13. Amelia
THIRTEEN
AMELIA
“We only have twenty minutes left in the season.” Jude stands in front of the locker room and looks out at the team.
“Sure, we have the playoffs ahead of us. But let’s not take our foot off the gas now.
DC is playing with everything they have.
We need to lock in, put pressure on their defense, and start getting rebounds.
Let’s finish this off with a bang, yeah? ”
There’s a murmur of excitement from the guys. Lenny pops to his feet and holds his stick above his head. “Let’s go, boys. Momentum into the postseason, and our eyes on the prize.”
Jude, Elliot, and I step into the tunnel to give them a few minutes as a team. When we’re alone, Jude puts a hand on our shoulders.
“It’s been an honor to coach alongside you two the past couple of years,” he says.
“Fuck.” I sigh. “Is this the start of an announcement about how you’re retiring? I don’t like surprises, Jude! Especially in the middle of a game.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He chuckles. “But you both should.”
“Are you firing us?” I ask, my guard up.
“Would I ever do that?”
“Amelia has a point. You’re never this ambiguous,” Elliot says.
“Stop interrupting me, and I’ll get to my point.
” Jude grins. “Teams are going to be begging for a chance to talk with you all this offseason to fill their open positions. Your contracts are good for another year, but there won’t be any hard feelings if you want to find the best possible opportunity out there. If that’s not in Denver, I understand.”
“What the hell?” Elliot rolls his eyes. “We’re not jumping ship, dude. We’re in this for the long haul.”
“We like working with you, Jude. We have a good system in place, and we’re doing important things here.
You’ve taught us a lot, but I know I want to keep growing as much as I can as a leader before I make the leap to someplace new,” I say.
“It’s also nice that you’re the one who takes the heat when we lose, not me. ”
“That’s all I’m good for?” Jude laughs. “I knew it.”
We make our way back to the ice for the final period, and I shake out my shoulders. The referee blows his whistle. The puck drops, the game resumes, and I track each player like my life depends on it.
DC is playing with everything they have. They have more on the line, fighting for a better spot in the playoff standings, and things start to get heated. There are back-to-back slashing penalties on both teams and a hooking call on Lenny that looks questionable at best.
During a TV timeout with ten minutes to go and no scoring happening on either end, I huddle up with Jude and Elliot.
“I have an idea,” I say. “But I don’t want to overstep.”
“Our offense has been stagnant all night.” Jude nods my way. “Let’s hear it, Green.”
“Sullivan is the league’s sharpest goalie.
What if we focused our attention on confusing him?
” I grab a whiteboard and uncap the dry-erase marker with my teeth.
“A fake shot to a backhand finish. We’ve been attacking from the middle.
When we come toward the goal line, they’re going to think we’re doing it again.
Our offense—I’m thinking Cody Stark—will play into that with the dropped shoulder and forward lean.
Hayes and Mitchell will read the move as a shot attempt while Stark cuts across toward one side of the net—left, probably, because it’s Sullivan’s weakest—and sinks a backhand shot. ”
“Genius.” Jude traces the diagram I’ve drawn. “I love it. Set it up and execute it, Green.”
I’ve always liked the analytical side of hockey. Growing up, my dad would pause the games he recorded on VHS tapes and ask me to break down the plays. We’d talk through what worked and what didn’t, and he always gave me a chance to guess the move the player was going to make before they made it.
I got it right almost every time.
That intuition has followed me throughout my career. Play calling is my favorite part of the job, and when I move over to Stark to let him know what we’re going to try, he lights up.
“Sick plan, Coach.” He pops to his feet. “Let’s end this season with a bang.”
It takes a few minutes. After losing a face-off and barely stopping an aggressive offensive push from the Stars, we regain possession. When we do, our boys put the plan into motion perfectly.
Stark accepts a beautiful pass from Bollinger, our right winger, across the blue line, and the crowd jumps to their feet.
He skirts past Hayes, leaving him one-on-one with Sullivan.
A forward fake with Stark’s body sends Sullivan tumbling on the ice, unable to stop the puck from sneaking in on the left side of the net.
The fans erupt in cheers, and the momentum is in our favor. The Stars never recover, staying scoreless for the next seven minutes to cement our victory. The final buzzer sounds, and Jude shakes my hand with a wide grin.
“Two years,” he says, and I tip my head.
“Pardon?” I ask.
“I give it two years before you’re a head coach in this league.”
“Please.” My cheeks heat at the compliment. “Never going to happen.”
“When it does, I better be the first person you tell.”
Back in the tunnel, the guys celebrate on their way to the locker room. I can’t help but smile too.
“Coach Green,” Grant calls out from where he’s waiting near the visitors’ locker room down the hall.
I turn his way, a hand in the pocket of my slacks and a grin working across my mouth.
“Took us long enough to finally beat you,” I say. “It was worth the wait.”
“Glad you got your win.” He rests his chin on his stick. “Nice call, by the way.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That fake out and backhand finish? You pulled the same move at the Frozen Four twelve years ago.”
“You recognized it?”
“I told you I’ve watched your highlights.
I’d recognize that move anywhere. Fifteen seconds on the clock.
Tie game against Princeton. Amelia Green gets the rebound off the left post, takes it down the ice, and jukes out the Tigers’ goalie to score.
” Grant takes a step toward me, his voice softer when he adds, “I’m a big fan, remember? ”
I shift on my feet, transported back to that game in the United Center in Chicago. Screaming fans, the bright lights. A move I’d spent the majority of my teenage years perfecting, coming to fruition when it mattered most.
I never used it again out of fear it lost its magic, but to hear he has the play memorized down to the second stirs something inside me.
Appreciation, tinged with the trace of awe, and I’m certain I’ve stopped breathing.
“I didn’t know I was predictable,” I say, trying to find safer ground.
“You’re the most unpredictable person I’ve ever met. I pay attention to things, particularly things that involve my friends. That’s you now, right?”
“Right.” Inhale. Exhale. A man eight years younger than me shouldn’t be scrambling my brain like this. He’s not allowed to scramble my brain like this. “I should get back to my team. Until we meet again, Everett.”
“Coach Green,” Grant calls as I head down the hall. I turn to look at him over my shoulder. “The season might be over, but that doesn’t mean you’re getting rid of me.”
“I didn’t think I’d be able to. You’re like a lost puppy trying to find a home.”
“Let me know if you hear of any good places accepting strays.” A wider grin, with a dimple that’s showing off. “See you in the fall.”
Another year down, I tell myself when I slip in my office. You’re going to be fine.
A whisper at the back of my mind tells me those are famous last words.