Chapter 10 #2
“Get the fuck outta here, Ginny!” One of the guys—I’m not sure which—throws a glove at him. His reflexes are lightning fast and he deflects it, sending it flying into a neighboring stall. “If your biggest concern is your pretty face, you aren’t working hard enough.”
“Screw you, Bates. My stats prove otherwise.”
I hold up a hand, and the group falls silent, per the rules. “What I’m hearing is that you value good communication and listening skills. It’s frustrating when you feel like you haven’t been heard.”
“Thank you,” McGinnis says, throwing up his arms. “Finally, someone on this team who gets me.”
Someone mutters an insult, but I let it slide.
“Who wants to go next?” Knox’s hand shoots up, but I pretend not to see it. “Anyone?”
“Looks like you’ve got a taker right there,” Banks says, pointing.
I force a tight smile and nod. “Go ahead.”
Knox leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “You know that phrase, ‘If someone shows you who they are, believe them?’”
A few of the guys give verbal confirmation, and uncertainty tightens my gut.
“I hate when it’s only applied in the negative. Sometimes I feel like even when I show people who I am, through words and actions, they still don’t believe me. And I find myself wondering, what else can I possibly do?”
Fudge. This is definitely about us. But this isn’t the time or the place for this conversation.
“It sounds like you value trust,” I say, choosing my words carefully, “and it hurts when you feel it’s not reciprocated.”
“I get that,” one of the guys—Harding, according to the nameplate above his head—chimes in. “I swear my agent always thinks I’m holding out on him, and I’m like, what the fuck, dude? I have nothing to hide. Just because I like to have a good time doesn’t mean I can’t ever be serious.”
“That’s great.” I jump on the commonality. “The whole point of this exercise is to find common threads. Identifying shared thoughts and feelings is a great way to connect with your teammates.”
Most coaches use positives, but I find people bond far more quickly when ranting over shared adversaries and obstacles.
Ethan Bouchard, the team’s starting goalie, raises his hand.
“I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but you know what’s got me in a tailspin lately?
Chippy. I mean, no disrespect to the guy, but who the hell thought, ‘You know what would make a great mascot? A flying squirrel.’ I legit do not understand the thought process.
Mascots are supposed to be badass, and he’s just a rodent with a giant smile and fluffy tail.
No one—and I mean no one—is intimidated by that squirrel.
Please tell me I am not the only one who feels this way?
” He turns to the guy next to him. “You see it too, right, Smitty?”
There’s a bark of laughter from Alex Smith. “Even the fans are saying Chippy is soft. I read this comment the other day—”
“Hold up.” Foerster throws up a hand. “You read the comments? Dude, don’t you know anything? You never read the comments. That shit will fuck with your head for days.”
“Nah,” Smith says. “I’ve got a mind like a steel trap. The point is, it’s like the owners just gave up because all the good birds were taken.”
“Exactly.” Luke Dvorak stretches, leaning back into his stall.
“All the Atlanta teams have cool-ass bird names.” He ticks them off on his fingers.
“The Hawks, the Falcons. Hell, even the Thrashers were cool before they crashed and burned.” He shudders.
“Not that I’d want to resurrect that team name. It would be bad luck.”
“Yeah, and they all have red and black uniforms too, but somehow we get stuck with electric blue?” Smitty shakes his head. “Don’t get me wrong. I look good in blue, but it’s the principle.”
“Agreed,” Bateman says, nodding aggressively. “It’s like they’re saying we’re not even on the same level as the other teams. Hell, even the Augusta Rattlers wear red and black.”
This is the thing they can all agree on? Their common thread? If I hadn’t pulled the exercise out of my back pocket at the last minute, I’d think they were messing with me. But they couldn’t have known we’d do this exercise, because even I didn’t know we were going to do it.
I listen, stunned into silence and unable to get a word in edgewise. Knox catches my eye and grins as if to say, “This was your idea.”
“Even their stadium has a better name than ours,” Bateman continues. Clearly, the man has given this topic some thought. “The Rattlers have The Den and what have we got? The Treehouse.”
“Technically, it’s not a den,” Bouchard says. “It’s a hibernaculum.”
“What the hell is a hiber— Whatever you just said?” McGinnis asks. “And why do you know that?”
“Goalies are always full of useless knowledge,” Knox quips. “It’s part of the lore.”
“Hey, at least they didn’t call our arena The Nut,” Dvorak says, clearly fighting to keep a straight face.
“What? No, that would’ve been cool as hell,” Harding says. “Like a tough nut to crack, right?”
Knox shakes his head in disbelief. “Imagine the chirps we’d get.”
Dvorak shrugs. “Can’t be any worse than what we’re getting now.”
“Holy shit!” Forey snorts. “You know what I just realized? The Rattlers are our affiliate team, but their mascot could probably swallow ours whole.”
The room instantly devolves into chaos. The guys are on their feet, shouting over each other as they argue the possibility of such a thing.
I throw up my hand, calling for silence.
It’s futile. They’re deep in the Chippy vs. Rex debate, and no one is looking my way.
I need a different tactic to—
Dr. Banks produces an air horn from god knows where and lets it rip. We’re standing far too close for comfort, and my ears ring with the echo.
All eyes turn his way, and he chuckles. “I’d say we’re done here. Let’s chalk this up as a failed experiment. You boys go ahead and hit the ice for morning skate.”
Knox shoots him the side-eye, but the team gathers their equipment and he leads them out.
Once they’re gone, it’s just me and Banks.
“Not a very encouraging start,” he says, stroking his chin like a cartoon villain. “If you can’t maintain control of a few rowdy athletes, you’re going to have a very difficult time here, Ms. Washington.”
Anger flares low in my belly, and I press my lips together. Perhaps if he’d given me an opportunity to rectify the situation, instead of cutting me off at the knees, we’d be having a different conversation. But I can’t say that, so I keep my mouth shut.
The last thing I want is to be labeled difficult to work with.
“Based on what I saw today, you need to rethink your strategy, or these men will never respect you.” That genteel charm is back, each word delivered with smooth precision and dripping with condescension.
“Grown men are not going to talk about their feelings with twenty other grown men. That’s just not how this works.
” He makes a show of straightening his cuffs.
“Word of advice? Do your time here, pad your resume, and transition back to women’s sports.
I’m sure there’s a professional team out there that would appreciate your style. ”
“Thank you for the feedback.” I smile, despite the urge to throat-punch him. “I’ll take it under consideration.”
“Good, you do that.” He spins on his heel and heads for the door, stopping at the last second. “Don’t forget to send me an update on Friday, and if anything of consequence happens this week, I want to know immediately.”
When he’s gone, I head over to the rink and plant myself on one of the metal benches in the viewing area. It’s hard and cold, which is fitting since nothing about this day is going to plan.
Late for work? Check.
Made a fool of myself in front of Knox? Check.
Got condescending advice from my misogynistic boss? Check.
If this morning is a sign of what’s to come, I’ve got my work cut out for me.
You look like you’ve been eating sorrow by the spoonful.
It’s one of Nana’s favorite sayings, but it’s the kick in the pants I need. I don’t have time to wallow in self-pity. The Gliders’ first game is tomorrow, and the clock is ticking.
I focus on the ice, watching as the team runs through drills and small-area games. The guys bicker and argue, and there seems to be an abundance of player-on-player violence for a practice session.
No wonder they’re struggling.
After a while, Coach Carlyle joins me on the bench. “What do you think?”
“Honestly?”
He nods.
“We have a lot of work to do.”
“Tell me about it.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Are you sure you’re up for this? I heard things didn’t go well this morning.”
Great. It’s only day one, and he’s already questioning my abilities.
“Good news travels fast around here.” I shouldn’t be surprised, but all the same, I give thanks my cheeks are already flushed from the cold. “It would’ve been easier if we’d started three weeks ago, but I understand why you wanted to wait until training camp was over.”
He quirks a brow. “Which isn’t to say you agree with the decision.”
“The extra time would’ve been far more valuable than the effort I invested in players who didn’t make the final roster.” I shrug. “These things take time. There isn’t a quick fix.”
Coach sighs. “Tell me about it. We’ve tried everything. New drills. Changing lines. Trades. Nothing has made a damn bit of difference.”
McGinnis takes a puck to the back, and a new round of squabbling starts up.
“See what I mean?”
I laugh. “That’s because the problem isn’t with their skills, it’s with their mindset. They need to get uncomfortable, or they’re never going to break out of this slump.”
“Can you call it a slump when it lasts for an entire season?”
“That’s your call, not mine.”
“Fair enough.” He stands and stretches his back. “But if any of these knuckleheads give you trouble, you let me know and I’ll straighten them out.”
I know he’s trying to be supportive, but it’s feels like he doesn’t see me as a grown woman, capable of handling whatever life throws my way.
“Yeah, because that will definitely build trust.” The team begins to clear the ice, and I climb to my feet. “I’ve got this, Coach. Trust me.”