Chapter 7 #2
“Not so fast.” I flash him what I hope is a friendly grin. “I have some ideas about your corner work. You’re known for your strength. Even guys who are bigger than you assume they can push you off the puck. But they try it and find they can’t.”
He gives a modest shrug. “That’s what spending your whole life at the squat rack can do for a guy.”
“Exactly,” I agree. “So what I’d like you to demonstrate is the body position you’d take when some monster of a D-man is trying to bully you.”
“Sure.” He takes a wide stance, knees bent. His center of gravity is low and stable.
“Right. Good. Now let’s say you’re here, defending the puck, and you get the pass off to your winger. The next thing you need to do is explode in that direction.” I point to center ice. “Show me how you’re getting there.”
Before I even finish the question, he obliges, pushing off with his right foot and surging in the opposite direction. It’s impressive, but there’s a slight delay in his takeoff before he rockets across the surface.
Bingo. “Good stuff,” I praise. “You’ve got incredible power. But the downside of your wide stance is the time it takes to transition into a sprint. What if I could shave a fractional second off your acceleration?”
“I’m listening,” he says. “Hockey is a game of inches.”
“Right. So here I am, in a rock-solid defensive position…” I mimic his defensive stance. “But try shifting your weight before you actually move. Watch my edges.”
I demonstrate.
“See the difference? It’s not much, but in your game…”
“Every bit counts,” he finishes.
“Yup. Now it’s your turn—I want you to focus on that weight shift. Feel your edges change before you move.”
“All right. We’ll try it your way.”
The captain is a quick study, and I’m not surprised when it takes only a few tries before he gets the motion I’m looking for. “Yes!” I shout. “Now faster. Make it one smooth movement.”
But a new voice rings out before he can do it again. “Sorry we’re late.”
We both glance up to see two newcomers stepping onto the ice.
“Ah,” Tremaine says. “Coach Carson, this is Alexei Petrov, one of our veterans, and this youngster is Liam O’Connell. You guys didn’t see Merritt, did you? I asked him to come, too.”
I’m not surprised when both guys shake their heads.
“Your captain was just working on a quicker start out of the corners. Now he’s going to make another attempt.” I clap my hands. “Let’s go, Tremaine. Share with the class.”
He chuckles. And maybe it’s the pressure of being watched by his teammates, but Tremaine rolls his edges once more and bingo. He skates off like lightning.
“How does that feel?” I ask when he returns.
His grin is bashful. “Like I’ve just found an extra gear. And it’s just… easier this way?”
“That’s the whole point. It’s supposed to be easy. My job is to find all the little ways to make your skating more fluid. Simple fixes. If we’re lucky, they’ll add up to a real difference. Now let’s warm up Petrov and O’Connell, shall we? Step right over here, boys.”
Tremaine knows what’s coming. With a smirk, he watches me dust Petrov on the first drill and O’Connell on the second one.
Both take their beatings with cheer, and now I have their attention. And then we get down to work ironing out a few issues I have with their individual strides.
A half hour later, I’ve dispensed some crucial words of encouragement and advice, and I’ve timed everyone’s sprints. Petrov is a very fast skater, but there’s always room for improvement.
“Your strides are some of the quickest on the team,” I tell the panting defenseman. “But that fast stride isn’t getting the glide I’d expect from someone of your strength, so you’re not maximizing your efficiency. Can I take a look at your blades?”
The tall Russian shrugs. “Okay.”
I kneel down to examine the steel, running my thumb carefully along the edge. “These are pretty traditional. Half-inch radius, right?”
Slugging down water, he nods. “What I have always used.”
“Have you ever considered trying a profiled blade?” I ask.
He makes a face. “Nyet. New shit is not for me. We have an old proverb in Russian—trendy shit will fuck up your game.”
I laugh. “Well, I know some Russians, too,” I counter. “They also say that the devil is not as terrible as he is painted.”
He stares. “That is a Russian proverb!”
“I know, and I’m not trying to waste your time. I’m making this suggestion because I want you to have better control and a more efficient energy transfer. What if you tried three practices on the new blade? Just three. If you hate it, you never have to wear them again.”
He considers this. “You really think it could help?”
“I do,” I say firmly.
Alexei nods slowly. “Fine, Coach Zoe. I will give it a shot. Just in practice.”
I smile, pleased he’s willing to try. “Great. I’ll talk to Bernie, and we’ll have a pair ready for you tomorrow. Just keep an open mind, okay?”
“Yes. If you are right, I’ll give you a fat bottle of Russian vodka.”
“Bolshoye spasibo.” That means thank you very much in Russian.
First he looks startled, then he grins broadly. “I like you, Coach Zoe.”
“Aw, shucks. Too bad we’re out of time for today.” I glance at my watch. “Catch all of you later?”
“Of course,” Tremaine says. “And let us know if there’s any way we can help make your transition to the team smoother.”
Why, yes. You can order the whole team to schedule sessions with me. Instead of saying that, I ask for something specific. “Actually, there’s one thing you guys could do.”
“What is it, Coach Zoe?” Petrov vaults over the boards instead of opening the gate. “Is not enough to make me try new blades?”
The other two guys laugh.
“This one’s easy,” I protest. “Tell Chase Merritt how helpful you found the session and that he should schedule one, too.”
Alexei frowns. “I will try. But the kid does what he wants.”
O’Connell frowns, too. “Coach is pissed, too. He really stank it up in last night’s game.”
My spine tingles. It’s like he’s broken inside.
“A slump can happen to anyone,” Tremaine says quietly.
“Yeah, but it’s bad,” O’Connell says with a shake of his handsome head. “The guys are worried that the two-asshole rule might get ’em.”
“The… Sorry?”
O’Connell crosses his arms over his strong chest and grins. “It’s a rumor that management has a two-asshole rule,” he says.
“Rumor, ya?” Alexei says. “If anyone has two assholes, there should be a rumor.”
Tremaine snorts.
“Nah, Lexei,” O’Connell argues. “It’s like this—the team will only tolerate two assholes at a time on the roster—one of the coach’s choosing, and one of the GM’s. Some guys think Merritt is the coach’s asshole.”
Alexei rolls his eyes at me. Can you believe this shit?
“And if Merritt doesn’t improve his game, Coach is going to trade him in for a new asshole. It’s just math.” He shrugs.
I rub my forehead, feeling a headache coming on. If something is going seriously wrong with Chase, I don’t want to pile on. Yet it’s my job to work with every skater on the roster. Even the assholes.
Even Chase.
“Less gossip, more gym time,” Tremaine says, clapping the younger man on the shoulder. “Let’s go, boys. Coach Zoe probably has a bunch more sessions to run.”
If only that were true. After they all leave, it’s just me on the rink, wondering where Jean-Luc Moreau is. He’s my next and final appointment. I take a stack of orange cones and set them up for a warm-up drill that will make a good starting point.
But after fifteen more minutes, he still hasn’t arrived. I check my phone to see if he’s left me any kind of message, but I come up empty. As the minutes tick by, dread pools in my stomach.
I’ve been ghosted. He never shows.
So I gather up the cones and put them back in the milk crate, until movement in my peripheral vision causes me to turn and spot the outline of someone on the other side of the plexi. Someone who’s watching me.
There’s a glare, though, so I can’t see who it is. But my skin prickles as I wonder if it’s Chase. “Hello?” I call.
But whoever he is, he doesn’t answer. I see another flash of movement and then hear a door open and shut.
Hell. Whoever it was, he sure didn’t feel like hanging around to talk to me.
I find an ice shovel, which I use to tidy up the surface. No need to leave a mess. Then I take my expensive skates off and carry them into the locker corridor, where I wipe down the blades with a paper towel from a dispenser on the wall. They’ve thought of everything.
I open my locker to tuck the skates away. But my gaze snags on a piece of paper that’s resting on top of my gym bag. I grab it up and turn it over. Then my heart clatters to a halt.
Scrawled in pen across the page are just three words. GO HOME BITCH.
For a fractional second, my heart stops. But then adrenaline kicks in. I scan the corridor to make sure I’m alone. Then I hastily wad up the note and throw it away, the way you’d fling a scorpion off your hand. As if pretending it doesn’t exist will make the note go away.
Then I take a gasping breath and try to calm down.
“I’m not so easily dismissed,” I whisper into the empty corridor. “And I’m not easy to scare.” I’ve got a lot riding on this job. It’ll take more than a nasty note to send me home.
Slowly, I do another round of deep breathing. Stress can be conquered. Usually. And so can angry coworkers. The people in this building don’t even know me yet.
Well, except for one.
I grab my gym bag and leave the locker corridor, looking over both shoulders as I go.