Chapter 17
AVERY
I’d give Coach Tabakov credit—he was discreet.
I mean, I liked him anyway. He was a great head coach, and we’d all thrown him a party when the GM had extended his contract for three more years. The man knew hockey, and he knew how to coach.
But I’d always particularly liked that he preferred the “praise in public, criticize in private” approach to things.
If the whole team was a mess, he’d dress us down right there on the ice during practice or in the locker room during intermission.
If the problem was with one player, though, it was always behind closed doors.
I knew for a fact he’d addressed things with my teammates, but I never knew when or where it happened.
And when he sat down for a face-to-face with me, it was always with as little fanfare as possible. A text message. Catching me when I was alone in the locker room. Joining me while I walked around the ice level before a game.
Today, as I was finishing up breakfast, he came by where I was sitting and tapped his knuckle on the table. “Chat with me before we get on the buses, Captain.”
The “Captain” was, I guessed, a way of letting my teammates at the table know this was business as usual. He and I had one-on-ones all the time now that I was captain, and he’d done it with Leif, too.
From the way my teammates focused on their breakfasts and didn’t look at me or Coach… I had a feeling the subterfuge didn’t work this time.
“Yeah, Coach,” I said. “I’ll, um… I’ll be done here in a couple of minutes.”
He gave a sharp nod and left.
Eminem, Baddy, Ziggy, and Davis didn’t look up from their food.
They didn’t say a word. In fact, none of us had said much since we’d sat down—the whole banquet hall was unusually quiet—and I didn’t think it was just because we were all nursing hangovers.
The awkward near-silence was uncomfortable as all hell.
So was the fact that Peyton hadn’t joined us like he usually did.
He was a few tables over, back resolutely turned to me, having a hushed conversation with Laramie, Trews, and Astala.
Even the guys at other tables who hadn’t been at the bar last night had clearly picked up on the vibe in the room; they exchanged “WTF?” looks and peered at the rest of us with uneasy eyes.
This was my fault.
Peyton’s too, for silently judging me across the table. What was his problem, anyway? But I should’ve dealt with it privately. Going off on him in the bar in front of our teammates—not my best moment as the Whiskey Rebels’ captain.
Suddenly my own breakfast was even less appetizing than it had been when I’d sat down.
“I’m gonna go pack,” I muttered to my silent teammates. No one tried to stop me, and I got up to bus my dishes.
I wondered if I imagined the collective relief in the room as I was walking out.
I texted Coach to let him know I was heading back up to my room and would meet him in fifteen minutes.
As I was riding the elevator up, my phone pinged.
Coach
Come to my room. 1122.
My stomach somersaulted. That sounded… ominous. And why was he only calling me in and not Peyton? Yeah, I was the captain, and yeah, I was the one to go off half-cocked in the bar, but it wasn’t like I’d been pissed at the wall.
Maybe they were going to have a talk in private some other time. I just hoped this wasn’t all falling on my stupid shoulders.
On the eleventh floor, I found Coach’s room and tapped on the door. He let me in without a word.
His things were already packed. His suit jacket was draped over the handle of his carry-on bag, and as he started tying his tie in the full-length mirror, he said, “Have a seat, Calds.”
I took one of the chairs by the window.
Coach finished tying his tie. Then he came over and took the other chair. There was a small round table between us, and he rested his hand on it, drumming his fingers as he studied me. “I heard about the incident in the bar last night.”
I flinched and broke eye contact. “Yeah. I, uh…” I scratched the back of my head. “It wasn’t a good night. But I’m okay now.”
“Are you?”
I chanced a look at him. “You don’t think I am?” All right, that was a stupid question. As much as I’d been trying my damnedest to keep anyone from noticing that I was far from okay, they weren’t stupid. And I wasn’t as slick as I needed to be. Especially when I was drunk.
“I, um…” I dropped my gaze again. “I shouldn’t have had that much to drink. It, um… It won’t happen again.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” he said gently. “That it will.”
“It won’t,” I insisted. “One drink when I’m out with the guys and that’s it.” I shook my head. “I just… got a little carried away last night.”
“I’m not as worried about the drinking.”
I searched his eyes. “You’re not?”
Coach shook his head. “Hockey players drink. It’s…” He waved his hand. “As long as none of you are driving and it’s not affecting your health or your hockey, I don’t care if you drink.”
“Oh.” I supposed that made sense. I’d seen Coach get absolutely smashed at parties before, and once in a while, he’d gotten a little loud and rowdy when we were celebrating a win.
If rumors were to be believed, he’d been a legendary party animal during his years as a player.
So… yeah, I didn’t imagine he cared too much if we drank.
“My concern,” he went on, “is that altercation between you and Hall.”
I stared at the floor as heat rose in my face. “Yeah, that was…” I didn’t know how to explain it away.
“It’s not just that,” Coach went on. “You’re not yourself lately.” It wasn’t an accusation. I kind of wished it was, though; if anything, the words were wrapped in concern, and I couldn’t deal with that right now.
“I’m fine,” I told him, but the words limped out of my mouth.
“You’re not. Calds…” He sighed, shaking his head. “I know losing Erlandsson has been hard for you. It’s been hard on everyone, but especially you. We can—”
“I can still play hockey,” I snapped. “And I can still lead this team.”
Coach’s eyebrows rose. The skepticism bit right into my ego, but even worse was the expression that asked which of us I was trying to convince.
Dropping my gaze, I pushed out a breath and rubbed the back of my neck.
“It’s been tough, okay? I won’t pretend it hasn’t.
It’s…” Damn it. I was not going to cry. Not right here in front of my coach, least of all while I was trying to convince him I had any business wearing a Rebels’ jersey, never mind the C.
Coach leaned forward a little, and his voice was still full of concern and empathy. “No one’s saying you can’t play or that you can’t lead. But you’re struggling.”
I had to work so fucking hard not to lose it, gritting my teeth against that lump in my throat and fighting the waver that wanted to creep into my voice.
It didn’t help that my head was still throbbing and my stomach was still unhappy.
Because I was hungover. Because I’d had too much to drink last night. Because…
I closed my eyes and sighed. Who was I even kidding?
“I am struggling,” I admitted, meeting my coach’s gaze again. “I can’t… I mean, everything I do, everywhere I go—I just see Leif everywhere.” I swallowed hard to push that lump out of the way. “Moving forward—it’s hard.”
“I know.” His voice was soft, as was his expression, and he studied me for a painfully long moment.
“There is—listen, no one is going to push you this way, so if you don’t want to, then…
” He showed his palms. Lowering them, he continued, “If a change of scenery is what you need, I don’t think anyone will hold it against you. ”
“A change of—” My spine straightened. “You want the team to trade me?”
“No,” he said quickly. “The fans, the front office, the coaching staff, your teammates—we would all be more than happy to have you retire as a Whiskey Rebel.”
I inclined my head. “But…?”
“But if going somewhere else is what you need to take care of yourself…” He gave an apologetic half-shrug. “That is an option.”
As much as being reminded of Leif at every turn was painful, the thought of leaving this team—leaving the city and my teammates—was a gut punch.
“No,” I gritted out. “No, I don’t want to leave Pittsburgh or the Whiskey Rebels.
” I rolled my shoulders and sat up straighter.
“I’ll be fine. Yes, it’s hard right now.
This new normal—it fucking sucks, and I don’t know how to get used to it.
But I’m not leaving.” I swallowed again.
“Not unless the front office makes me leave.”
“They won’t.” He sounded very, very certain. “None of us want you to leave. But we also know you’re going through hell after losing someone who was like a brother to you.”
That almost made me break down right there in Coach’s hotel room. I had to choke back the emotions, and I swore I almost choked on them.
I’d already lost Leif. I couldn’t lost this team, too.
The Pittsburgh Whiskey Rebels were my life.
Plus they were depending on me. They were going through hell, too.
I needed them and they needed me, goddammit.
Yeah, trades and free agency happened, and a lot of players ended up on multiple teams in their careers.
It was always a possibility. But as long as I had any say in the matter, I didn’t want to go anywhere.
Don’t cut me off from the only connection I still have to—
“I don’t want to leave this team,” I ground out.
“Then you won’t,” he said without hesitation. “It’s only an option if it’s what you need to take care of yourself. I’m not telling you this because I want you to leave—I’m telling you because I want you to know that if you need to leave, no one in Pittsburgh will hold that against you.”
“I don’t,” I whispered. “I think it’s the only thing keeping me sane.”
From the subtle arch of his eyebrow, I suspected he was wondering how much anything was succeeding in keeping me sane these days.
“I’ll be fine,” I insisted. “Last night—it was a bad night. I got carried away and lost my head. But I’m focused and committed to this team.”
Coach nodded as I spoke. “And what about the situation with Halls?”
I winced. “I, uh… I should talk to him.”
“Is there a problem there that I need to know about?”
“No. No, it was just…” I sat back and huffed a dry laugh.
“I was just drunk off my ass last night, and he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” I shook my head.
“I’ll sort it out with him.” I wasn’t looking forward to that conversation—groveling was not my strong point—but it was my responsibility.
I had to unfuck everything from last night.
Coach watched me a moment longer, then sighed. “This team needs you, Calds, but we need you to take care of yourself, too. All right?”
“I will.” I wasn’t sure if I was lying. “Last night—that won’t happen again.” That was the truth; I would make sure I didn’t screw up like that again.
Or like the night Peyton had half-carried me into my hotel room. The night I’d drunkenly kissed him. Ugh. Jesus. I was lucky he hadn’t gone to the front office over that—the getting blackout drunk on a road trip and the drunk, unprovoked kiss. I’d have been screwed if he had.
Yeah. Definitely had to make things right with him. Stat.
“I’ll talk to Peyton,” I assured Coach. “And I’ll be fine.”
He studied me like he wasn’t sure if he should press, or if he should just let me have enough rope to hang myself. Then, with a long-suffering dad sigh, he said, “All right. But come talk to someone—anyone—if you need help. Please?”
“I will.”
He let me go after that, and I hurried toward my own room, praying none of my teammates happened into the hall until I was safely inside.
Someone must’ve been listening, because the hallway remained deserted long enough for me to let myself into my room.
I didn’t have a lot of time to put on my suit, pack up my things, and get my butt downstairs to board the bus.
Still, I leaned against the door for a moment and closed my eyes.
The conversation left me rattled on a lot of levels.
I’d worked hard to keep my emotional shit out of my teammates’ sight, and I was pretty sure I’d mostly succeeded.
The drinking, though—Christ. I needed the alcohol to cope with Leif’s absence.
It was the only thing that was remotely effective at numbing me—the only thing that wasn’t on the banned substances list, anyway—but I’d let myself get out of control last night.
Too much to drink in public and in front of my teammates.
That couldn’t happen again. Fine. I could always DoorDash some booze to the hotel if I couldn’t sleep.
And when I was at home? Well, I could have all the oblivion I wanted without anybody noticing.
I opened my eyes and stared up at the ceiling as I continued leaning on the hotel room door.
Coach’s comments about sending me to another team had left my blood cold.
I didn’t think the possibility of a trade was a threat from him, but it might have been one from the front office.
It felt a whole lot like he was gently presenting it to me so I’d get my head out of my ass, but it had come down from the powers that be as “Tell Caldwell to either get his shit together, or he’ll be wearing a different sweater. ”
I didn’t have a no-trade or no-move clause, and it wasn’t hubris to believe at least half a dozen teams in the League would offer up a whole pile of assets for me.
I was a veteran player but still young. My stats, even in this shitshow of a season, put me in top ten lists for points, goals, assists, and plus/minus differentials.
I wasn’t too shabby defensively, either.
For the same reasons Pittsburgh had repeatedly said they wanted to keep me (I was eligible to sign an extension after next season), they could dump me in a hurry if they decided I was becoming a liability.
Ideally (for them) before my off-ice issues started showing themselves during games.
I had to get my shit together, and fast.
Step one, get my ass downstairs and don’t miss the bus.
I pushed myself off the door and started peeling off my hoodie.
As I changed clothes, I walked myself through everything I needed to do so I didn’t wind up on the trading block. Focus on hockey. Stay upbeat around the team so they didn’t feel like they had to walk on eggshells or handle me with kid gloves.
No more drinking with the team, either.
And I should probably do something about Peyton before tomorrow night’s game.