Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Felix
Training camp this year was a nightmare.
Our new coach was determined to put us all through our paces and figure out for himself who skates best with whom and where.
One thing he didn’t do was share his plans—instead, he watched, made us do everything over and over until I was sure someone was going to crack, and scribbled endless notes to himself.
He even watched the rest of the coaching staff. It’s normal for there to be a shake-up in the staff when a new coach takes over, but it usually happens pretty quickly, because he brings his people with him. Not so much, this time.
By the time camp ended, tempers were frayed, and we were on tenterhooks to find out what changes, exactly, Coach Locke is planning to make to the Warhammers. We waited with bated breath on that last day… for nothing.
“See you next week” was all he said. If I hadn’t been so exhausted, there was a very good chance my hormones would have taken over and spurred me to a rage-filled murder.
I spent the weekend by myself despite invitations from a few friends to go out for one last hurrah before the grind of the season began.
All I wanted was to wallow in my own self-pity.
I looked Locke up, and there’s very little chance that he’ll continue running the team the way Franks did.
Locke actually played for the human NHL.
The number of those in the community who have done that can be counted on two hands, and most of them were back in the days before every game was being videoed by a million cameras.
Even the most controlled of us—which is definitely not me—will have occasional slips in high-pressure moments, and while humans are very good at making up excuses for things they don’t think are possible—especially if they see them in said high-pressure moments—it’s harder to convince them they imagined something when it’s been captured on camera and can be replayed in slow motion.
These days, only the best, most controlled community players have any chance at playing in the NHL. It’s why we created our own league.
Most of us don’t care. Playing is less fun when you have to be super aware of holding back your strength and speed.
The CHL is faster, rougher, and wilder than the NHL can ever be, and that kind of no-holds-barred athleticism is what most of us are here for.
Are we at the same level of skill, technically, as the NHL?
Not really. Our game is different; we don’t play as often or have as much money—though we’re not hurting for cash.
The community gets behind its own, and beings that live as long as we do have plenty of time to build wealth.
But looking at Locke’s style as first a player and then an assistant coach in the NHL, there’s no way anyone could convince me he plans to let the Warhammers continue being the league’s “dirty” team.
We’re known for having big players (present company excluded) who aren’t necessarily all that skilled (still excluding me) but play rough enough to get the job done (this is definitely me).
Locke’s known for playing smart. He’s not above the occasional hard and even dirty hit when necessary, but those are few and far between, taking second place to tactics and skills.
He can probably make the Warhammers into a better team—a club that wins more and that supporters can be proud of.
Can he do it with the existing players? Unlikely. Not unless some of them undergo lobotomies.
My heart beats a little faster than usual as I approach the dressing room.
If Locke’s going to do a full rebuild, there’s no doubt that I’ll be one of the players to go.
Yeah, a bunch of my teammates aren’t as talented as I am, but they also don’t attack each other on the ice.
They’re not currently at the mercy of hormonal surges that make them unreasonably angry and aggressive.
I need to show him that I can play smart, that while yeah, I’m an aggressive player, it doesn’t define or drive me.
The problem is, I’m not sure he’s going to give me the chance to prove that.
I tried during training camp, but some of my teammates are just so unfocused that it was hard to stay calm.
And when they came at me with dirty tactics, I had to slap them down.
Nobody’s going to push me around anymore—not on the ice and not in life.
“Felix!”
I stop, relieved to be able to avoid the room for another minute, and turn to face Lurlene. She’s one of my favorite people in the organization, because she takes no bullshit and doesn’t stand on ceremony. Kind of like my mom.
“Hey, Lurlene.” I wait for her to reach me. “Did I forget to hand in some paperwork?”
She shakes her head. “Nah, honey, yours is perfect like always. I wish the rest of these cretins could fill in a form like you can.”
It’s not much of a compliment, but I’ll take it.
“I need a favor,” she continues, and I shrug.
“Sure.”
“We’ve got a new part-timer who knows sweet fuck all about hockey, and I need you to teach him the basics so he doesn’t make the club look ridiculous.”
I snort. “Fair call. Can he skate?”
“Don’t know. But he doesn’t need to be able to play, just to talk like he understands the game.” She pulls a disgusted face. “He can’t even answer the phones right now, he knows so little.”
“Yikes.” Why the fuck did the club hire someone like that when there are so many hockey fans out there?
Whatever the guy’s job is, there has to be someone qualified to do it who also knows the sport.
“I got you, Lurlene. Send him down to find me after practice.” Which reminds me…
I have to go into that room. Now, before I’m late and Locke has another reason to ditch me.
“What’s with the face?” Lurlene asks, and I realize I’m grimacing.
“Nothing. Just… I’m worried I won’t be around long. I don’t think Coach likes me.”
She rolls her eyes and points out, “Franks didn’t like you either. People like you and me aren’t always universally loved, but we’re too valuable to get rid of, and that’s even better. Talk to you later.”
She’s gone before I remember to ask the name of the new guy.
Oh well. He’ll introduce himself when he finds me.
I’m kind of still stuck on the fact that I’d like to be both valuable and loved.
It doesn’t have to be universally, but by a few more people than my family and one or two friends would be nice.
By one special person in particular would be even better, but my search for Mr. Right has been fruitless so far.
That’s okay. I’m young—only in my forties. There’s time still.
Bracing myself, I shove open the door to the dressing room and make a beeline for my cubby. Everyone else is here already—not surprising, since I both dawdled and was stopped by Lurlene.
“’Bout time, Ansas,” Gline mutters as I dump my stuff and change into my gear. “Coach fired Wodds and Benning.”
I freeze with my shirt halfway over my head and then yank it the rest of the way off. He fired two assistant coaches? At the same time? Wodds is the senior defensive coach! “Are you sure?”
The look Gline gives me has me holding up my hands in apology. “Sorry, sorry. Of course you’re sure. Fuck.” I slide a glance toward the door of Coach’s office. “Did you hear anything about their replacements?”
He shrugs. “Not yet.”
I sit down to put my skates on, head spinning.
We knew a shakeup of the coaching team was coming, but I didn’t expect multiple coaches to be fired at the same time.
Does that mean he’s going to fire players too?
I was expecting him to rely on trades to build the team he wants, and while I wasn’t looking forward to moving away from my home and family, the idea of being fired and not being able to play hockey for a living is even worse.
Though… would any team even take me in a trade? My reputation as a team player isn’t stellar right now, and none of the other teams are anywhere near as rough as the Warhammers.
The door opens, and the dressing room falls silent. If I wasn’t sweating bullets, I’d think it was funny.
He steps in and scans the room. “Coaches Wodds and Benning have decided to pursue other opportunities, so we’re down two coaches for the next few days,” he announces with no preamble.
“I’m interviewing candidates already, but if you know someone who would be a good fit and want to recommend them, my door’s open.
Hebbe, Sarcnet, Vitter, and Ansas, wait here a minute. The rest of you, get out there.”
My guts turn to water. This is it. He’s going to fire me, and the only thing I love outside of my family is going to disappear.
Gline shoots me a sympathetic grimace and slaps me on the shoulder.
“It might be okay,” he offers, but we both know that’s bullshit.
A coach known for his coolheaded tactical style doesn’t call aside the four most aggressive players on the team to invite them to his knitting circle.
I’m doomed. I’m going to have to give in to loving family pressure and become an accountant.
Which is not good, since even after hours of trying, I cannot understand how Profit and Loss statements work.
Once the last of our teammates has clomped out, Coach looks at the four of us remaining.
“You’ve probably heard that the organization is collaborating with the DEA to build a fandom among the elves and dragons,” he starts, and I blink.
Huh? “Erik in marketing has asked for some player volunteers to be part of the outreach program, and you’re it. ”
Understanding—and giddy relief—settles over me, but before I can say, “Thank you for this chance, I swear I won’t fail your test”—because that’s abso-fucking-lutely what this is—Sarcnet proves exactly how lacking in smarts he is.
“Sorry, Coach, I can’t volunteer for this.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I, uh… got stuff on.”
Opposite me, Hebbe’s eyes slide closed on a wince, proving he has two brain cells to rub together. Seriously, though—“I got stuff on”? He doesn’t even know how much time he’ll need to give, or when.
Coach nods slowly. “Uh-huh.”
Vitter, who I’ve never thought was particularly bright but clearly is smarter than Sarcnet, looks confused but keeps his mouth shut, gaze darting from face to face as he tries to work out what’s going on.
“I’m good for it, Coach,” I say, not caring if it sounds like I’m sucking up. Because I totally, one-hundred percent am. “Should I see Erik about the details?”
“Me too,” Vitter races to add, surprising me. Hebbe quickly agrees, and Coach nods again, his face giving nothing away. Damn demons and their damn muscle mass. I’ve gotten better at reading them after so many years playing with half a team of them, but it’s still not easy.
“Erik will be down after practice,” he advises us. “Let’s get going.”
I fall in with the others to follow him out, feeling like I’ve dodged a bullet. Now I just have to pass this stupid community outreach test.