9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Wylie’s call for a coach’s challenge wins over the crowd, but is her bold style fitting in with the rest of the coaching staff?
The Renegades aren’t just winning on the ice, they’re winning over the hearts of the fans in the stands.
Wylie made a bold call, a risky move in any game.
While the fans are ecstatic about her fearless approach, is she trying too hard?
One thing’s for sure. Everyone from the coaching staff to ownership to the NHL commissioner is watching closely. ~Renegades Rinkside
Merri
Wilson slammed out of the video room the minute the game buzzer sounded the end of the last period.
I slumped down, my head falling onto my crossed arms atop the desk. The stench of Wilson’s stale coffee and sriracha wings clung to the air. The man hadn’t even cleaned up after himself.
Tonight marked the first game I’d worked without Joonie since my mother died.
With sweaty palms, I stared at the monitors as the ice emptied below and the arena staff began the process of shutting down.
My gut twisting, my scalp tingling in weird waves, I’d rolled plays back, studying skate placement, puck position, all the tiny details that could make or break a game.
When the players let the Devils even up the score, every transition across the ice mattered even more. Every shot on goal, every block.
Then Meade shouldered Shep into Carolina’s goalie. The ref’s arm shot up, whistle shrieking—but he’d gotten it wrong.
I’d spun toward Wilson, my heart hammering, waiting for him to key the mic, to call down to the bench. But he sat frozen, his eyes locked on the replay while precious seconds ticked away.
“That wasn’t goalie interference,” I said.
Wilson hunched down in his chair, eyes glued to the monitors, fingers frozen. The Devils’ bench celebrated while our guys blustered around the officials.
The game was tied. This could be the game-winning goal. This could be the difference between a W or an L on our record.
My gaze darted around the surface of my temporary desk.
The tumbler of grapefruit water. A Ziplock with pretzel sticks.
No Joonie. My stomach twisted. I swallowed, my throat tight and getting tighter.
A headset hung from a stand to the left of my keyboard, but I’d not pulled it on because Wilson said he’d be making the calls tonight.
Which made sense, this being my first game.
I looped the replay again. Clear as day—Shep had zero chance to avoid the contact. Meade’s hit launched him into the crease like a missile. Rule 69 flashed through my head—contact caused by defensive player action equals good goal.
But Wilson sat paralyzed, letting precious seconds tick away. The game deadlocked in the third period. A goal hanging in the balance.
The headset tumbled from the stand to clatter on the desk as my trembling fingers reached for it. I shoved it over my ears and flipped the mouthpiece down and spoke to the assistant coach behind the bench. “Coach Lambert?”
I squeezed my eyes closed and pictured the Pop. The cute blue hair, the adorable yellow glasses. My heart pounded in my ears, one beat, two—then the crackle of a live mic. “Yeah?”
“Coach Lambert, call for a coach’s review. Landon was pushed into the goalie. That’s our point.”
Now, I stared at the black screens of the monitors, the stench of sriracha wings lingering in Wilson’s empty side of the room. His silence after my call down to the bench pressed against my lungs, crushing the air from the room. His absence only made the pressure worse.
Men. My entire career revolved around them. A few women in the front office, a couple sprinkled in through coaching spaces or recruitment, but NHL hockey remained a testosterone-fueled boys’ club.
I smoothed my fingers over my skirt. Screw their expectations. My dresses? Adorable. My shoes? Killer. Let them charge at my sunshine yellow like bulls at a red cape. I’d spin away, leave them tangled in their own assumptions.
At Arvon, respect came through results. Had it taken longer than it should have? Yes. But by the end, my voice rang clear and strong across the ice. No hesitation. No self-doubt.
My lips pressed together. Why hadn’t Wilson made that call?
Wing sauce crusted the edge of his keyboard.
What kind of man-toddler doesn’t clean up after himself in his place of work in this day and age?
Did he expect me to play office maid? Heat crawled up my neck.
Too many men had handed me their coffee cups and expected sandwich runs.
Purple tutus would sprout from pigs before I’d wipe up Wilson’s mess.
I gathered up my things with trembling fingers, sweeping the uneaten pretzels and tumbler into my bag and by habit searching the desk yet again for Joonie. Of all the nights not to have my safety blanket. Nausea swirled in my gut.
With my side of the long desk tidied, I hurried downstairs to the player area. Sellers had prepped me for post-game protocols. Quick feedback tonight, deeper analysis saved for tomorrow’s team meeting. The near-empty locker room matched his warning.
Equipment staff sorted jerseys beside the stallion emblem on the floor. I studied the whiteboard by the exit, buying time to ensure a certain Southern charmer wouldn’t emerge half-dressed from the showers.
“Sweet call tonight, Wylie.”
I jumped at the lightly accented voice, then whirled to face Mats Engstrom, the Renegades’ Swedish goalie. He towered over my five foot five frame by at least a foot. Thank goodness he was dressed or I’d be left staring at male nipple. I plastered on my brightest smile. “Thanks, dude.”
He nodded and strode out, leaving me alone with the equipment guys. Their side-eyes burned against my back as I clicked across to Landon’s stall. My fingers pressed against my lips, mind racing through the analytics of where a thieving hockey player might stash a stolen Pop.
The bottom shelf mocked me—stick tape, toiletries, the mundane artifacts of locker room life. I hitched my skirt and climbed onto the bench, stretching up to pat along the top shelf. Nothing but empty space.
No Joonie.
My stomach plummeted as realization hit. Landon hadn’t left my Pop here at all. He’d taken him home. Which meant only one thing—this wasn’t about luck anymore. This was personal.