2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
She’s a game-changer! The Renegades’ new video coach is already making history. The boys in blue are known for their hard-hitting offense and their loyal fan base. Are they ready for the likes of Merri Wylie? ~Renegades Rinkside
Merri
The click of my heels echoed through the Renegade Ice Training Facility’s empty corridors as I arrived for my first official day with the Richland Renegades organization. I’d packed and repacked my supplies until everything aligned just right. Perfect order, perfect control.
I tightened my fingers around my brand-spanking-new marigold-yellow coffee tumbler as I double-checked my mental checklist. Game footage analyzed, player tendencies cataloged, every detail stored away in color-coded folders in my mind.
I pushed my lips together and concentrated on keeping my professional mask firmly in place.
The NHL didn’t care how many hours I’d logged at Arvon or how many plays I’d broken down.
Here, I had to prove myself all over again.
Juggling my tumbler in one hand and a box brimming with magic video editing tools in the other, I swept around the corner into my fancy NHL Video Coach office—and froze.
A hairy mountain of a man sat in front of a big screen monitor.
My co-coach had vanished during Sellers’ introductions yesterday like he’d been allergic to the very concept of a female colleague.
Sellers had warned me then to keep my guard up until my co-worker adjusted to having his boys’ club invaded by a skirt.
I assessed the situation from the doorway, my hands full of coffee and tech supplies. The man’s whole vibe screamed “this is my cave, go away”—from his hunched shoulders to the way he’d sprawled his bulk to claim the entire space.
He swung away from the monitor, slouched down deeper into his chair like a grumpy bear. He made no move to get up, which suited me fine since my hands were too full for any awkward attempts at professional handshakes anyway.
“You must be Sellers’ replacement.” Without waiting for a response, he swung back around to face the screen. “You’re late.”
I stalled at the door, my fingers white-tight around my tumbler.
Did he say that with a tone? Maybe the grumpy bear assessment was too generous?
Was he going to make me regret leaving my hard-won nest at Arvon?
A wave of nausea rolled through me. I’d already had enough encounters with hockey’s special brand of testosterone to last a lifetime.
Sure, I hadn’t expected the NHL to roll out the red carpet—I’d earned my stripes dealing with doubters at Arvon. The pro level would just mean bigger egos and higher stakes.
But assuming the worst about my new officemate made me no better.
I pressed my lips together, centering myself.
Options flickered through my mind like game tape on replay.
Too sunny? He’d write me off. Too serious?
He’d see it as a challenge. I’d danced this dance before—charmed my way through doubting professors and skeptical coaches, wrapped hard-earned expertise in a bubble of bright enthusiasm until they forgot to be threatened by the woman analyzing their plays. Time to dust off those old moves.
My heart hammered, but sunshine dripped from my voice when I spoke. “That parking lot is a maze! But I’ll get it straight, no worries.”
Names tumbled through my mind. Sellers had named the man I’d be co-coaching with for the next three months, but dang if it would come to me now. Then the bulb flashed on. I snapped my chin up. “Wilson!”
The man swung around again with a protesting squeak of his chair. He nodded, his lips twitching enough to show he found me funny. Or laughable. Please let him find me funny.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m Wilson. Empty your hands and drag that chair over. We have a ton of film to get through.”
Right. Duh. My shoulders relaxed a fraction.
I plopped the box beside the ones I’d dropped off before the weekend and dragged the office chair over beside his.
Wilson walked me through the Renegades process for cutting footage for the players.
The same tech we’d used at Arvon University—at least the equipment wouldn’t be a challenge.
Learning what the coaches expected and what the players needed? My stomach fluttered with anticipation.
I bounced in my chair, energy zinging through my veins. I couldn’t wait.
“You do the girl’s program down at Arvon?”
I gave him my biggest, friendliest smile. “The boys.”
“Is that right? Good for you.”
My stomach curdled and my cheeks pinched with the effort to hold my smile, but I managed by the skin of my teeth. “Right?” The word sparkled with artificial glamour. “Lucky me.”
A few hours later, Wilson leaned back, stretching his arms over his head, his joints popping like firecrackers. “You’ve got a good eye. Sellers said you were wasted down in Arvon. You aiming to make this a permanent transition?”
“He’s only out a couple months, but I can’t wait to see how you guys in the big league handle things. If a great position pops up and the money’s right? I’m not a girl to walk away from a good opportunity.”
Wilson nodded as lumbered to his feet. “I’m gonna head to the cafeteria for lunch. There’s also a restaurant on the skydeck level that services the admin and suits in the upper offices, if you’re in the mood. Or plenty of places within walking distance. Meet back here in an hour?”
I fiddled with the charm dangling from my bracelet. So no first-day-on-the-job lunch buddy for me. Got it. “I’ll be here!”
The office walls closed in, my nerves too raw for food. First day with an NHL team? Fantastic! Sure, my coworker might be a tad on the curmudgeon side, but a dream job was a dream job. Even if temporary, my foot was through the door.
I unpacked my bright keyboard, mouse and mousepad, and quickly replaced the boring black ones. Shelves dotted the cement wall behind me, placed strategically around the painted blue and silver Renegades crest. Pitifully barren but not dusty, so Sellers must have cleared them off for me.
I lined up seven shiny boy band figurines along my desk’s edge, arranging each tiny heartthrob with precision.
Last year’s Arvon team had given them to me, the white resin surfaces gleaming with memories.
But my real treasure was the blue-haired, yellow-glasses wearing Funko Pop from the Dynamite era.
My fingers trembled as I shoved aside tangles of wires and cords, methodically checking each box twice, like reviewing game footage for a disputed goal. No blue hair. No yellow glasses. No Joonie.
I settled back on my heels. Suspicion curled through my brain like an insidious little virus.
I pushed my lips together, forcing my brain to engage instead of spiral. Facts: The Pop had been here yesterday. I’d tucked him into the box along with the seven resin statues and my daisy mousepad and all the things that would turn this generic office into my own little oasis.
My hand drifted to my grandmother’s heart pendant as realization hit.
Shepherd Landon.
That smug superstar played me. His honey-sweet Southern charm masked a devious core.
The cap handover? Too smooth. His graceful acceptance of defeat? Pure theater.
And I’d fallen for the act.
“No worries,” I announced to my empty office, my voice pitched high and bright even as my fingers twisted in the flounces of my skirt. “No worries at all.”
I attacked the remaining boxes, just in case. My pulse thundered in my ears as I searched, the empty space on my desk mocking me. The Pop wasn’t just a toy—he was my anchor, my good luck charm, my—
No.
I smoothed my hand over my hair, steadying myself. I wouldn’t spiral. Not here. Not now. I’d analyze the situation, formulate a strategy, and execute my game plan.
But first, I needed my Pop back.
By the time Wilson shuffled back into the office, my fingers trembled no matter how I twisted them in my skirt.
He slurped an iced coffee from the shop outside—the one I’d mapped during my pre-first-day reconnaissance.
If our positions were reversed, I’d have brought him coffee.
Something basic, what with not knowing his preferences. Common courtesy on someone’s first day.
The caffeine might have explained my jitters better than admitting how much I needed a three-inch figurine. How pathetic was that?
Cocky, thieving rat.
I pushed my brightest, most professional smile to my lips, though the effort drained me more than usual.
My carefully constructed world tilted off its axis without my Pop.
But first impressions mattered. No worries.
I would retrieve Joonie from that thief Landon and restore order to my world.
“Wilson,” I chirped. “Any chance you’ve seen my Funko Pop? ”
“Your What-o Pop?”
I ground my back teeth and pushed my smile even brighter. Years of mirror practice had perfected this expression—friendly, not unhinged. When your daily survival depended on an unbreakable facade, you mastered every nuance.
“It’s a little big-headed doll. Cute as can be, with blue hair?”
“I have definitely not seen anything like that.” He stood over my desk, picked up one of the seven white resins. “You gonna fill this room up with girly shit?”
“Absolutely. To the rafters.”
His gaze snapped from the seven to me, shaggy brows climbing. He’d expected denial—men always did.
I embraced their stereotypes. Sometimes.
“I have a great hook-up for colorful keyboards. You want me to get you one? We could be matchy-matchy and everything. Wouldn’t that be amazing?”
He jerked back a step as if terrified of becoming infected with my ‘girly shit’. I widened my eyes and rounded my lips into an exaggerated O. Dense as concrete, some men missed sarcasm, but surely he’d catch on.
The corner of his lips kicked up in a smirk. “No matchy-matchy, Merri. You keep your girly stuff on your side, and we’ll be just fine.”
“Can do.” But still no Pop. My smile faltered. “Girl stuff aside, I am still missing my Funko Pop. The world might be ending.”
He snorted a half-laugh. “That might be a little much.”
“Maybe a smidge.” The words rang false as my stomach churned. Beyond representing my favorite musical act, beyond mere sentiment, the Pop anchored me.
Some people clutched coins or rubbed worry stones or scribbled in journals.
I focused on a South Korean rapper’s Funko Pop.
Over time, I’d trained my scattered thoughts to center on those blue spikes, those yellow glasses.
When chaos threatened, the Pop brought me back.
My secret weapon against an unpredictable world.
And I needed it back. Now.
“I caught the end of your Ping-Pong match with Landon yesterday. What’re you going to do with that ball cap of his? The way he’s been wearing it, he might be thinking it’s his lucky charm. Not that luck’s been on his side lately.”
I scanned the chaos of boxes still littering my side of the shared office one final time before lifting my trophy from the desk.
“It’s gonna look great dangling from the shelf,” I announced.
“Landon doesn’t lose too often. He’s not gonna let you off easy.”
My fingers tightened around the cap, my thumb tracing the worn brim as my mind raced through possibilities. If my missing Pop signaled anything, he’d already made his move.
Smug bastard!
The Renegades had a home game tonight. We’d both be at the arena. And one way or another, through charm or challenge, I’d get my Pop back.