Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
ADDIE
I wake up earlier than usual to give myself time to get in the right headspace. While I focused on righting things with JJ last night, I need to deal with Dirk today.
The problem is, my head is still a mess.
I’d like to say that the two truths and a lie exercise helped get JJ and me back on track. But there’s no forgetting what he did with that piece of ice.
Is it reasonable to be jealous of a piece of ice? Because the way JJ sucked it into his mouth will probably play on repeat in my mind for the rest of my life.
Then there was the way he held eye contact while he brushed the ice—and by default his lips—against my palm. I shiver now just thinking about it.
Those blue eyes of his were so deep. I wanted to jump in and swim. I wanted to grab him by the neck and pull his lips to mine. I wanted to kiss him and never stop. I wanted his lips everywhere.
If only I didn’t know how good they felt pressed against mine. If only I couldn’t remember his exact taste—
“You wanted to see me.” Dirk’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.
Not necessarily a bad thing.
I’m sitting in the stands, right where I told him to meet me, behind the net. I glance toward the man who used to be nothing but a tormentor and a bully to me.
Actually, he was so much worse than that. Even now, being alone with him makes my skin crawl. I should have asked someone I trust to be here with me. Not Uncle Brooks. Then I’d have to explain why I’m uncomfortable being alone with a player. But maybe Sidney.
Definitely not JJ. I doubt he could be alone with Dirk either.
And he doesn’t even know the truth. Or at least not all of it.
“Sit down.” I nod at the spot beside me.
Unsurprisingly, the asshole chooses to stand, arms crossed, towering over me.
“I’m good right where I am.”
I shake my head. God, he’s still such a dick. Standing—fuck him and his effort to intimidate me—I lift my chin and zero in on him. “Fine. We need to talk about yesterday.”
His brows lift. “What’s there to talk about? I didn’t expect you to try to catch the puck. Figured you knew better.”
I swallow thickly but steel my spine. “Right, well, I was trying to show you how you should block.”
He scoffs, his lip curling. “I know how to block.”
Dammit. This isn’t helping. I summon every ounce of patience I possess and say, “Listen, with Hanson and Howe on the roster, we both know the likelihood of you getting a spot on this team is low.”
Jaw flexing, he only glares.
Still, I continue, unwilling to let him rattle me. “But there’s still a chance.”
Another scoff. “Right, like you’d ever actually go to bat for me with your uncle.”
“In this space, he’s not my uncle. He’s the head coach of this team. A team I love and want to see succeed. So yeah, Dirk, if I thought you were better for this team than either of them, despite how much I despise you, I’d do just that.”
He snorts like he doesn’t believe me.
“Point is,” I grit out, reminding myself that I expected this and that as his coach, I have to be the bigger person, “it’s my job to make you the best player you can be.”
His lips tip down thoughtfully. Or maybe skeptically. “Okay…”
“So if you’re game to move on, so am I.”
Eyes wide, he jolts back. “You’re telling me you’d actually let the past go?”
I ignore the way anxiety crawls through me having him this close and take a deep breath. “Yes.”
He stares at me for a few seconds, like he’s mulling it all over. Then he must realize that this feud will do him no good, and he nods. “Okay. I’m game. What’s your plan?”
“I realize my coaching style may be different from others. Maybe it’s because I’m still fresh from the game.” I shrug. “Either way, we might as well use that to our advantage.”
He kicks at the concrete floor. “Meaning?”
“I’m going to run drills with you today.”
Another frown. More skepticism. “What?”
“Yup.” I dip my chin. “And tomorrow morning you’ll join me for my yoga session at six. We’re going to train like I did when I was a player. It’s the way I’ve always done it and I think that’s why I was hired.”
Dirk’s tongue goes to his cheek like he’s trying to keep his words in. I imagine he wants to argue, to tell me I was hired because I’m a Langfield. But like Brooks said, that’s an issue I’ll have to deal with. Probably repeatedly. So I’m leaning in. Playing the cards I’ve been dealt.
“Got it?” I grind out, my tone letting him know this isn’t really up for debate.
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
His nostrils flare, and for a second he doesn’t respond. But finally, he mutters, “Yes, Coach.”
I give him my fakest smile. “All right, I’m going to get my gear on. Get dressed and meet me on the ice in twenty.”
I forgot how much I loved doing this. Or maybe I just swallowed the longing down, telling myself that coaching NHL goalies was as close as I’d ever come to performing at the highest level in the sport I’ve dedicated my whole life to.
Playing in the PWHL was incredible, but—and I mean this in the most diplomatic way—it’s not the NHL.
The NHL comes with a level of prestige, a level of respect, that isn’t given to the women’s version of this sport.
Seeking validation from a man goes against every single fiber of my being.
I’ve spent years in therapy dealing with my biological father’s choice to walk away.
Eventually I came to understand that no matter how successful I am, at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter.
He didn’t abandon me because I wasn’t good enough, but because he wasn’t.
Logically, I recognize that I don’t need a male to validate my existence, and yet, when it comes to this sport, I’ve done it time and again.
Needless to say, while I love being out on the ice, doing the drills with the rest of the goalies, I love the praise I’m getting almost as much.
I block a low shot on the right, then have to immediately stop a slap shot on my left, holding back a grin the whole time.
“Jesus fuck, Addie, do that again,” Sidney says.
One of the hardest skills to master as a goalie is the ability to predict when a player is going to fake a shot one way, only to switch at the last second and aim for a spot out of our reach.
Goaltending is as challenging mentally as it is physically. This is why we study tape. So we can pinpoint the tells of our opponents. I could watch hockey all hours of the day, so reviewing tape, studying every offensive player prior to a game, isn’t even close to a hardship.
“No one does it better,” JJ mutters to him.
While my cheeks go hot behind my mask, I don’t let my reaction show. Instead, I deflect.
“You should do it better.”
I straighten, ready to leave the crease so one of them can take my spot and practice the technique, but before I get more than a foot or two away, Aiden calls out, stopping me.
“Hey Ads, can you stay there for a second?”
He signals the offensive line to follow, and as they make their way over, I snag the water bottle from above the net and pull my mask up.
“I wanna show the rookies how we do our drills.” There’s no missing the signature sparkle in his eye.
People tend to give Brooks the most credit for coaching me when I was a kid, and while his guidance has been absolutely invaluable, they forget that a goalie is only as good as the person they play against.
And I learned to play against the greatest center of all time: Aiden Langfield.
“Sure.” I drop the bottle and pull down my mask.
While I settle into position, Aiden glides backward, stick in hand, cocky smirk on his face.
He won’t be wearing that expression for long.
Because Aiden has a tell. I’ve never told him that I discovered it, but after watching him play hundreds of games by the time he retired when I was a teenager, it’s obvious to me.
For years, he dazzled crowds and destroyed defenseman and goalies.
He could skate literal circles around the biggest and best players, and it wasn’t always the goals he scored that were his best plays.
It was how he knew precisely when to pass.
A goalie would be preparing for him to take that direct shot.
He had it most of the time. The goal was his to score.
But then he’d pass it at the last second, and the shot would come from a completely different angle.
And his tongue always, always, gives him away.
Though I seem to be the only person in the world who’s discovered this.
Because my uncle can’t help but press his tongue against the corner of his lip, just for an instant, as he prepares to shoot.
If he goes right, that tongue darts out on the right side of his mouth.
If he’s going left, his tongue goes to the left as well.
It’s such a fucking easy thing to miss. It’s barely a lick. I’m not even sure he knows he’s doing it.
He skates toward me, his stick work as impeccable as ever. That’s where my attention is supposed to be. Goalies are trained to never take their eyes off the puck. But doing that means they miss other details.
Which is why Brooks drilled into me the importance of taking in everything. During a game, I’ve got to keep track of what five opponents are doing and be ready for anything, but practice, with only one opponent, should be much easier.
And it would be if that opponent weren’t Aiden Langfield.
Being one-on-one with such a skilled center is the stuff of nightmares for most goalies.
But I’ve been doing this my whole life. As he gets closer, I survey the whole scene.
Aiden gliding toward me, playing with the puck, the slice of his blades as he quickens his pace, the sound they make when he comes to a stop quickly.
His arm flies back, his position giving me every indication that he’s going for a wrist shot toward my right shoulder.
A split second before he moves that arm forward, his tongue pokes left, and I’m there, catching the biscuit, a smile on my face.
“Kid’s still got it.” Aiden skates backward, grinning and pointing at me. “Okay, let’s let—”
“Again,” Gavin calls from the other side of the ice, an arm sweeping out, signaling the guys he’s working with to move closer to us. “Show us that again.”
With a shrug, Aiden goes back to his spot. “I’m not going to go as easy on you this time.”
I laugh as I drop into position. “Do your worst, Lep,” I tease, using the nickname the crowds used to chant at games. They called him Leprechaun because they believed he was the Bolts lucky charm. Before Uncle Aiden, the Bolts had never won the Cup. With him on the roster, they won three.
It’s silent except for the sound of the puck smacking against his stick as he glides straight for me.
He doesn’t play with the puck this time.
No, he picks up speed like he’s on a breakaway.
He doesn’t stop or even slow as he moves into position to shoot at the low left corner of the net.
I wait another fraction of a second, and when his tongue goes to the right, I’m ready to go that way too.
And when I block it smoothly, a thrill goes through me.
“Jesus,” one of the rookies mutters.
“Fucking incredible,” another says.
“Again,” Gavin yells.
We do this five more times before Gavin instructs the offensive line to take turns doing the same. Eventually, I bow out and head to the side of the rink where Aiden and Gavin have gathered while the goalies take turns blocking.
Ten minutes before practice is set to end, Gavin calls me over. “Go shower and get changed. I’ll keep the guys here until you’re done.”
“Thanks.” I really do need a shower, and since our practice arena only has one locker room, this is the only way that’ll happen.
I collect my gear and turn away, but Gavin calls me back.
“Addie,” he says, his tone serious. “It’s a sin you don’t still play. It was damn fun to watch you today.”
“Thank you.” I duck to hide my smile and the way my cheeks heat at the praise. But as I glide off the ice, I stand a little taller. Because for a little while, I didn’t just keep up with players in the NHL, I fucking dominated them.