Chapter Six #3
You’re not ready, my coach had told me.
Ironically, “not ready” morphed into whispers of “too old” seemingly overnight, no intermission. At least according to the commentators. And after my injury, it was no longer about what I might accomplish in my career, but what I might still be able to pull off before it ends.
Making this team was surprising enough. I never thought I’d be important to it, too.
My gaze roams between the lemon in her hand and her face. “What’s in it for you?”
“I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t believe it was the right thing for this team.” She purses her lips, opens them like she wants to say more, then shuts her mouth again.
I’m too dialed in to her expressions not to notice that hesitation. “I knew there’d be a but. What’s really going on, Rivers? What are the politics behind this decision, because I’m not seeing it.”
“There is no but.” She pauses, lifting a finger. “More like an and.”
“Out with it.”
“I want you to be the captain of this team…and I need your help. I can’t be in the locker room for obvious reasons.” She gestures vaguely at her body.
I ignore the strong impulse to look directly at her obvious reasons. “Sure, and?”
“I’d like you to report back to me. Gauge their temperature, tell me what you learn about them, their lives, schedules, that sort of thing.”
My brows crash together. “You want me to snitch on these guys about their schedules and shit? Because I’m here to tell you, if you think micromanaging what they do after practice is going to win you any favor—”
“Not snitching. I want to know about their families. Friends. The things that are important to them. Whether they’re taking care of themselves and training properly. I want to know who they are beyond their stats.”
A defensive urge flares inside me. “Because stats mean nothing to you?”
“Of course they do. But it’s only part of the puzzle.”
“You’re the coach. It should be the whole puzzle.”
“Yes, I am the coach. And in that capacity, I’m telling you this is important to me.”
“What Gabriel or Lachlan get up to at eight p.m. on a Thursday is important to you?”
She shakes her head, her full lips twitching like she’s fighting a laugh. “You’re hung up on the schedule. That’s not what it’s about.
“I want to coach you as people, not just as players. That’s kind of my whole philosophy. Which means I have to get to know you all.”
I blink. Too many times, probably. “No one cares who we are beyond what we do on the ice. No one ever has, and no one ever will. That’s not how this works.
We bleed at the altar of the NHL until we’re wrung dry, and then we’re ushered out to make room for something better.
If anything, getting to know us is a liability. ”
“Isn’t that depressing, though?” A fiery sort of passion simmers in her gaze.
It’s hot and dangerous up close, like it might spread to me if I stare too long and hard.
“People don’t treat hockey players like human beings.
It’s like we’re—you’re disposable unless you’re at the top of your game.
The culture can be insidious. More so than any other sport, people gleefully celebrate when you get the daylights beat out of you on the ice, then turn around and objectify you as sex symbols when the skates are off. ”
I shrug. “Yeah, well, that’s the way it’s always been. That’s the way it’ll always be.” And I don’t understand why she’s harping on this. We give it everything, and then we get edged out.
The goal is to make it as long as possible—to succeed as long as possible, until we can’t anymore.
“Well, I don’t accept it.” She rises from her chair, her tone gaining steam.
“Do you really want to be treated like you’re only as good as your game?
Yeah, as athletes we know that stuff matters.
Numbers are king. People rank us by our points and goals and possessions and everything else.
That ever-evolving number defines our ‘worth’ to a team, which determines the amount they can charge to see you play.
By the very nature of being an athlete, you give up a little chunk of your humanity—”
“In exchange for something bigger. What we gain is far greater than what we lose, wouldn’t you agree? This is our fucking dream. Mine, at least.”
“Yeah well, I had a dream once, too. It didn’t go to plan.”
“How do you mean? You lived yours. Olympian, goalie of the century, et cetera, et cetera.”
She shakes her head, her gaze shifting to avoid mine.
“Never mind. All I’m trying to say is we’re all still people at the end of the day.
People with huge goals and dreams that make us do unbelievable, often dangerous things in the pursuit of achieving them.
We risk it all to play the game, but no one is watching out for us.
The opposite is true—they actively don’t care.
So we’ve got to look out for each other.
That’s how we stay happy, and fulfilled, and hopefully less injured.
Because what good is any of this if no one is having fun during these precious years when we get to play?
Or if we’re too battered and broken to enjoy life after we’re done? ”
Her words press the raw bruise in my chest. The last thing I want to think about is life after. After. I’m still fighting for now.
She clears her throat and sets her lemon back in the bowl. “The point is, no one else in this cold, billion-dollar business is going to look out for Leo McLaren.”
“And you will?”
“If you’ll let me.” Her eyes shine with sincerity. Her resume got her the interview, but those eyes—that exact look on her face—must’ve secured her this job. “I want to treat my players like human beings. I think that’s the missing ingredient for this team. That’s all I’m saying.”
She’s delusional, to be sure. Getting to know those asshats and their personal lives and what makes them tick is not going to change the trajectory of our season. But fuck me, I don’t want to burst her bubble. In fact, for reasons I cannot comprehend, it’s kind of nice to be inside of it.
Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe my deep desire to wear the C is clouding my judgment.
Or maybe I just want her to be right, when this whole sport—me included—is sure she’s wrong.
“You really think you can get these guys where they want to go by knowing whether or not they have families and whether they participate in a monthly book club or something?”
Her eyebrow arches up. “Why not? No one has gotten these players anywhere by not knowing whether they participate in a monthly book club. Might as well give my strategy a try.”
“I don’t think this is going to work. Not in any substantial way,” I say plainly. I’m not eager to drop an I told you so down the line, but I can’t not say something. “It may even actively backfire. They’ll think you’re meddling once they catch on to what you’re doing.”
Then they’ll think I’m aiding and abetting the meddler, not that I really give a shit what they think.
“And what a shame it’ll be,” she says pointedly, “when I suddenly fall out of favor with these men.”
Right. Not like she currently has much going for her in the way of respect.
“I’m only asking you to tell me what you overhear, observe, and maybe coax out of them if the situation warrants—”
“Rivers, I’m not going to—”
“Only if the situation warrants it!” she repeats, flashing me her palms. “Like…if someone’s about to adopt a pet, for example, I’d want to know about it.”
That’s not exactly the life-altering situation that would inspire me to probe for details. “How would I know if they’re adopting a pet?”
“People tend to volunteer that information in casual conversation.”
“Christ. This is going to require me to make casual conversation.”
Her pretty lips do the thing I’m growing to loathe, twisting into a satisfied smirk. “The horrors never cease.”
I sigh, the fight leaving me like sand through my fingers.
“In no world should one of those fuckwits adopting a Maltese impact our play,” I grumble.
“Let me be the judge of that. You merely funnel the information to me once a week in a scheduled meeting.”
“Whoa. Weekly scheduled meetings?”
Why am I surprised at all that she’s the kind of woman to dress up informal conversations in a penguin suit?
“Well, yeah. Life is busy. We should set aside time in a formal way so it doesn’t get overlooked.”
“So I get to be captain in exchange for funneling you information I’ll collect after making casual conversation on purpose with the yahoos out there, and as an added bonus for my trouble, I’ll get to attend yet another weekly meeting. Got it.”
“No, Leo.” She moves around the desk, getting closer, forcing me to look down to keep meeting her eye.
“You’re the captain regardless, because you’re the best man for the job.
” Her expression grows somehow even more earnest, and I’m suddenly sure that face gets her whatever she wants in life, beyond this job or any other.
“You get to decide if you’re going to engage with the guys, and with me.
There are no hostage situations in hockey. ”
“Other than contracts, press obligations, long road trips…”
She laughs, crossing her arms. “Fine. There are actually quite a few hostage situations in hockey. But not this. The choice is yours.”
This whole thing feels like a Jedi mind trick, and I don’t appreciate it. But that boot heel she pressed against my throat earlier pushes harder.
“Ivan is going to be pissed when he figures out it’s me,” I say, though that’s not really a negative. “He nearly broke the hinges storming out of here.”
“Ivan will thank me when we win the cup. That’s all he cares about.”
“You are out of your mind if you think we’re getting anywhere near that cup.”
The playfulness leaves her eyes, something more heated rushing in like a hopping wildfire. “Do you really believe that?”
“I—”
—damn near cower at the look she’s giving me.
“Things will have to be very different than they’ve been,” is all I say.
“Well, great news—you can be the difference. And not just as a player, but as the leader of this team.” She presses her finger between my pecs, prompting a shiver down my spine that I want to douse in water.
Her gaze is sharp and vaguely threatening.
“I believe in you, Leo. But I can’t be the only one. ”
A warm, syrupy sensation trickles down my throat. “You barely know me. Only what you’ve seen in training camp so far.”
Not at my best.
She breathes out, a soft sort of exhale as she considers the question.
“Your power drives are inconsistent and you’re shying away from plays that twenty-five-year-old Leo would’ve crushed to oblivion.
” She cocks her head to the side. “But would I put my money on you, a former cup winner who I’ve studied for a decade?
Who isn’t afraid to call out Czernecki on his bullshit?
Yeah. I think I will. Now are you in or out? ”
A flush climbs up my neck. I feel exposed. Seen. But for the first time in a long time, it’s not followed by dismissal or disappointment.
She actually thinks I deserve this and have something to give back to this team, despite it all.
“Dammit,” I grumble, shoving down a feeling I can’t name. “Fine. We’ll do it your way. But these little meetups you’re suggesting—I don’t want the men to know about them.”
I have enough to deal with as it is without them thinking I’m consorting with their enemy.
Her expression softens into something curious. “You don’t want your teammates to think you, the captain, have a healthy line of communication with your coach?”
Did she miss the part where they all hate her?
She’s got to suspect it. But I’d be a dick to tell her as much. “This is my condition, Rivers.”
“Then I accept.” She extends a hand. Dainty silver rings decorate her fingers.
I take her tiny, warm palm in mine.
And fuck if it doesn’t fit perfectly.