Chapter 3
FIRST IMPRESSIONS
JACE
We were all at the rink fifteen minutes early like good little professionals, pretending we weren't curious as hell about the new coach.
The guy who'd replace Mitchell, who'd been a players' coach in the worst way—all charm and no accountability, fired after we flamed out in the first round last spring.
I sat in my stall between Rook and Mace, taping my stick for practice even though I'd already taped it twice this morning. Nervous habit.
“Think he's gonna be a screamer?” Finn asked from across the room, bouncing his leg like he'd mainlined espresso. The rookie was always moving, always talking, always making noise to fill the silence. “Or one of those creepy quiet guys who just stare at you until you confess your sins?”
“I'm betting on old-school hardass,” Mace said while lacing his skates. “Bag skates. Punishment drills. The whole 'when I played' routine.”
“As long as he doesn't fuck with the lines,” Tate said, checking his hair in a compact mirror because of course he had a compact mirror in his hockey bag. Pretty boy defenseman. “I'm not playing third pair. I didn't sign my contract to ride pine.”
“Relax, princess,” Volkov rumbled from his corner. “You play where coach says you play.”
“Easy for you to say. You're welded to the top pair.”
Volkov shrugged, unbothered. “Is because I am best.”
Volkov's English was perfect when he wanted it to be, but he played up the accent for comedic effect sometimes. Smart. Kept people underestimating him.
I stayed quiet, listening to the room, feeling the pulse of it.
This was the ecosystem. Twenty-three guys, all with egos and insecurities and the constant background radiation of knowing you were one injury, one slump, one bad game away from being replaced.
We were a team, sure, but we were also competitors. Sharks in the same tank.
Rook stood and cleared his throat, and the room went quiet immediately.
“Listen up,” he said, voice calm and flat. “New coach, new start. Whatever happened last season stays there. We show up, we work, we follow the system. No drama. No shortcuts. We're here to win.”
“And if he's a dick?” Finn asked, grinning.
“Then we deal with it like professionals,” Rook said, shooting the rookie a look that could've stripped paint. “Which means you keep your mouth shut unless you've got something useful to say.”
“Got it, Cap.” Finn mimed zipping his lips, then immediately whispered to Benny, “He's definitely gonna be a dick.”
Then the door opened.
A man walked in, and the room went still.
He wasn't tall enough to loom, but he had that thing some people had—gravity that made you pay attention whether you wanted to or not.
Broad shoulders. Solid build. Maybe early forties, lines around his eyes that said he'd seen some shit and hadn't forgotten any of it.
He was wearing a Northgate quarter-zip and dark pants, nothing flashy, and he moved into the room like he owned it.
Tess followed him in, clipboard in hand, the forever-witness to locker room chaos. She gave us all a look that said behave or else, then stepped to the side.
The new coach scanned the room, taking us in one by one. His eyes were gray, and they didn't miss a fucking thing. When his gaze landed on me, it didn't linger, didn't skip, just moved through like I was data to be processed and filed away.
I hated that I noticed.
“Good morning,” he said. “I'm Grant Sutherland. Your new head coach. Some of you know my history. Some of you don’t. But that doesn't matter. What matters is what we do starting today.”
No jokes. No icebreakers. No bullshit about being excited to work with us or how much potential we had. Just straight into it.
“This team has talent,” he continued, and it didn't sound like a compliment.
“That's not the problem. The problem is you don't know how to use it consistently.
You freelance. You chase highlight reels.
You play like individuals instead of a system, and that's why you lost in the first round last year.”
Mitchell had never talked to us like this. Mitchell had been all positive reinforcement and “let's focus on our strengths” and look where that got us.
“We're going to fix that,” Coach said, and started pacing, like a predator assessing the herd.
“We're going to build a structure. Simple. Repeatable. Every line knows their role. Every player knows their responsibility. You do your job, trust your linemates to do theirs, we win. You try to be a hero, you break the system, we lose.”
He stopped pacing. Looked at us like he was daring someone to argue.
No one did.
“We're going to work,” he said, and there was something almost conversational about it now, like he was explaining basic math.
“Harder than you worked last year. Harder than you think you can work.
Every practice. Every drill. Every shift.
If you're not willing to bleed for this, you're in the wrong room and I'll find someone who will.”
My pulse spiked. That tight feeling in my chest that meant someone had just earned the right to make me better, and I wasn't sure if I wanted to fight it or lean into it.
“I don't care if you like me,” Coach continued, and his voice dropped even lower, more matter-of-fact.
“I'm not here to be your friend. I'm here to win hockey games and make you better players than you were yesterday.
If that pisses you off, good. Use it. But don't waste my time with excuses or sulking or half-assed effort because I will bench you without blinking.”
He let that hang in the air for a beat.
“One more thing. Last season is over. Whatever mistakes you made, whatever you're carrying, it's done. In this room, we operate on one principle: next shift.”
Next shift.
Two words. Simple. Stupidly obvious.
And something in my chest cracked open just a little.
“You fuck up?” he continued, and now there was almost warmth in it, buried under the steel. “Next shift. You score a hat trick? Next shift. The only thing that matters is what you do right now, in this moment, with the opportunity in front of you. Everything else is noise.”
He looked at each of us again, slower this time, like he was making sure we actually heard him.
“I believe you can win,” he said, and it landed like a fucking anvil. “But belief doesn't mean shit without work. So we're going to find out which one of you actually wants this and which one of you is just here for the paycheck.”
He nodded to Tess. “Practice in ten. Get dressed.”
He walked out without waiting for a response.
The room stayed quiet for exactly three seconds, then exploded into noise. Everyone talking at once, processing, analyzing, deciding whether they respected him or resented him or both.
“Well, he's not a screamer,” Finn said, sounding almost disappointed.
“He's worse,” Mace said, and there was something like admiration in his voice. “He's one of those guys who makes you want to prove yourself just so he doesn't think you're a waste of his time.”
“I like him,” Rook said simply, and started gearing up. Coming from Rook, that was a fucking endorsement.
I sat there, stick in my hands, staring at the door Coach Sutherland had just walked through.
Next shift.
Fuck. I wanted that to be real so badly it hurt.
But I also wanted to test him. Wanted to see if he was actually as solid as he seemed or if he'd crack under pressure like everyone else eventually did. Wanted to make him react, just to prove I could.
Dangerous thought.
I shoved it down and started getting dressed.
Practice was exactly what he'd promised. We ran breakout drills until my legs burned, then defensive zone coverage until my brain hurt from tracking assignments, then transition work that required everyone to be in sync or the whole thing collapsed.
Coach didn't yell. Didn't need to. When someone fucked up, he'd blow the whistle and explain the mistake in a voice so calm it was worse than being screamed at. Like he was dissecting a failed play in an autopsy.
“Nineteen, you're cheating toward the middle. Stay wide until the breakout completes.”
That was me.
I adjusted. Did it right the next time.
No praise. Just a nod and we moved on.
Halfway through practice, Coach stopped us mid-drill and skated to center ice. We all coasted to a stop, breathing hard, waiting.
“That was garbage,” he said, not angry, just factual. “Half of you are thinking two steps behind the play. The other half are trying to do everyone else's job. Callahan.”
Finn straightened like he'd been electrocuted. “Yeah, Coach?”
“What's your assignment on the breakout?”
“Uh... support the D?”
“Wrong. You're the middle layer. You read the opposition's pressure and adjust. If they collapse low, you go high.
If they pinch, you hold the middle. You don't 'support.
' You execute your role so the system works.” Coach's eyes swept over the rest of us.
“Everyone here is a piece of the machine.
You don't get to freelance. You don't get to be creative until the structure is automatic. Run it again.”
We ran it again. And again. And again.
By the tenth rep, my lungs were screaming and my edges were starting to slip from fatigue, but the breakout was clean. Crisp passes. Perfect spacing. No one was thinking, just reacting.
Coach blew the whistle. “Better. That's what I want. Now let's see if you can do it under pressure.”
He split us into groups and ran a three-on-two drill that forced quick decisions and fast transitions. When Tate tried to pinch from the blue line for a highlight-reel play, Coach stopped everything.
“Hallowell. What was that?”
Tate skated over, cocky grin already in place. “Saw an opening, Coach.”
“You saw an opening and abandoned your assignment. Now we're outnumbered in our own zone and their winger has a breakaway.” Coach's voice stayed flat, matter-of-fact. “You want to be a hero, do it on your own time. Here, you play your position.”