Chapter Three #3
Ivan squares up, even though Leo is several feet away. Ivan is the tallest on the team, but Leo is a close match. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”
“Anyway,” I say, raising my voice louder, “my point is—”
A whistle blows from behind me.
I do a double take to find Cruz and Dom entering the ice.
“All right, split up,” Dominic announces. “Offense with Cruz, defense with me. Goalies, too, until Riley graces us with his presence. Then we’ll test a few of you in different roles to see if we need to make changes this season.”
I blink back my disbelief. “Uh—I was kind of in the middle of something. And then we’re going to run skating drills for thirty before we split—”
“We’re here now. No need to stall with that shit.”
Vivi probably pulls a muscle with how fast she looks his way. I can feel her eagerness to challenge him radiating across the room, and rightfully so. But she keeps her mouth shut, looking back to me for guidance.
I school my tone into something as diplomatic as possible.
“After we sat down with Jax and Eric last week to talk about the training camp schedule”—a meeting Cruz and Dom dominated, barely letting me get a word in edgewise—“I shared a Google Calendar with the whole team so we’d all be on the same page.
You knew we had thirty minutes of skating planned, which you’re welcome to stay for. ”
He lets out a grunt that reeks of dismissal. “You want to see them skate? Watch us work.” He blows his whistle one more time. “Let’s get into it. We’re burning daylight.”
The men exchange looks and break away as the equipment manager hurriedly changes the position of the cones to fit Cruz’s plan.
With that, day one of training camp is officially underway.
And if those two have it their way, entirely out of my hands.
The next few hours give me enough material to pad my nightmares for the next four months.
Fights, objectively terrible plays, players flinging sticks—it’s as though they’ve reverted back to their angry teenage selves when they realized they aren’t the best players at juniors camp.
Not even two minutes into the first scrimmage, Ivan and Callum “accidentally” took a battle against the boards too far.
An Epsom salt bath would not be enough to relax these men. Someone needs to invent a lavender soak that dissolves directly into their brains.
If only they could find a way to transfer the rage they feel toward each other’s existence into their game.
With a few minutes left on the clock for today’s practice, I’m watching a few heated players for signs of escalation when something even more pressing catches my attention: a tall figure bent over and retching center ice.
Nic skates up beside Henri and helps rally him.
The evidence, however, remains in the form of a glossy scar.
“Hey Sean?” I nod toward the vomit on the center line. “Anything we can do about that?”
The equipment manager circles the affected area with four cones. “Is that better?”
Callum swerves around it, cursing loudly.
“It’s not worse,” I offer charitably.
“What’d you do all summer, Auclair? Where’s your fire?” Cruz bellows at Henri.
“Sorry, coach. I’m—”
“Save your excuse. Give me laps.”
Henri wobbles as he changes course.
I keep my voice low as I skate closer to Cruz, attempting to avoid a scene. “He looks like he needs a break.”
Cruz cuts me a glare. “This isn’t Pre-K nap time. I know what my players need. You want to look busy? Go change cones or chitchat with Vivian.”
Heat swells in my chest like a rising tide. “Sean has the cones under control.”
“Then why don’t you go help Dom break up his prima donnas?”
I twist to check the other side of the ice. Callum is shaking his stick at Leo as Ivan appears to scream at them both.
Dom’s off the ice in the bleachers, taking a phone call.
Henri makes it half a lap before he leans against the boards, slumping down as he throws up for the second time in ten minutes.
Fuck.
I blow my whistle once. “Off the ice, Auclair. Rest for five then go see Dr. B.”
He gestures limply toward Cruz. “But Coach said—”
“I’m telling you to take a rest. End of discussion.”
Cruz blows his whistle for longer. “Finish the lap. You party too much, you pay the consequences. This isn’t D1, kid.” He then turns toward me. “I told you to let me handle him.”
White-hot anger flares just beneath my skin. “He looks like he’s about to collapse. He’s not okay, and it’s not because of some hangover.”
“Bullshit, he’s playing you—”
“There’s one thing I don’t tolerate, and it’s people who put the health of my players in jeopardy for any reason. Do you understand?”
“I know my players, Rivers. Auclair needs laps, not pussyfooting.” Cruz gestures a circle with his arms. “You don’t get to walk in here—”
“Coach.” Nic’s voice is a firm interruption.
Henri is down—fully down, seated on the ice.
Cruz exhales like this is an inconvenient time for his player to collapse.
I’m there in a flash. His face is white as a sheet, and God, he really is just a kid. Does he even have family in the states? Or close friends who care?
There’s so much I don’t know about my players.
“I’m recovering from illness, that’s all,” Henri says, fatigue thickening his accent. He lolls like an uncooked noodle as he tries to sit more upright. When a professional athlete whose whole life revolves around being fit and powerful struggles this much, it’s alarming.
The squabbles and noise of the rink have either fallen away or I’ve stopped hearing them. “Do you think you can stand up, Henri? Walk?”
He barely rises before slumping back down.
“Vivi, call Dr. B,” I yell over my shoulder. “Tell him he’s got a player on the way and let him know the situation. Sean, grab a bucket.” I turn to Nic and Callum, who have gathered closest. “Can you two help me get him off the ice?”
“We’ll take him,” Nic assures me. “You stand back.”
By the time he’s off ice and in Dr. B’s care, we’re only ten minutes from the end of practice and the men have loosely gathered, awaiting orders.
“Let’s call it,” I say.
Cruz rubs his forehead. “You want to end early on the first day of training camp? All because a guy puked?”
“Might as well,” Ivan mutters. “This season is already a wash by the looks of it. Fuckin’ amateur hour from the bottom up—”
“Watch your mouth.”
The correction comes from Leo. A ripple of whistles and murmurs breaks out across the group.
Ivan spares a lazy look at his teammates before returning his attention to me. “You’re gonna let him talk to me like that, Rivers?”
I take a slow breath, making the call to ignore the players and their power struggle entirely. One issue at a time.
I regard Cruz instead. “I think we’ve gotten everything out of them we’re going to get for the day. They’ve got game tape review after lunch. We’ll start fresh again tomorrow.”
Cruz stares long and hard at me before turning toward the players. “You’re dismissed. Back at one for tapes. And Czernecki?”
The whole group pauses as if they are collectively named Czernecki.
“Don’t be a dick. That’s your coach.” Cruz speaks over Ivan’s sputtering retort with, “Whether we like it or not.”
Subtlety is dead in a ditch somewhere.
“Sure thing, Coach,” Ivan drawls coldly.
The group disbands. Teeth pressing together so hard my temples hurt, I skate for the exit.
Ivan barely bothers to lower his voice when he adds, “Hiring her was the kiss of death. Mark my words.”
My breath hitches, but I don’t slow down. I don’t want them to see me falter.
It’s nothing I didn’t expect, but I’m not sure I expected it this quickly. This bitterly, and from the captain and my fellow coaches, no less.
It’s one thing to change the general public’s perception of me, but another to deal with a fire inside my own house.
I have seven months to change everyone’s minds.
That work starts right here. With them.