Chapter Twenty-One #2
Whoa. We’ve come a long way from when it was just me and Big Al from the Register.
I take the hot seat. Since Jax isn’t here, Eric is acting in his stead—standing in the corner, making sure nothing gets out of hand.
However, Eric doesn’t have nearly the same presence as Jax. It doesn’t feel like he’s looming with me so much as against me, but all I can do is focus on holding my own in the hot seat.
That becomes increasingly difficult as the questions get more targeted.
“Coach, what do you say about claims that McLaren is getting too much playing time?” The question comes from a guy with IceCaps, an online recap site I haven’t heard of.
Leo.
The chatter about him has only intensified since our loss against Philly two weeks ago.
I don’t know why people are fixated on this. He played as well as he always has in the road games that followed, and then our Vancouver home game, even if we lost all three.
Okay, that Vancouver game wasn’t great for any of our players. But it wasn’t because of a singular error on Leo’s part, and that’s the point, here.
My dress feels uncomfortably tight as I shift in my seat. “I say his play time is consistent with someone of his skill and position on the team. He denied several key entries against the Whistlers in the most recent game.”
“What role do outside influences have on your lineup?” the interviewer presses. “Leo’s father being who he is—does that play a part?”
“If you’re suggesting I’m playing him more because of Hugo,” I say sharply, “that’s incorrect.”
“So why’d Leo play so much the last few games after his blunder in Philly?”
I know Leo has a target on his back for being Hugo’s son and one of the most talked-about men in the NHL, but this is ridiculous.
“Managing who plays—and for how long—is one of the intricacies of coaching. I’m sure you can understand that it’d take more than a quick sound bite to break down my decision making.” I look to Eric for some kind of support and get nothing—not even a glance.
I force a smile and carry on. “Next question.”
“Coach?” a woman interjects. “Monica Batten, Women’s World magazine.”
I brighten. We don’t usually see Women’s World in the press room, so at least we’re reaching new people. That’s a positive takeaway to drown out the other stuff. “Yes, Ms. Batten?”
“There’s talk online that you made Leo McLaren captain in exchange for a hosting spot on his father’s show, Hockey Talk, next season. Do you have plans to co-anchor the show?”
The room seems to tilt on its axis.
“No, Ms. Batten. That is completely false. I have a job. Not to mention far too many Fury-branded fleeces to walk away now.”
Big Al chuckles from his regular seat. I’ve always liked you, Al.
“So you have no plans to appear on that show in a regular capacity?” she clarifies.
“None.” I lace my fingers and lean forward. “And for the record, I would never make a decision about my team, especially who wears the C, based on anything other than merit.”
Co-anchoring a show?
Where is that even coming from? Reddit gossip? I deleted the app off my phone and blocked it on my browser so I wouldn’t ever see anything from that hell site.
Unfortunately, I might have to un-block it so I’m not caught unawares like this again.
“But Leo isn’t playing up to captain standards,” another reporter interjects, someone I recognize from Rowdy Ray Mayer’s team. “He’s slipping. Everyone can see it. If there’s nothing in it for you, he should be demoted.”
My stomach twists itself in a knot. “Leo had better games in Spokane, Denver, and then at home after faltering in Philly,” I reason. “Do you think it’s fair to demote someone for having one bad showing?”
“But you still lost those games. As a first-line defender, he could’ve done more, wouldn’t you agree?”
My smile fades. “By that logic, the whole team could’ve done more.”
“I agree, they could have.”
I blink fast. “That’s not what I’m—”
“Designating Leo as captain isn’t the only decision you’ve made that’s coming under fire. Henri Auclair is only now starting to turn around after a terrible start to the season—”
“Henri was recovering from an illness,” I say curtly. “He’s as solid as ever now.”
“But you kept him on ice longer than some of your talented up-and-comers, like Ace Holiday.”
“Recovery can be unpredictable. Henri only struggled at the start of the season, just as you said.”
“But at what point do you make the tough calls? You left him on the first or second line during several games that you ultimately lost. And your starting goalie—”
“I appreciate you bringing these opinions to the attention of the team.” I push up from the table, having had more than enough for the day. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m late for a meeting.”
“They’re calling you soft—”
“—at what point do you change your approach—”
Several more questions follow me out of the room.
I try to slow my breathing but quickly give up. I let the hyperventilation come, determined to ride the wave of my rapid heartbeat while adrenaline courses through my veins.
Eric slinks out behind me, following me down a hallway lined with framed pictures of former Fury players. “Where are you going, Rivers? It’s a packed house.”
I wheel around to deal with him. “You couldn’t have stepped in when they were accusing me of leveraging my position into a job I don’t even want? Jax would have.”
“Why? You were handling it just fine. Where are you storming off to? That’s the biggest showing of press interest we’ve ever had.”
Too bad. “I’m not storming off. I’ve got work to do, and I answered the requisite three questions.”
Eric takes his phone out of his pocket and practically chases me as I head for the lobby.
“Did you see this? ‘A better coach would take him out of the lineup after that piss-poor showing in Philly and lackluster follow-up in Denver.’” He waves the phone.
“They’re right about Leo. And they were right about Henri, for what it’s worth.
Don’t even get me started on Anders and the way he’s choked all season.
You’re not doing what needs to be done. You give too many fucking chances, and you rest on the fact that no one will call you out on your soft-touch bullshit because you’re a woman. ”
“Are you kidding me?” I can barely keep myself from shouting. “I get called out because I’m a woman. Every damn day.”
“Can you cool it with the dramatics? No need to get hysterical. I’m giving you advice here.”
“No, you aren’t. You’re giving me a headache and a series of wrong opinions. We’ve won games, Eric. We’ve made serious progress this season.”
“By sheer dumb luck.”
“Oh, here we go. You chalk everything this team does right up to good luck, but everything I do ‘wrong’ is my fault entirely. I’m tired of it.”
“That’s too damn bad, because I speak the truth.
” He lowers his voice as he steps toward me.
His face is riddled with broken blood vessels, and the fact that I can see them means he’s too close to me.
“First things first: get Leo and Anders off my starting lineup. Do that, and the rumors about you and Hugo’s show will stop, too. Win-win.”
Flames dance in the periphery of my vision. “You sound awfully sure of that.” I cross my arms. “It’s almost like you feel you can control that particular rumor.”
I know I’ve said too much—pushed him too far. I can’t afford to make an enemy of him. But he made an enemy of me the day we met. Long before, actually, when I was first considered for this job.
“No one cares how rumors get started.” His gaze travels down my front and back up again, landing on my face. “It only matters where they end. So I suggest you do what I say.”
“No thanks. I answer to Jax, not you.” I work hard to keep the shake out of my voice. “Until he advises me to change the lineup, I’m operating on my own insight.”
His almost nonexistent lips turn down. “He will. And you’ll be embarrassed by this little tantrum. A few medals and you think you know it all. You’ll see, Rivers. The season will humble you.”
I march off with my head held high so he doesn’t see all the ways it already has.
Eric’s words replay in my head for four hours while I lock both doors of my office and try to work. I give up on most of my tasks and replay old game footage, trying to see what Eric sees. What everyone at the press conference today seems to see.
Leo’s text lights up my screen.
Are you in your office? I’m the only one still here, if you want to let me in.
I sigh and X out of the Philly game, which I’ve watched twice now. I also watched the games we’ve played since.
Leo bounced back. That’s not my bias—it’s just a fact. He played like himself the last three games, fully and totally.
A traitorous sort of guilt works through me all the same as I unlock the door that leads to the locker room.
He slides in, shutting and locking it back up behind him.
I’m strangely nervous as I park my butt against my desk, facing him.
It’s just Leo.
Be normal, Sadie.
As usual, he looks kissed by the gods after a workout: a sheen of sweat glistens on his golden skin, while black shorts and a black shirt show off everything I want to see. My body both relaxes and coils tight with need at the sight of him.
In another world, he’s the guy I’m dating. Maybe even my boyfriend. We’re regular people with no ties to the NHL, and relationships are allowed. He’d set my mind at ease after a tough day like this, distracting me with kisses.
His gaze scans the office as my cheap fan whispers wind from the corner of the room. “No Vivi today?”
“No, she’s off.”
He nods, leaning against the wall. “How was your day?”
A simple question. But the impact it has on me is anything but. The sensation swelling in my chest is too big for my body. It threatens to burst.
Does he know what people are saying about him? Does he listen to podcasts and lurk on fan forums? It hurts me to imagine him stumbling across the things people are saying.