Chapter Three
Sadie
A bleary-eyed Vivi drags herself deeper into our shared office. She’s already in her training leggings, zipped jacket, and thick skating socks stuffed into Crocs. Her blond curls are clipped up and out of the way.
She hefts her duffel bag on her desk, sending a cup of pens sideways.
I lace my fingers behind my head and lean back in my desk chair. “Good morning, Coach. I have great news.”
“It’s the ass crack of dawn. How can you think of good news at a time like this?”
Our desks face each other in this small space, so I have a front-row view to the Vivi Hates Mornings Show. She’s been this way since college—a night owl who stays up late watching the worst scripted cop procedurals available to mankind, but who always bounces back the second she hits the ice.
“You agreed to the time,” I remind my counterpart. “This gives us thirty minutes of skating drills before we move into systems.”
She drops into her seat and massages her forehead as the digital clock on her desk cheerfully displays 7:03. “Right. Worst decision I’ve ever made.”
“Worst decision?” I ask. “That’s debatable. Remember that one time?”
She slowly lifts her head to glare at me. “Which time?”
“Any of the things flashing through your mind right now will prove the point just fine.”
“I quit.” She fishes a plaid coffee thermos out of her bag. “This is a hostile work environment.”
“I will not accept any resignations before you’ve finished your coffee.” I plant one heeled boot on my desk, and then the other, crossing my ankles. “Now ask me about my good news.”
“What is it? And if it’s something cheesy like it’s the first day of training camp, please know I’m going to be disappointed.”
“I am very excited about the first day, but no.” I pause. “I got him, Viv. It’s official.”
She unscrews her thermos. “You got who, McLaren? I’m well aware. I watched the depressing ‘press conference’ on YouTube before I fell asleep.”
“Oh, no, not him.” I grimace as Leo’s face pops into my mind. “But you’re right, that was bad. Even worse in person, if you can believe it. Big Al from the Register was the only reporter who showed up. Leo gave him one-word answers—mostly just no—until Al gave up.”
“Ouch. Does Leo hate interviews that much? Or is he just always a monosyllabic dick, regardless of the occasion?”
I open my mouth to confirm that he is indeed a monosyllabic dick, but something gives me pause. The memory of Leo walking out of Dr. Bonifacio’s office, paler and even more closed off than when he walked in.
He must have passed the physical or else Dr. B wouldn’t have given us the all-clear to sign him, but still. There was something hauntingly familiar about it.
Or maybe I’m just projecting.
“It’s possible he was in a bad mood because he spent most of his day in the doctor’s office,” I finally say.
Vivi’s gaze turns sympathetic, as if she’s fully aware of where my thoughts are wandering and wants to lasso them back to save me from myself. “That could very well explain his mood. There’s nothing worse than a physical, I don’t care what sport you play.”
I nod, dropping her gaze.
Sometimes when I’m flirting with the edges of consciousness at the end of a long sleep, I find myself perched on a black exam bed, hearing my old doctor’s voice like it’s coming at me underwater.
The dream—the memory of the physical that changed my life—never fails to send me shooting upright in bed with a cold sheen of sweat on my neck.
I’m sorry, Sadie. I can’t sign off on this. You never should’ve risked it.
Too bad I wasn’t given a choice.
I reach for the bright yellow foam lemon at the edge of my keyboard.
The stress ball is soft and familiar in my palm, and when I eventually squeeze this one to dust, I have more just like it waiting in the wings.
“Or maybe it had nothing to do with the doctor and Leo just has a charm deficit. We’ll give him another shot at a first impression and see how he behaves today. Hopefully better.”
“You’ve met him twice now. Don’t hold your breath.” Vivi follows this with a shrug. “This is the NHL we’re talking about. Some of these guys are jackasses and that’s not going to change. We’ll coach around it.”
“We can’t write him off just yet.” Tempting as it may be. “It’s our job to inspire them and unlock their best potential. We can’t just work around their bad attitudes. We have to figure out what makes them tick, what’s holding them back, and go from there. Coach the person—”
“—not the player. Yes, I know the motto. And I’ve already ordered us matching bumper stickers because I am That Bitch and I make no apologies.
But I know veteran athletes like Leo who have been entrenched in their sport for a thousand years.
They’re the ones who refuse to change or evolve, and they think they know best. They’re un-coachable. ”
Leo’s scowl pops into my brain. But right on the heels of that, another moment. The one where his deep green eyes met mine across the boardroom when Jax mentioned his one-year contract. There was emotion swirling in his gaze—something like hunger. To prove himself, I assume.
I can work with that. “No one is un-coachable.”
Vivi just shakes her head and smiles. “If anyone can turn around a broody ol’ enforcer, it’s you.
Hey, wait a second. If it was just Big Al who showed up to interview Leo, who was filming?
” Vivi asks. “I know it wasn’t you, because you were standing against the wall, looking like your face was about to crack in half from fake-smiling so hard. ”
“Al’s fourteen-year-old son filmed it on his phone. He runs the Register’s YouTube channel.”
“That is a depressing indictment of our local news.” She plants her chin on her fist and stares expectantly. “So who’d you get, then, if not Leo?”
“Hm?”
“You said you got him.”
Right. In all the Leo chatter, I almost forgot the whole point of this conversation. The man keeps hijacking my brain space. “Oh yes! I got”—I pause for dramatic effect—“The Axpert.”
She appears unmoved by this announcement.
“The guy who chops wood,” I add hastily. “Remember I told you I was thinking about a presentation to set the new tone on the first day? Well, I was able to book us with The Axpert next Thursday morning—”
“I’m sorry, it really sounds like you’re saying ass. Ass-pert.”
“Axe, as in chop chop. Anyway, I would’ve preferred today for a day one morale boost, but we’ll take what we can get.”
“I thought you wanted something more traditional to rouse the troops, like a motivational sports psychologist who gives TED Talks or a professor from a local college.”
“He is a motivational speaker.”
“Yeah, one who puts sharp, murdery props in the hands of athletes with a propensity for violence. What could possibly go wrong?”
“I think it’s just a show,” I say. “The speech is what I’m interested in.
There are so many obvious parallels he can make to hockey, and the booking form online let me put in what I wanted him to discuss.
And then I think he does some tricks to make it interesting, like juggling or target practice or something. Here—look.”
I pull up his social media and roll my chair toward her in tiny heel-push bursts that scrape the linoleum.
She squints at my screen. “Wait, whose account is this?”
“It’s him, obviously. Look at the lumber!”
“Oh, I see lumber all right. But I meant whose account are you logged into?” She points a French-tipped finger at my screen. “With the coffee bean emoji as a profile picture? That’s not you.”
Shit.
I chew the inside of my cheek as I debate how to answer her.
There’s no getting around the truth, since it’s clearly not my regular account with its sizable following where I post exclusively about hockey. “Just a burner.”
“Why did you create a…” Her face falls. “Oh, Sadie. I thought the dust had settled with all the comments and messages.” She reaches for my phone. “Log me into your main account. Let me see what those spineless—”
I hold it out of her reach. “It’s fine, no need.” Nervous energy moves through me, and not the good kind. Not a pleasant flutter.
More like a flapping pigeon chased out of a crowded park.
“The dust has settled,” I say. “I just like this burner because I curated a different algorithm so I can see content from other teams, as opposed to my feed, which is now all Fury, all the time. I’ve got to keep up with what our competition is doing.”
“Of course your burner still reeks of hockey. You’re a woman obsessed.” Her gaze remains critical, but softens. “So the messages and comments have stopped?”
“Yes.” I evade her eye. “Now, onto the important stuff. You support me taking the team to see this guy? I could still cancel. Cruz and Dominic rejected the calendar invite I sent them, even though it’s well within the confines of their work day.”
“Well that’s not surprising, since they hate us both.”
“True.” The systems guys aren’t subtle about it, either. “Mostly me, though.”
She nods sagely. “Yeah, mostly you.”
Jax told me in my interview that if I got the job, I’d be entrusted to hire my own associate coach, a position added this year as a result of our “unfortunate win deficit.” Associate coaches serve as the head coach’s right-hand man and can step in wherever needed to run the team, whereas assistants function mostly within their specialty.
Ours are Cruz Montenegro for offense, Dominic Lagacé for defense, and Riley Russo for goalie and special teams. Andy hired them all on before Jax, and—unfortunately—it shows.
Hiring Vivi was the first decision I made after accepting my job offer.
I wanted someone who was a strong coach, first and foremost, but who also brought something unique to the table that could benefit the Fury.
She’s got years of elite coaching experience and is innately skilled at teaching.
Even though she’s mostly worked with skaters and not hockey players, good coaching can’t be taught.