Chapter 4
FIVE MINUTES
GRANT
Istood in the kitchen at five-thirty in the morning, waiting for the coffee maker to finish brewing, and stared at the tower of boxes stacked against the living room wall.
Most of them hadn't been touched since the moving company dropped them off three weeks ago.
The furniture was minimal—couch, TV, kitchen table with two chairs.
No art on the walls. No photos on shelves.
Nothing that said someone lives here instead of someone's crashing here temporarily until the next disaster.
I'd unpacked the essentials. Coffee maker. Pots and pans. Enough dishes to function. My coaching materials were organized in the second bedroom I was using as an office—binders, playbooks, whiteboard mounted on the wall. The hockey stuff had been prioritized. Everything personal could wait.
The truth was, I didn't want to unpack. Unpacking meant committing. Meant believing this job would last longer than six months before something went wrong and I had to pack it all up again. Easier to live light. Ready to move.
The coffee finished. I poured a cup, black, and carried it to the window.
The view looked out over a parking lot and a busy street, cars already moving even though the sun hadn't fully risen yet.
Toronto was awake. The city didn't sleep, didn't slow down, didn't give you space to breathe if you weren't careful.
I liked it. The noise kept me from thinking too much.
My phone buzzed on the counter. A reminder I'd set for myself: Drink water. Eat breakfast. Don't just survive on coffee.
Cal had programmed it into my phone during my last visit, claiming I'd work myself to death if he didn't intervene. He wasn't wrong. Left to my own devices, I'd skip meals, live on caffeine, and convince myself that exhaustion was productivity.
I opened the fridge. Eggs. Bread. Orange juice I'd bought last week and hadn't touched. I made myself scrambled eggs and toast, forcing myself to sit at the kitchen table and actually eat instead of standing over the sink like an animal.
The discipline felt good. Small structure. Small control. Proof that I could take care of myself even when my brain wanted to skip straight to work and forget I had a body that needed maintenance.
I finished eating, washed the dishes, and checked the time. Six-fifteen. Practice wasn't until ten, but I needed to be at the arena early to review yesterday's footage and finalize today's plan.
I grabbed my bag and was halfway to the door when my phone rang. It was Hendricks.
I answered. “Morning.”
“Grant. I'll be observing practice today.”
“Understood,” I said.
“I want to see what you're building. How the team's responding to you. Whether my investment is paying off.”
“They're responding well. We already installed the foundation. Today we push harder.”
“Good. I'll be there at nine-thirty. Don't let me distract you.”
He hung up before I could respond.
I stood there in my half-empty apartment, phone in hand, feeling the weight of his expectations settle like a stone in my chest. Don't let me distract you. Right. Because having the GM watching your every move, waiting for you to fuck up, was totally not distracting.
I grabbed my keys and left, locking the door behind me on an apartment that still didn't feel like home.
The team was already there when I walked in at nine-thirty, gear laid out, guys in various states of getting dressed. Hendricks stood near the door in an expensive suit, arms crossed, watching me like a scientist observing an experiment.
I ignored him and focused on the room.
“Morning,” I said. No preamble. “Get dressed. We're not starting on the ice today.”
That got their attention. Confusion rippled through the room. Finn looked alarmed. Tate looked annoyed. Rook just nodded like he'd expected something unconventional.
“Where are we going?” Callahan asked.
“Outside. Running hill sprints in the park across the street. Full gear minus skates.”
Groans. Muttered curses. Mercer said something under his breath that sounded like fucking typical.
“Problem, Mercer?” I asked, voice flat.
He looked up, caught. “No, Coach.”
“Good. Because hockey isn't just played on ice. It's played in your lungs, your legs, your ability to push when your body's screaming at you to quit. If you can't handle running hills, you won't handle third period overtime when the game's on the line.”
I let that sit.
“Gear up. We leave in ten.”
I walked out. Hendricks followed, half a step behind.
The park was two blocks from the arena, a wide green space with a steep hill that would make their legs burn and lungs scream. Perfect.
The team filed out in full gear—pads, gloves, helmets, everything except skates.
They looked ridiculous and uncomfortable, which was exactly the point.
I wanted them out of their element. Wanted them to understand that conditioning wasn't optional and talent meant nothing if you couldn't execute when exhausted.
Hendricks stood near the street with his arms crossed, watching.
“Line up at the bottom,” I said, pointing to the base of the hill. “Sprint to the top. Walk back down. We do this until I'm satisfied.”
“How many reps?” Finn asked.
“As many as it takes.”
“Takes for what?”
“For you to stop asking questions and start working.”
That shut him up.
I blew the whistle.
The first sprint was garbage. Half of them paced themselves like this was cardio day at the gym. I let them finish, then lined them up again.
“That was pathetic. You jogged. I said sprint. If you're not giving me everything, you're wasting my time and yours. Again.”
The second sprint was better. Callahan pushed too hard and nearly collapsed at the top. Hallowell tried to look effortless and ended up middle of the pack. Rook ground it out with grim determination despite the hip.
Hartley finished first.
Not because he was showing off. Because he ran like something was chasing him. Fast, desperate, all-out effort that left him bent over at the top, hands on his knees, chest heaving.
I noticed the way sweat soaked through his gear already. The way his hair stuck to his forehead. The sharp angles of his shoulder blades visible through the wet fabric.
I noticed, then shoved the observation away. Irrelevant.
“Again,” I said.
We ran ten sprints. By the fifth, Callahan looked like he might puke. By the eighth, even Volkov was breathing hard. By the tenth, the whole team was dead on their feet.
But no one quit.
“That's it,” I said finally. “Walk it off, hydrate, then we're hitting the ice.”
They limped back toward the arena like survivors. Finn made dramatic death noises. Mercer told him to shut up but looked half-dead himself.
Hendricks approached as the team filed past.
“Interesting approach,” he said.
“They need to understand this level requires more than skill. It requires mental toughness. The ability to execute when everything hurts.”
“And you think that's going to translate to wins?”
“I think it's going to give us a foundation. The rest comes with time.”
He studied me, calculating whether I was full of shit or actually knew what I was doing. “I'll leave you to it. But I'll be checking in regularly. This team needs to make it, Grant. Don't lose sight of that.”
He walked away, and I stood there feeling the weight of his expectations crushing down.
I gave the team ten minutes to recover, then got them on the ice. No high-tempo drills today. Just teaching them to move as a unit.
When Hallowell pinched when he shouldn't have, I stopped the drill.
“Hallowell, what's your assignment?”
“Support the rush—”
“Wrong. You hold the line. You don't chase opportunities. You play your position and trust the forwards to do theirs.” I looked at the rest of the team. “One player freelancing breaks the entire system. You want to be a hero, do it on someone else's team.”
Tate's jaw tightened, but he nodded.
We ran a quick scrimmage at the end — first line against second. Hartley scored twice, both times with a release so fast the goalies barely saw it. Pure talent. The shot everyone paid to watch.
But his shoulders were still too tight. His grip still too controlled.
“That's it,” I said at noon. “Good work. Stretch, hydrate, get out of here.”
They limped off the ice. I stayed, making mental notes, and was about to head to my office when I heard skates behind me.
I turned. Hartley was standing near the blue line, helmet off, stick in hand. Waiting.
“Hartley. You need something?”
He skated closer until he was maybe ten feet away. “Five minutes.”
“What?”
“One-on-one work. Shooting drills. Whatever you think I need.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened. “Why not?”
“Because I don't do private sessions. The team sees favoritism, it undermines everything we're building.”
“The team's gone.”
“Doesn't matter. Someone will hear. Someone always hears.”
He took another step closer. “I'm asking for help, Coach. Isn't that what you want?”
“During practice. With the team.”
“I can't.” His voice cracked, barely noticeable. “I can't figure this out in front of everyone. I just need five minutes. One drill. That's it.”
I studied him. The set of his jaw. The way he was holding himself like the ask had cost him something. “What about the assistant coaches?”
“It's not the same.”
“Why not?”
He was quiet for a moment, eyes dropping to the ice.
“Mitchell never watched. Not really. He'd run the drill, stand there with his clipboard, and you could tell he was already somewhere else.
Thinking about his contract, his next job, whatever.
Didn't matter whether you figured anything out as long as the power play percentage looked okay on paper.” He looked back up at me.
“I spent three years asking him for this and getting nothing.”
I kept my face neutral.