5. Amelia
FIVE
AMELIA
“I’ve always liked playing in the Civic Center.” Jude Hunter, head coach of the Denver Goldminers and my boss, fixes his tie outside the visitors’ locker room in DC. “I won a Frozen Four here.”
“That was decades ago, right?” I grin when he glares at me. “Kidding, Coach.”
“It’s rude to disrespect your elders, Green.
” He gives me a fist bump then waves to Elliot Putnam, our associate coach.
A step above me in the team’s hierarchy and next in command after Jude, it’s only a matter of time before Elliot snags a head coaching gig outside of Denver.
“Did you turn in our lineup, Putt-Putt?”
“That three-hour, league-mandated course about bullying clearly didn’t resonate with you all.
” Elliot rolls his eyes at the nickname, but gives in with a smirk.
“Lineup has been delivered, but Hudson Hayes is out tonight for personal reasons. I didn’t know Saunders had enough of a soul to let one of his guys sit. ”
“That’s odd.” I frown. “Hayes hasn’t missed a game all season.”
“Who is starting in his place?” Jude asks.
“Ryan Seymour.”
“He’s good. Played at Penn State,” I say, mentally running through the Stars’ roster. Right-handed. Barely six feet. One of the lighter guys on the team. “Small and scrappy.”
“Keep your eye on him for me, Green. Let me know if we need to size down in the second period.”
“Will do.”
The door to our locker room opens, and the team comes tumbling out. Our captain, Lenny Ultzman, takes the lead and pushes our goalie, Alex Baystrong, to the front of the line.
“We’re going to huddle up, then we’ll see you all on the ice.” Lenny knocks his knuckles against the three of ours with a grin. “Can’t wait to kick Maverick Miller’s ass. I’m sick of seeing photos of him with supermodels. Someone needs to shake him out of his god complex.”
I follow Jude and Elliot down the tunnel. We make our way around the rink to the bench on the opposite side, and a few Goldminers fans who travel to every away game hold up their signs in support of our team.
“Pretty sick gig.” Elliot steps behind the bench and shifts to his left to make room for me. “Traveling the country and watching hockey whenever you want? Talk about the dream.”
“That’s literally our job, El.” I tighten my slicked-back ponytail and stand next to him. “It doesn’t get much better than this.”
“Coaching has stress connected to it. Wins and losses. Salaries and job security. It would be nice to—”
There’s no chance to hear what he’s daydreaming about.
The Stars take the ice, and the crowd roars with excitement despite their mediocre record.
I square my shoulders and reach for the whiteboard sitting on the bench.
I keep my attention on the controlled breakouts Jude jotted down rather than who might be in the lineup for DC tonight.
Focusing on the blue-to-blue stretch he designed is easy until I feel attention on me.
Heavy, persistent.
Fucking unrelenting.
My body moves without permission.
I lift my chin. My gaze bounces to where Grant is leaning against his stick and grinning my way. Without breaking eye contact, he straightens. He tosses me a wink then sails a perfect backhand shot into the empty net.
Asshole.
“Let’s get the win tonight.” I turn away and hand the whiteboard over to Elliot. “I need some bragging rights.”
“Oh, yeah?” He lifts an eyebrow. “Is there an emotional investment in this game outside of our placement in the standings?”
“Come on, Putt-Putt. It’s hockey.” I grin. “There is always an emotional investment.”
No more distractions.
No more young guys showing off.
I’m not going to let Grant Everett get the best of my team for a second time this season.
We lose 3-2.
After a tie game at the end of regulation, the Stars scored the winning goal two minutes into overtime, and our guys hang their heads while they trudge to the locker room.
“Damn,” Jude mumbles. “Really thought we were going to snag that win.”
“They played well. Miller and his team just played better,” I say. “Good news is we still get a point, so the loss doesn’t totally hurt us. We’ll get the next one in Detroit.”
“Sure, the point is nice. And in the grand scheme of this season, the Stars aren’t making it to the playoffs while we’ll hopefully have a deep run,” Jude says. “I just don’t like losing to Brody Saunders. Seeing him smile is a creepy.”
“He definitely wins as the league’s grumpiest asshole.”
“I’ll make sure everyone is behaving. Showers, media availability, packing up for the bus.” Elliot gives us a salute. “See you all in a minute.”
“Our local network will want to talk to me. Team building, things we’re going to work on before our next road trip stop. Anything to keep the governors happy. I’m going to get that out of the way.” Jude looks at me. “Are you good to bring up the rear?”
“Yup. Meet you in the office in ten.”
“Thanks, Green.”
Jude stops in the tunnel when Jasmine, our team reporter, gestures to the microphone she’s holding.
I grab the dry-erase markers we went through while the public address announcer calls out the names of the Three Stars of the game, awarded tonight to Maverick Miller, Ethan Richardson—the one with the game-winning dagger—and Liam Sullivan.
They might be our opponents and own the series between us, but I’m allowed to recognize good hockey. Those guys have grit and heart. The Stars are going to be a problem in a few years, and I’d be shocked if they don’t win the Cup sooner rather than later.
A double-check shows me there aren’t any water bottles or helmets left behind, and I smile at the equipment manager who scoops up a rogue glove someone forgot.
“Kids,” I say, and he laughs.
“I won’t tell Coach Hunter. I don’t want to be responsible for extra laps at practice tomorrow.”
“You’re a good man, Wilson.”
Careful in my heels, I step out of the player’s box and onto the ice.
I don’t know why I’m not heading to the locker room.
I don’t know why I’m moving in the direction of the Stars’ bench where Grant is chatting with a woman wearing a team polo, but before I fully realize it’s happening, I’m in front of him.
He’s jumping off the ledge he’s sitting on and pinning me with a sharp gaze, as if he was waiting for me.
Finally, the look says.
It took you long enough.
“Coach Green,” he says. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. “Good game tonight.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t look good on you, Everett,” I answer.
“But winning sure does.” He turns to the brunette woman next to him. “Thanks for the help, Lex. I’ll be by in the morning so you can stretch out my hamstring.”
“See ya then, G-Money.” She tosses me a smile. “Have a good night.”
When we’re alone, I shift on my feet. Grant clears his throat and looks at his skates.
“So, how did—”
“Your skating has—”
We both break off and he laughs, the deep sound filling the space around us.
Comforting and full. A life well-lived.
That’s the best way to describe it.
“You first,” he says.
“Your skating looks better from the last time our teams matched up. Your movements are controlled, and you’re more explosive in the offensive zone.”
“Holy shit. Really? Thank you. That’s a high compliment coming from you.
I know your gameplay tends to be offense oriented.
I’ve been working on my speed and precision in practice.
A game environment is totally different from a scrimmage, obviously, but I appreciate you noticing and—” Grant runs a hand through his sweat-soaked hair.
A soft chuckle tumbles out of him. “I’m rambling. Sorry.”
“No worries. Just wanted to let you know what you’re doing is working.”
“Thanks, Amelia. Shit. Sorry. Coach Green.” His grip tightens then relaxes on his stick. I have a suspicion he’s not someone who can sit still. “I’m always open to feedback if you see anything else I can improve.”
“That would make you a better player, and you’ve already beaten my team twice this season,” I say. “I can’t hand you another victory on a silver platter.”
“Fair enough.” He laughs again. “I’ll take what I can get, and I graciously accept your praise.”
“Don’t get used to it. I’ll see you next season, Everett.”
“Can’t wait, Coach,” Grant says.
I know he’s watching me walk away. I know he’s waiting for me to turn around and get in the last word—so am I—but I hold back. When I make it to the locker room without offering him another glance, I relax.
He might have won tonight’s game, but I’m going to win whatever is next.