Chapter 8 Brody
EIGHT
brODY
I don’t message Hannah the next day, or the day after.
I don’t reach out to her at all because I’m a pathetic excuse for a man, and when my assistant coach stares at me from center ice, I scowl back at him.
“You look like shit.” Mikal Reynolds tips his head to the side. “Did you get any sleep last night?”
“Do I look like I got any sleep last night?” I grunt, watching the third line guys finish running a drill. “Stop asking me questions you know the answer to.”
“Noted.” He smirks and blows his whistle. Everyone comes to a halt, looking my way. “You’re up, Coach.”
“Our game the other night against San Fran wasn’t pretty.
We got beat down the ice on almost every play.
” I throw a glance at my first line players, glad when they dip their heads in agreement.
I’m all for celebrating victories, but owning up to mistakes and shitty skating is just as important.
“I know it’s early in the season. Our stamina isn’t where it was in the playoffs last year, but we’re better than that.
It’s our second season of adjusting to our lineup without Mitchell in it.
” I turn to look at Riley leaning against the boards.
“Our rookie slotted in well last year, but we can’t make excuses about chemistry anymore.
You all know how to play the game. I want you giving your all when you’re on the ice, no matter how long you’re on it.
If I see anyone giving a half-assed effort, I’ll switch you out with someone who wants to be there. Any questions?”
There are murmurs of agreement, and I give the boys a nod.
“Good. Let’s wrap up our ice time with some stationary puck control drills, then we’ll head to the weight room for sled pushes and box jumps.
Sullivan and Davenport,” I say to my goalies, “I want you two working on net deflections with Trevor.” I point to our goalie coach on the opposite side of the rink. “Focusing on overlap, not RVH.”
“Fucking cruel, Coach,” Liam mumbles, fixing his mask.
“You rely on it too much.” I shrug. “Don’t give up two goals to a shitty team, and we’ll talk.”
“Ouch.”
He glares at me, but he knows it’s all tough love.
Sullivan has been the best goaltender in the league the last four seasons, and his preferred feedback style doesn’t include having his ass kissed.
He wants to know what he’s doing wrong, which is why he dips his chin in a nod.
Gently bumps my shin with his stick and heads toward Trevor with Richie Davenport, his backup.
“Coach.” Grant skates up to me and fixes his helmet. “Have you talked to my sister yet?”
“Nope.” I bite my tongue so hard I swear I taste blood. I gesture for him to follow me to the guys forming two lines. “I’m busy with you all and trying to be a present parent on top of everything else.”
“Oh, yeah. Makes sense.” He grins and takes the spot behind Maverick, glancing my way. It’s really fucking unfair how much he and his sister look alike, down to the way he cocks his hip to the side. “I told Hannah you were going to reach out, and it’s been a week. Don’t make me look bad, Coach.”
“Thanks, Everett,” I say, painfully aware of how many days it’s been since he passed along her number.
I’ve typed and deleted a hundred messages to her. Each one has gotten progressively worse, and I stayed up all night last night wondering how the hell I’m going to ask her to do something for me when the last time I saw her, I was telling her to forget I ever had my head buried between her legs.
Fuck.
Those goddamn thighs have haunted me. So has her creamy, smooth skin and the smell of her perfume.
I hear her moans when I’m alone in my hotel room during away games. I see her hair scattered on the pillows and her knees opened wide when I try to fall asleep, and, come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve been right in the head since I left her apartment.
Who could be after being in the presence of someone who is so perfect, it makes you feel so goddamn unworthy?
I pinch the bridge of my nose to clear the memory and crouch low, lining up a puck.
“You’re first, Miller,” I call out, happy for the distraction.
“Huh?” He blinks, pushing himself to a standing position from where he’s leaning against his stick. “Sorry. Did you say something to me?”
“Where’s your head?” I pass the puck to him, narrowing my eyes when it bounces off his skate. “If you showed up to practice under the influence, I’m going to be pissed.”
“What? No. I’m not drunk. I haven’t had alcohol in—shit. Weeks? Months?”
“Makes book club way less fun,” Ethan chimes in.
“Care to share why you’re off in your own world then?” I ask. “I hope it’s for a good reason, otherwise we’re ditching the drills and your teammates will skate laps while you watch.”
He taps the puck with his blade of his stick and gives it a lazy hit. “It’s Emmy.”
Grant gasps. “I swear to god, if you’re divorcing my second favorite woman in the world, you’re going to get an earful from me, Miller. And probably a fist to the face.”
“You better not have fucked up,” Ethan warns. “You can’t do better than her, but she can do way better than you.”
“I’m not as fast as I used to be, but I can still kick your ass,” Riley says.
“Mav. Why didn’t you tell us the two of you were having problems?” Hudson asks.
“Will all of you calm down? We’re fine, and no one needs to kick my ass. My wife could do that just fine on her own.” Maverick’s lips twitch. “It’s the baby. Emmy isn’t due until December, but she woke up this morning in pain. I’m worried about her.”
I know Emerson Hartwell, his pregnant wife, well. I was the one who scouted her from the ECHL and signed her to the Stars’ roster a few years ago, marking the first time a woman has ever played in a regular season NHL game.
She’s a complete badass who played with us before an end-of-season trade sent her to Toronto. She wound up in Baltimore as their starting left winger after another move, but she’s not expected to play this season after finding out she was pregnant earlier in the year.
Maverick has mentioned her struggle with infertility during our player-coach meetings in the past, but it never interfered with the effort he gave on the ice.
His distractedness is new, and when I take a second look at him, I notice the exhaustion lining his face.
The sunken cheeks and unshaved jaw he runs his knuckles over.
He looks like shit, and my chest pinches tight.
“Is Emmy okay?” Grant demands. “Has she been to the doctor?”
“The doctor? Something like that warrants a trip to the hospital,” Ethan says.
“Never thought I’d see the day when Richardson was right about something involving a woman’s health.” Hudson chuckles. “But he’s right, Mav.”
“I’m listing you as a healthy scratch for tomorrow,” I say, and Maverick’s mouth opens in protest. I hold up my hand, stopping him from interrupting. “You’re not in trouble. It’s so you and Emmy can make sure everything is okay with the baby.”
“I’ve never missed a game before,” he says.
“You’ve also never been up all night with a screaming newborn, but things are about to change for you, Miller. Take the next three days off. See who you need to see and come back ready to work. Sound fair?”
“Yeah.” Maverick nods. His shoulders drop away from his ears. “Sounds fair. Thanks, Coach.”
“Wow. I never knew Coach had a heart,” Ethan whispers to Grant, and I blow my whistle.
“Forget the drills. Fifteen laps for everyone. Last five need to be explosive, and you can thank Richardson when your ankles start to hurt.” I grin when everyone groans. “Begin.”
An hour and a half later, I open the door to my office in our practice facility and glare at my cell phone sitting on the desk.
I’m going to send Hannah that text message even if it’s my fucking demise.
It’s not as good as a phone call, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.
Watching you get off that night was the hottest thing of my life.
I’ve replayed it over and over again. Or, Hey, I know we haven’t spoken in almost a year and a half, but do you think I could convince you to give my daughter figure skating lessons?
Thanks so much. Maybe, I’m so fucking sorry for what I did and how I did it. How can I make it up to you?
I groan and collapse in the desk chair, putting my forehead against the wood.
I can fucking do this.
I’m a thirty-nine-year-old man, for fuck’s sake.
I’m the best coach in the NHL.
I’ve had my leg sliced up. I’ve been through hell and back.
A text message about figure skating won’t be my biggest fear.
I stare at the number Grant gave me and copy it. My fingers hover over the keys, clueless how I’m supposed to start, before my thumbs move on their own.
Me
Hey. Grant gave me your number. I’m not sure if he mentioned it, but my daughter, Olivia, needs a figure skating coach. Are you interested? I’ll pay.
I hit send before I have a chance to double-check what I’ve typed, and when I read it back, I groan again.
“Get it together, Saunders,” I mutter, typing out another text.
Me
It’s Brody. Brody Saunders. The DC Stars coach.
That’s not any better. There needs to be a way to unsend texts because two incoherent thoughts in a row is unhinged behavior. Something I would’ve pulled back in my early twenties, and I shake my head, disappointed in myself.
Me
Sorry. Let me try this one more time. Hi, Hannah. It’s Brody. Grant gave me your number, and I hope it’s okay that I’m reaching out. My daughter needs a figure skating coach, and you come highly recommended. Let me know if that’s something you’d like to discuss further.
I hope you’re doing well, I type after a beat, adding the last thought before I hit send.
I stare at my phone for the next fifteen minutes, waiting for an answer that doesn’t come.