ivan pulls an electrolyte gel pack from his pocket, chokes it down, and tosses the empty shell on the bleacher beside him.
He rises to his feet, helmet nestled under his arm, and starts the stilts-like walk required of skates on a rubber mat. His practice jersey boasts the C.
“Excuse me,” Vivi says, lifting her finger.
Ivan glances over his shoulder. His icy blond hair matches his expression. “What?”
“You forgot your trash.”
He laughs.
She waits.
His laugh fades. He glares at her for a few long seconds. “You’re serious?”
“Afraid so. We don’t want to trash the space on day one, even if it’s a cursed shithole.”
“Fuckin’ a, man,” he mutters bitterly. His steely eyes scan the area. His attention lands on the group of men approaching. “Oye, Lindberg.”
Nic—flanked by Callum and Anders, the Fury’s longtime goalie—points at his chest. “Me?”
“Yeah, you. Grab my trash off the bleacher.”
Nic looks more confused than put out. “And do what with it?”
“Eat it. Make origami. I don’t give a fuck, just get rid of it before this one starts chirping again.” He jabs a thumb toward Vivi.
Irritation bursts in my chest. I’m about to remind him that “this one” is his coach and not a chirping bird, but shutting down Ivan on day one is not part of the plan.
Even if he deserves it.
Nic lifts the trash in a pincher grip and walks it over to the can. Callum and Anders drop onto a bleacher as far away from us as possible to put on their skates, not-so-subtly distancing themselves. They clearly don’t want to align themselves with Ivan.
Interesting.
Smugly satisfied that Nic has done his bidding, Ivan slides his helmet into place and hits the ice.
“Prince Charming’s blonder, ruder brother,” Vivi says under her breath. “Littering is childish. I should’ve demanded he throw it away himself.”
“I appreciate your restraint. We’re—”
“Picking and choosing our battles, I know.” She huffs in disappointment and proceeds to stare daggers at the ice. “We’re going to have so many, however will we choose?”
“Give it time.”
Motion in my periphery captures my attention. It’s Leo, entering the atrium that connects the locker room hallway to the rink area.
Almost like he was summoned by the word “battle.”
He walks more comfortably in his practice gear than he did in his suit, but there’s still an unease in his gait, like he’s bracing for impact at all times. He looks rested today—his striking eyes less sleepy—but no one would accuse him of looking happy. Sullen, maybe.
Even so, he has a strong presence. The energy shifts in the lofty space as he gets closer. A few guys throw him tentative glances.
I might be the only one staring, though.
Studying.
He rakes his hand through his thick, disheveled hair, his intense gaze fixed on the ice. The coach in me is dying to know what’s on his mind as he studies his turf. What he’s expecting for day one of practice.
I tear my attention off him and direct it toward the equipment manager racing toward me with a teetering tower of cones in need of placement.
“Hey Vivi, will you make sure Sean knows where to put those for your drills?”
“Aye aye, captainess.” She salutes, dons her helmet, and springs into action on ice, helping Sean set up.
The rink fills up quickly as all twenty of my players arrive and begin to warm up. I step inside and stick close to the wall, observing which players are talking, which are skating in silence, and which stand in wait.
Vivi flashes me her wrist, drawing my attention to the time, just as my own watch vibrates with an alert.
I blow my whistle once. “Circle up.”
The players lazily make their way to the center of the ice. A tinge of claustrophobia works through me as they form a semicircle around where I stand. The scrape of metal against ice fades as everyone goes still.
Heart in my throat, I look to the wall behind my team as I gather my thoughts.
They’re tall, and seem even taller thanks to the open rafters. Stark white.
Empty.
This place feels nothing like Team USA’s practice facility, which proudly boasts the evidence of our team, our country, displaying flags and colors and pennants with logos that evolved over generations. The walls there are a celebration of our prior wins and storied history.
Now it’s time to write another chapter of the Fury’s story, together.
I scan my team, mostly glimpsing faces shadowed by helmets.
The blank walls trigger an idea—a change to the speech I’ve mulled over for days and rehearsed in my head last night.
“This season,” I say, finding my voice in the echoey space, “is a blank canvas.”
“A what?”
I turn toward the voice. Beau Putnam, my backup goalie, looks at me like I’m speaking another language.
“A blank canvas,” I repeat, louder this time. “Page blanche, as my father would say.”
“Is he a hockey player?” Nic asks.
“Nope. A dentist. And what I mean by blank canvas—”
“In France?” Nic asks, head cocked sideways, still hung up on the first part.
I internally wince at the turn this is taking, though I have no one to blame but myself. “No, in Seattle. He just thinks it’s funny to say things no one understands and follow it up with pardon my French. That was his whole reason for learning the language.”
Looks of confusion ripple across the group.
“My dad loves committing to a bit. Anyway—”
“We would say toile vierge,” Henri Auclair, the first line right winger I’m excited to pair with Leo, inserts in a heavily accented voice. “Like erm…virgin canvas?”
“What is this, Honors French?” Ivan asks.
“As if you ever saw the inside of an honors class,” Beau grumbles under his breath.
“Sorry, I don’t speak little bitch, either—”
“Yeah? Because you seemed to understand just fine—”
“Can you two shut up?” Leo’s low rumble cuts through the fight.
Ivan and Beau briefly unite to throw Leo a look of disgust. Nothing brings two people together faster than hating a third.