Chapter 2
Levi
Two weeks into my tenure with the Surf, I was no longer the newest face in the locker room. Management finally got fed up and fired Coach Faulk, replacing him with Cameron Davenport.
It was a controversial hire. Davenport was known for being hotheaded.
A search of his name on social media brought up all kinds of video clips of him screaming at refs and his players alike.
Those who’d played for him in the past, along with other coaches in the league, had nothing nice to say about him.
There was a very real possibility that this would only pour gasoline on the dumpster fire that was the experiment of a hockey team in San Diego.
A nervous energy vibrated through the locker room as we dressed in our gear for warmups before tonight’s game against the Las Vegas Luck. The coaching change occurred during a press conference following our morning skate, so we anxiously awaited meeting our new bench boss.
Rumors about him circulated around the room.
“I heard he doesn’t let you have water during practice.”
“Yeah, well, I heard he enforces a curfew on road trips. Total cockblocker.”
“Are we going to talk about the claims that he slept with a player’s girlfriend?”
“Ex-girlfriend,” a gruff voice corrected, and all our heads snapped up in unison to find Davenport strutting into the locker room.
He came to a stop at the center. “And for the record, he was the one who dumped her.” With an arched eyebrow, he asked, “Anything else you’d like me to clear up for you, boys? ”
His question was met with silence. None of us dared to breathe, let alone speak.
“Good. Now, let’s get one thing straight. I’m not here to be your friend. Whether you get your dick wet or not while we’re on the road falls at the bottom of my priority list. All I care about is winning hockey games.”
Crew Astor, Cole’s identical twin, snorted. “Then you came to the wrong place.”
“That”—Davenport pointed at our alternate captain—“is the biggest problem we face. All of you step onto the ice, night after night, already expecting to lose. It then becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
Jagger Barclay, Crew’s defensive partner, huffed, “Easy to say when you’re not the one having the puck rammed so far down your throat you taste rubber.”
Our coach folded both arms across his chest. “Is the next complaint going to be that we don’t have the talent to compete with that of other rosters?”
Like the young fool that he was, rookie Gunnar Jansson said in heavily accented English, “Well, now that you mention it . . .”
A corner of Davenport’s lips twitched. “If that’s how you feel, then I suppose you won’t mind being a healthy scratch tonight.” That was one step worse than being sat; you didn’t even get to suit up and be on the bench, instead relegated to watch on from the press box.
Jansson’s eyes bulged as he rose to his feet. “What? You can’t do that!”
Coach shrugged. “I just did. Now get the hell out of my locker room.”
He’d just sent a powerful message: Do not fuck with me, or there will be consequences.
Our teenage defenseman stormed out in a fit of rage, muttering angrily under his breath in Swedish, but Davenport merely rolled his eyes at the dramatics.
“Anyone else have an opinion they’d like to voice before we proceed?” he challenged.
Several of my teammates shook their heads in response, while others uttered, “No, sir.”
“I’m going to be frank with you. Every man sitting in this room has talent.
You wouldn’t be playing professionally if that weren’t the case.
This isn’t the International Games where every team you face is stacked with superstars.
The salary cap exists to keep a level playing field.
If you pay big dollars to top talent, you have to bargain-buy to round out your roster.
With the exception of our newest addition”—there was a glance in my direction—“and arguably two of the most loyal players this franchise has ever seen”—he gestured toward the Astor twins—“no one is sitting on a high seven- or even eight-figure contract. Which means we have wiggle room when renegotiating deals for those who choose to stay at the end of this season. The effort you put in will be reflected in your bank account. That I can promise you.”
I inwardly groaned. Money was a powerful motivator, but when dangled in front of younger guys, it had the potential to turn them into selfish players. And that was the last thing that would help turn this ship around.
“As I’m sure you’ve heard,” Davenport remarked wryly, “My coaching style is unorthodox. The only way this is going to work is if you trust me and do as I ask without question. If you refuse to buy into my system, you’ll find yourself like Jansson, watching the game, rather than playing in it.
For those of you on entry-level or restricted contracts, that’s a lot of years to be sidelined, so I suggest you choose wisely.
My job here isn’t to be your friend; it’s to save a flailing franchise on the verge of relocation. End of story.”
There were a few audible gulps, but other than that, it was crickets.
“Despite having watched countless hours of film, I plan to mostly be an observer tonight. Unless something catastrophic happens, I won’t step in.
Then tomorrow, the real work will begin, where I break you of bad habits you’ve picked up along the way and force you to prioritize team hockey.
From that point forward, you will win or lose as a unit.
There will be no more pointing fingers, no more showboating when by some miracle one of you manages to score a goal.
It’s all of us, or none of us. Now—” he buttoned his suit jacket—“have a good game, gentlemen.”
Without another word, he turned his back on us and left the room.
As we sat there stunned in his absence, there was one thing that couldn’t be denied.
The tide was turning, and only time would tell if it was for the better or for the worse.
“Timeout!” Davenport shouted at the ref while using his hands to form a T—the universal sign to ask for the stoppage in play.
This game was just as miserable as the last, and halfway through the second period, we were down six goals, so it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that our coach was ready to tear us new assholes.
Those of us on the ice skated over to the bench, while those seated there stood, everyone huddling around the man who looked like his head was about to explode.
Shaking his head in disgust, Davenport didn’t mince words.
“Never in my life have I witnessed a more pathetic performance in a professional hockey game. The forwards must’ve skipped the day backchecking was covered in practice, and the defensemen might as well not even be out there with how they’re giving the Luck a straight path to Rockwell in net.
Your job is to make sure the puck doesn’t get anywhere near him, but instead, you expect him to be the only line of defense against the opposing team, rather than the final one.
Since you’ve chosen to hang him out to dry, I think it’s only fair that he does the same. ”
Rockwell’s eyes went wide. “Huh?”
An evil smirk curved onto our coach’s lips. “Take a seat, Christian.”
The young goalie hung his head. This wasn’t the first time he’d been benched, swapped out mid-game for his backup.
But when the door opened and his replacement, Mikhail Kozlov, stepped onto the ice, Davenport barked at him, “Who told you to go in?”
Confusion settled over the team. If Rockwell was sitting out and Kozlov wasn’t taking his place, who the hell would cover the net?
Almost as if he heard my silent question, Coach explained, “If you’re not going to protect your goalie, then maybe you don’t deserve to have one.”
Was he out of his fucking mind? No goalie?
It was one thing to pull the goalie down a goal or two toward the end of the game for an extra skater, but in the middle of the second period?
He’d mentioned his methods were unorthodox, but this was straight-up insanity. We’d be scored on for sure.
Does it really matter? Not like we’re gonna dig out of a six-goal hole at this rate.
A sharp whistle sounded, indicating our time-out had come to an end.
But not a one of us made a move to line up for the face-off, still too shocked at being deprived of a goaltender for God knows how long.
Davenport was trying to teach us a lesson, and this proved to be a humiliating one. I could only imagine what the sportscasters would have to say. The replays would be showcased across the country as we once again proved that our team was a fucking joke, unfit to play in the professional league.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Coach yelled, jolting us into action.
In a daze, I skated toward my spot to the left of the face-off circle, but Cole intercepted me before I could line up.
“He wants to make fools of us.”
I scoffed. “No shit.”
A determination glinted in his eyes. “What do you say we deny him the satisfaction?”
“How do you suppose we pull that off when the Luck have been ramming it down our throats all night long? It won’t take them more than thirty seconds to capitalize on our empty net.”
My captain shrugged. “At this point, I’d do just about anything to spite the bastard for putting us in this position. Whatever it takes, I’m not letting them score on us while Rockwell and Kozlov sit on the sidelines.”
It was worth a shot. We didn’t have anything left to lose.
“Let’s do it,” I agreed.
Cole pulled the rest of our linemates over, hyping them up to play their fucking hearts out and keep the opposing team away from our net.
The ref blew his whistle three times in sharp succession, making his annoyance at our huddle clear. “Get your asses over here, or I’ll call you for delay of game!”
“We’ve got this,” our leader gritted out as we set up for the face-off.