Chapter 3
3
Coaches are like ducks. Calm on top, but paddling underneath. Believe me, there’s a lot of leg movement.
– Ken Hitchcock
Frank
First Mom, then this new female complication. And my knee is killing me. I grit my teeth and fume through a workout on the exercise bike, then join the whole team in the dining room to wolf down healthy breakfast options.
We get a lot of advice on nutrition, but getting some of our meals from the team ensures that even if we don’t eat right at home, we get good nutrition at the arena. As a young player I lived on ramen and pizza so when I cut out both and added salad, the deprivations were like climbing a mountain, but now they’re second nature.
Over the past few years, most pro hockey arenas have been rebuilding or remodeling to meet the demands of the players and the fans. Competition is fierce with the new franchises trying to make a splash.
Our building is only two years old and totally top-end. Fans love the layout, roomy seats, and easy access. State-of -the-art video screens positioned around the corners instead of hanging in the middle. Everything is in our colors, blue, black, and silver. The locker room is plush with plenty of space, but not so much we can’t look each other in the eye.
The entryway decor reflects the team’s history, one of the league originals. Our eight Stanley Cups are there, along with tributes to the men whose numbers have been retired. The opposite wall is filled with photos highlighting past glories and team rosters.
In the main room, the logo shines from the ceiling rather than gracing the floor, so we don’t have to skirt around it. The position is a constant reminder we are a team, not just a bunch of jocks.
Along with state-of-the-art training facilities, we have hot and cold hydrotherapy tubs, flat screens everywhere, a high-tech family lounge that includes a play area for the youngest kids, and a player lounge with TVs and gaming consoles.
Breakfast over, I walk stiff-legged, trying to hide the limp from twenty-two guys who lounge in the conference room waiting for the team meeting. I spy a seat in the back on the aisle, close to the door, trying to be unobtrusive as I clench my jaw and ease into a seat.
Ax walks in with our new physio. She looks wan. Maybe she’s disheartened by our first encounter. Maybe a few more digs and she’ll slink away. Furrows of strain show around her eyes and in the tightness of her lips. Bloodless fingers squeeze the crossbody bag that bangs against her hip.
A rush of victory vibes momentarily still the pain. If she can’t take a little confrontation, then working for a hockey team isn’t for her. The idea of her disappearing brings relief. Momentary attraction discombobulated me. I didn’t like it, not one bit. The corners of my lips turn up in secret celebration.
A tap on the mic catches everyone’s attention. It crackles, then Ax’s voice booms out. “Okay, everyone. This is our new physical therapist, Maya Pullman.”
Immediately, Madman raises his hand and gets to his feet.
“Any follow up on Hank?’
The temperature drops and Ax’s smile wanes. “No. Just watch news reports if you need to keep tabs. The team isn’t involved, at least at this point.”
“Will some of us be questioned?”
Ax looks over to an unfamiliar guy in a navy chalk-striped suit. “This is Javier Martinez from the team’s law firm. Anything on that, Javier?”
“Nope. Management’s hope is to keep you all away from the case, but we can’t guarantee anything.”
Madman doesn’t sit down. His lips are pursed, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
Coach mimics a huge ice sculpture as he crosses his arms and stares at the captain. “Yeah. Madison, you got another question?”
The frown on the captain’s face deepens as he gazes at Ms. Pullman. “Is she Alan Pullman’s daughter?”
That’s a jolt. I never even put the two of them together. Another black mark on her score sheet.
Maya’s throat works as she shoulders Ax aside and steps up to the microphone, tapping it lightly as if not sure it’s still on. She gives Madman a let’s get it on look. “Yes, I am. Do you have a problem with that?”
Feisty. Did I underestimate her grit? You go, girl , I think, then pull back the traitorous thought before it can blow out of my mouth and escape into the room. What is this magical effect and how can I block it?
Madman lifts his mitts, then turns them over in apology. “If you’re qualified, I’m cool with it. Just not in to special favors.”
Color floods into her face. “What if it’s both? Without connections I’d be an anonymous applicant in a sea of hopefuls. And of course I’m qualified. Maybe you should call me Doctor.”
Ax breaks in. “Maya has her Doctor of Physical Therapy degree, plenty of experience, and all the skills—ability to perform in high-stress situations, good medical evaluation skills, strong relationship-building capabilities, empathy and compassion, patience and persistence.”
Wyatt Fry pipes up, “Hey, Coach, wasn’t Pullman head coach when you started out with Baltimore?”
Ax shoots icicle spears in his direction. The rumble from his chest sends a chill through the room. “Maybe Alan saw we had an opening and mentioned his daughter, and maybe I passed her name onto the medical staff, but that had nothing to do with her hiring. Hiring and firing are above my pay grade.”
A bunch of jigsaw pieces suddenly scramble around and create an unpleasant picture. Pullman was our coach when I played with the Wolves. He and I never got along well and a year after my hit ended Ax’s career I was traded, ironically to the Seabirds.
Pullman’s daughter has probably heard an earful of stuff about me. An itch develops between my shoulders and my good knee bounces up and down uncontrollably.
I reach back to scratch the itch, but it’s no good. A buzzer goes off in my head. Get out of here, Sauer. Damage control warning. My elbow hits Fry, who’s sitting next to me. He shoots a dirty look. I punch his shoulder and whisper, “Be right back.”
I try to sneak out, but my name echoes down the hallway as I hobble out, dying away as I hit the elevator that goes to the admin floor. First priority is to talk to our GM, Phil Marshall. Unlike our coach, he has faith in me as a player. I need to get him to agree I don’t have to work with Maya Pullman.
No one chases me down and now, slightly breathless, I shoulder my way into the managerial suite. Antonia Freemantle, the receptionist for the Director of Hockey Operations, GM, Associate GM for Player Development, and Director of Public Relations, gives me a big smile.
“Slow down, Peg Leg. Nothing is that urgent.”
I pant from the effort. “You’re wrong there. Is Phil around? I really need to see him.”
“The upper-management team is meeting, but I’ll see if he can get loose for a minute to talk to you.” She taps on her keyboard, while I pace the space in front of her desk, glancing at my watch over and over.
After what seems like forever, she raps her knuckles against the wood. “Phil says go into the conference room.” She points to a door in the corner just as it swings open.
“Come in, Frank, and take a seat,” Phil calls out. “Grab a mug on your way in.
I pour in the dark, steaming liquid and drop in a couple of sugar cubes. The spoon clinks against the pottery as I stir. Then I awkwardly wedge into the one empty seat at the table, facing not just the GM but what might be a tribunal.
“Knee a little stiff after last night?” Phil’s question rattles me and I don’t respond. He continues as if he doesn’t expect a response. “Thought you’d be at a team meeting right now. Is it over already?”
Crap. Everyone knows everything here. “No, but something came up that I need to talk about right away.” Four pairs of eyes burn with curiosity.
Phil tents his fingers. “Come on, then. Spit it out.”
My heart sinks and my stomach heaves. I was hoping for a casual chat where I could bring it up in the course of shooting the breeze. Now it’s a big deal thing and I’m the whiny bastard bleating about, about …
Bea Freemantle, who just happens to be the receptionist’s daughter, taps a highly polished nail against the surface of the table. Our Director of Hockey Operations, she’s a numbers person, great with massive amounts of data analysis, but not so much a people person. Instead, she’s a take-no-prisoners exec with the patience of a flea. “We don’t have all day to sit here, waiting for you.”
“Yeah, uh, I just want to opt out of having to work with Maya Pullman.”
Astonishment, confusion, and anger wash through the room.
“Excuse me,” Bea says, eyes narrowed into evil slits. “Is Maya someone you know? Had a relationship with?”
“No, although her dad was my coach before I was traded here.”
“And you think she’ll harm you instead of helping you? Did you injure Alan Pullman in some way and she’s seeking revenge?”
“No, nothing like that.”
Alan gestures for silence. “Then what is it like?” His voice rolls out like honey.
“Don’t want to answer to a woman,” I mutter.
“Excuse me?” Bea’s face is puce.
I raise my voice. “Don’t want to answer to a woman.”
“Tough shit,” Bea says. “Suck it up, asshole, or we’ll trade you somewhere else.”
I turn a pleading look on Phil, but he shrugs. “You know you have no say in this. You’ll just have to find a way to work with her. Personally, I think she’ll do wonders for the team.” His pointed look sears me. “I believe she’ll do wonders for you. Certainly an upgrade from the dirtbag she’s replacing.”
I open my mouth to defend Hank, then snap it shut as the realization that he might be involved in criminal activity and that might bite me.
Bea makes pushing away waves. “We’re done, Sauer. Get back to your meeting before Coach realizes you’re gone.”
A hulking shadow fills the doorway. “I realized it when he ran out. Meeting’s over now. Let’s go to my office, Frank, and have a chat. It’s time you realize that you don’t call the shots on this team.”