Chapter 5
JACK
In my entire professional hockey career—hell, even before I went pro and was still trying to make it into major juniors—I’d always been scrupulous about professionalism.
I followed dress codes to the letter. I lived and breathed my media training.
When I’d come out early in my pro career, I’d understood the pressure of being the first and (at the time) only out gay player in the League; I’d made sure to keep my image pristine so no one could use me as an example of why people like us didn’t belong.
Even my messy, contentious divorce had been polished to a shine in the public eye—mutual and amicable and we wished each other the very best (though that hadn’t stopped the public and media from having a field day with it).
My entire damn life was carefully molded around not disrupting my hockey career, and that had continued since I’d transitioned from player to coach.
All of which made me wonder for the millionth time why the fuck I was yet again leading myself into temptation with Devon.
The first night—fine. We’d been first-name-only anonymous hookups.
I’d been too horny and stressed to stop and think about why we were staying in the same hotel right then.
Once the clothes had come off, I’d been too into him to stop and question why, in addition to having an absolutely ripped, lean body, he also had a massive ass and thighs.
Fine. I could be forgiven for all that.
But once I’d figured out who he was, I should’ve shut off any part of my brain that wanted another taste of his kiss or his body. And last night—last night just had “shouldn’t have” written all over it. Full stop. Shouldn’t have.
And yet, here I was, sitting across from him at the breakfast table in the hotel where we’d hooked up.
Damage control. Now was the time for damage control.
I took a swallow of coffee and met Devon’s gaze across the table. Pretending not to notice, care, or be remotely aroused by the unflinching way he locked eyes with me, I said, “So… we are on the same page, right? About everything?”
“Everything?” Devon shrugged as he loaded some eggs onto his fork. “You mean, like we’re going to eat breakfast, go to the rink for a morning skate, do our pregame routines, and then have a hockey game tonight? That everything?”
I had a flash of irritation that he was being a smartass, but… maybe he wasn’t. Our interactions from here on out needed to start and end with hockey. Which was exactly what he was laying out.
Nodding, I said, “Yes. All of that.”
“Okay, then.”
That… that was it?
I couldn’t handle the intensity in his eyes anymore, so I shifted my own down to my breakfast. Eggs, ham, and fruit had never been more interesting.
As casually as could be, Devon asked, “Do you think we have a chance?”
My head snapped up. “A chance? What?” Hadn’t we just put this to bed?
He eyed me like I’d lost my mind. “Tonight? Against the Narwhals?”
Fuck’s sake. What did you think he meant, Jack?
I cleared my throat and busied myself cutting apart my ham.
“It’s hard to say. This will be my first game coaching this team, and you and some of your other teammates will be on the roster for the first time.
” Skewering a piece of ham on my fork, I added, “Tonight will be the test. See how we gel. See how it all works.”
Devon nodded. “Then you’ll implement your systems.”
“Where they’re needed. I’d rather find the team’s current strengths and weaknesses and make adjustments. Instituting a whole new system mid-season…” I rocked my head from side to side. “Sometimes it’s a good idea. Sometimes it’s a disaster.”
“So… you’ll decide what to do after tonight. After you’ve seen us against another team.”
“Exactly.” I held his gaze, trying and failing to read his expression. “What do you think about our chances? Uh, tonight? Against the Narwhals?”
“They’re a tough team.” He half-shrugged. “We’re a shit team.”
A laugh burst out of me. “The Grizzlies are not a shit team. There’s a ton of potential and skill—we just need to get everyone on the same page.”
“Mm-hmm. And that’s going to make a difference when we’re up against the team that’s number one in our division by seven points?”
“I think it’ll be a good chance to see where our strengths and weaknesses are, don’t you?
” I ticked off the points on my fingers.
“They have the best power play and the third-best penalty kill in the League. They’re number two in five-on-five.
Both of their goalies have save percentages and goals against averages that would have them in the running for the goalie MVP award in the big leagues.
” I mirrored his one-shouldered shrug. “It’s probably going to be a tough game, but it’s only one game.
It’ll be a perfect chance to cut our teeth as a unit, see what we need to improve, and see what we can capitalize on. ”
He nodded slowly as I spoke. “Do you really think you can fix this team?” I wasn’t sure if that was a challenge or a plea. If it was “you know you’re fucked” or “please tell me we’re not a lost cause.” Maybe a little bit of both.
“I don’t know,” I said with complete honesty.
“I think the team is stacked with a ton of talent. I think the group is capable of coming together as a winning team under the right leadership.” I picked up my coffee.
“Whether I’m the right coach for that job—that’ll come out when the rubber meets the road. ”
Devon studied me for a moment, then nodded as he went for his own drink. I had no idea if he thought my answer was satisfactory, but he didn’t question it.
As he put his glass down, he said, “Tonight will be rough. We’ll get through it.”
“Of course we will. And the rest of the season will be better.”
He watched me again, searching my eyes as if he wanted to know how sure I was of that. Then he refocused on his food and continued eating.
Truthfully, I wasn’t sure. I knew I could coach a winning team. I believed I could get this team on a winning track. I believed I could coach them into what their ownership envisioned. I believed I could unfuck the mess the previous coach had left behind.
The part that scared me was that I wouldn’t find out for sure that it was working until the rest of the world did—when the Grizzlies either started climbing the rankings, or we fell flat on our faces.
No pressure or anything.
Nothing drove home that I was captain of a catastrophically leaking ship like being on the wrong end of a 7-1 score at the beginning of the third period.
Correction: Being on the wrong end of a 7-1 score at the beginning of the third period, and thirty seconds later, being on the wrong end of a five-on-three power play.
Fuck my life. They’d listened to my speech in the locker room, right? Like actually heard the things I said about not letting them put us on our heels, not turning over the puck, and not taking penalties? They had heard me, hadn’t they?
It didn’t help that the refs were tilting the ice hard in the Narwhals’ favor. The call against Arts was fair. Tripping was tripping whether it was intentional or not. Fine.
But Devon was in the box for the third time tonight, and he’d only deserved one of those penalties. The hooking call in the first period—sure. The alleged cross-check six minutes later? Absolute bullshit. And the one he was currently sitting? For a “hand pass”?
“How is it a fucking hand pass?” I’d demanded of the refs. “How in the fuck does someone hand pass to himself?”
But they weren’t hearing it, and he went to the box, and now the Narwhals and their number-one-in the-League power play had a minute and thirty-two seconds of five-on-three. Fucking fabulous.
I fully expected Devon to be heated about it, too. Maybe shouting and flailing his arms all the way to the box, then continuing even after the door was shut. Breaking his stick over his knee. Throwing a water bottle. Something.
No, he just sat there. Stoic and quiet. Face blank.
Eyes calm. The only thing that gave away that he was even a little bit agitated was the way he chewed his mouthguard.
Like a lot of players, he had it hanging out of his mouth more often than not.
That was how it was right now, but he was chewing on it like it owed him money.
He was livid. In the first period, he’d been furious about his stupid second penalty, and he’d come out of the box and scored. Nothing soothed the soul like a post-penalty revenge goal. All I could do now was hope he did it again. It wouldn’t dig us out of this hole, but it would help morale.
Just take out your frustration on the back of the Narwhals’ net, not on one of their faces.
Even if it would be hot as hell to watch you drop gloves and—
I tamped down that briefly intrusive thought, tore my gaze away from the man in the box, and watched our penalty kill set up against their power play.
At least it was the only time this game that I’d had a momentary unprofessional thought about Devon.
Mostly because I was forcing myself to be professional.
Also because I was coaching a disaster of a team through a shitshow of a game.
It’s your first game with them.
There’s still plenty of season left.
Just get through this game and learn from it.
The puck dropped. Nasanov, the veteran fourth line center, won the faceoff and cleared the puck with a beautiful saucer pass that was well past the neutral zone when it finally landed on the ice.
The Narwhals’ power-play skaters were clearly not pleased, but they left the zone to regroup, get the puck, and re-enter.
On the way over the blue line, one of their defensemen cross-checked Nasa. Because he was pissy that Nasa had cleared the puck? Because he wanted to fight the thirty-something Russian who was built like a brick shithouse? I had no idea.
What I did know, though, was that it should’ve been a penalty.
“What the fuck?” I screamed at the refs over my seated players’ heads. “Where’s the fucking call?”
“No call,” the nearest ref said coolly.
“He cross-checked him!” I barked. “What does he have to do to get a penalty? Shank someone?”
A snicker went through the bench. The ref shot me a dirty look that told me I was going to get a bench minor if I kept it up, so I shut up.
I’d made my point, though. The Grizzlies weren’t playing great tonight, but the calls had been woefully lopsided in the Narwhals’ favor.
Hell, Kulie still had a tissue jammed up his nostril to stanch the bleeding after being high-sticked last period.
He should’ve drawn a goddamned double minor for that, but instead, he’d gone to the box for interference because he’d crashed into someone right after being high-sticked.
The officiating was bullshit tonight. I was seriously beginning to think the Narwhals could put their entire bench out on the ice and not get called for too many men.
It was what it was, though. Right now, the power play regrouped in the neutral zone, and two of their defensemen protected the puck carrier as he sped into our zone.
Lens—Kasper Lennart—was poised in front of the net, blocker and glove ready as he tried to anticipate the attackers’ next moves. I could feel his nerves from here as the three-on-one rush bore down on him. He twitched right. Then left.
The puck carrier passed. The next guy passed. They snapped the puck back and forth as they closed in on Lens’s net while my sparse group of skaters was miles behind them, and I didn’t think anyone was surprised when the puck was suddenly in our net.
8-1. Great.
The starter goalie, Bardil Safronov, sat at the end of the bench with a baseball cap instead of his mask.
He’d been salty when I’d pulled him after he’d let in the fourth goal, and I got it; it hadn’t been his fault our defense left him out to dry, but sometimes pulling the goalie helped.
Right now, he just looked relieved he hadn’t had to face a five-on-three, especially with a penalty kill that couldn’t get its shit together.
Note to self—special teams practice tomorrow.
Our power play may or may not have needed the practice—they hadn’t been tested yet tonight—but it would do them good anyway. And hopefully it would help our penalty kill.
Our penalty kill, which still had to work because while one of our players had come out of the box thanks to that goal, Devon’s penalty still had fifty-two seconds left.
I sent out the second penalty kill unit while the dejected first unit returned to the bench.
“Chin up, boys,” I called out to them. They glanced at me, looking like tired, sad puppies, before shifting their attention to the action on the ice.
They were probably expecting to be reamed out in the locker room.
Their previous coach—hell, most coaches I’d ever had—would be frothing at the mouth, ready to scream at them, the goalies, and everyone else over this disastrous game.
That wasn’t my style. It could be if I thought my players were dicking off or slacking, but that wasn’t what happened tonight. They were floundering and flailing, but they weren’t fucking around. They just needed leadership. Guidance. A system that actually worked.
They needed a coach who could steer them toward the potential that had gotten them signed in the first place.
Right then, the sparse hometown crowd—those who’d held out this long tonight—started booing. The goal light went on behind Lens as the few remaining spectators started filing out of the stands. My penalty killers exchanged miserable looks as the Narwhals celebrated on the ice and on their bench.
Another power play goal against.
Another Narwhal skating to the bench for fist bumps.
Devon stepped out of the box, still chewing his mouthguard but looking more defeated than angry. As if he knew to his core that there was no digging ourselves out of this 9-1 hole.
Christ. This team was a mess. And everyone was expecting me to straighten them the hell out.
No pressure.