Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
Hannah
“Mackenzie!” I yell, trailing behind him into the locker room.
He spins around to face me, and I crowd his space, throwing my hands up in the air.
“What the hell was that?! You could’ve saved that goal, but instead you left the crease and let them score a fucking point?
Not to mention the fact that you almost fought your own fucking teammate for God’s sake! ”
“Mi amor,” he starts, but I hold up my hand.
“Don’t ‘Mi amor’ me. For the next two periods, I’m not your girlfriend, I’m your fucking coach. What was that?”
“It was my fault.” Aiden jumps in, dragging a towel down his face. “Little Mac was about to score on us, so I distracted him.”
Carter’s assessing eyes shoot between the two men as they take a seat next to each other on the bench.
“How?” I ask.
Aiden casts a glance at Sean, his lips pinching together.
“What did you do?” Carter asks.
Aiden doesn’t say anything at first. His eyes volley between his teammates, then he shakes his head.
“Go ahead. Tell him. It’s not like you didn’t tell the whole goddamn world,” Sean snaps.
“I’m sorry, Mac. I . . . dammit!” Aiden shakes his head then glances up at Carter. “I yelled that I fucked Viviana.”
Carter’s jaw ticks, and his face turns several shades of red, but surprisingly, he doesn’t smart off to Aiden in front of the team about it. I can only imagine what’s running through his head right now. Doesn’t matter, Sean shouldn’t have given up a point.
“Mac. I don’t care if Jesus Christ himself comes down onto that ice and asks you to bow at his fucking feet, you don’t come out of the crease.
Pull that shit again and I’ll bench you,” I warn, then turn to the rest of the guys.
“As for the rest of you . . . you did a good job pressing out there. Cal, since you’re retiring at the end of the season, I’m giving Petrov more ice time. ”
“Got it, boss.” Cal nods.
“Petrov, I’m gonna need you to step up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I wipe my brow and release a deep sigh.
“There's a lot riding on this game, and yeah, I’m gonna be selfish here . . . Don’t make me look like a goddamn idiot on national TV.
Everyone in this room has something to prove, so let’s work as a team and get the job done.
” Turning toward the tactics board, I grab a marker and draw Anaheim’s setup from the first period.
“They’re stacking pressure high during our breakouts because we keep forcing pucks through the neutral zone instead of supporting low. ”
I point the marker toward Hayes. “You’re winning the wall battles. Keep doing that, but when Petrov swings low, use him. Don’t blindly chip up the boards under pressure.”
“Yes, Coach.”
Dragging the marker through the center of the board, I draw another setup. “Jerome, tighten your gap. You backed in too early twice and gave Little Mac too much room on the entry.”
Jerome runs a towel over the back of his neck as he leans forward on the bench. “So, you want me holding the line longer?”
“Yes. But be smart about it. If Werchky pinches without support again, we’re gonna get burned on an odd-man rush.”
Werchky lifts both hands up in defense. “Hey, I recovered.”
“Barely,” Aiden mutters.
I cap the marker and look around at all of them.
“I have a feeling that Little Mac will be playing emotional hockey for the rest of the game.” My eyes flick toward Aiden.
“Brodie, what you said was out of pocket, but talking trash is part of this game, and we’re gonna use it to our advantage.
Keep it up. Matty’s a damn good hockey player, a scary opponent even, so use your smart mouth to control the pace. Alright, everybody on three.”
Everyone stands, putting their hands on top of each other as I say, “One. Two. Three.”
“Turn up the heat!” The team chants, hands breaking apart as they make their way back out to the ice.
Sean lags behind, pinning me with a hard glare.
“It’s not personal, Sean, it’s business.”
“I know. Coach,” he snaps, storming out of the locker room.
Fuck!
I’m trying to separate my job and my relationship here.
Maybe I’m not cut out for this . . . Maybe this is a terrible idea.
I can’t coach him and be in a relationship with him at the same time.
The hardship of coaching my own boyfriend never even crossed my mind.
I don’t know how anyone thinks this is even going to work; technically or ethically.
“It won’t always be easy, Sport, especially if you’re coaching someone you’re involved with, but you’ve got this,” Dad’s voice says from behind me.
“W-What?” I turn around. He’s not pale. No flushed cheeks. No glossy eyes. In fact, he doesn’t look sick at all. My heart races as the betrayal burns my eyes.
“Why?” My voice cracks.
“Why what?” He approaches me, hands buried in his pockets. “Why did I force your hand? Because I know you, Hannah. You doubt yourself, and you never would’ve even tried coaching if I didn’t.”
I can’t believe he did this to me. He’s never done anything so manipulative like this before. “Who else was in on this?”
“Just me.”
I cut him a glare. “I don’t fucking believe you.”
“No one else was in on it. I promise. You just needed a push—”
“No! You don’t get to decide that for me.
I’ve spent my entire life trying to be the perfect daughter.
Every decision, every sacrifice, every damn thing I’ve ever done has revolved around whether or not I thought you’d approve.
But I. Am. Fucking. Tired, Dad. I don’t even know what parts of my life are mine anymore and what are just expectations I’ve been trying to live up to. ”
“Hannah—”
He moves in closer, but I take a step back, holding up my hand.
“Stop, Dad! Just stop.” Throat tightening, tears spill over, and I swipe them from my face with the back of my hand. “I never wanted to let you down after everything you’d been through; losing Mom, giving up your career.”
“I didn’t give up my career. I pivoted.”
“Call it what you want. The point is I didn’t . . .” I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “This is my life, and I need to start living it how I want. If I coach, it will be because I want to. Not because you back me into a corner.”
Taking off his ballcap, he runs a hand through his hair.
“Fuck!” He turns in a circle, seemingly frustrated with himself, before coming back to stand in front of me. “Hannah, I’m sorry. I thought once you saw how good you were, how much you loved doing it, that you’d decide to fill my shoes.”
“I can’t do this with you right now. I have a team that needs coaching, and I don’t want to look like a fucking idiot who got pulled from a game because she didn’t know what she was doing.”
“No one would think that. You’re incredible out there.”
A bitter laugh escapes my lips as I shake my head.
“My goalie almost got in a fight with his own teammate on my watch. It doesn’t matter if that’s on me or not, I’ll catch the heat from that.
I’m a woman in a man’s world. I’ll always be one mistake away from proving to every misogynistic asshole out there that a woman isn’t capable of coaching an NHL team.
Do you have any idea how terrifying it is standing in your shadow?
Every eye watching me and dissecting every fucking play that I call? ”
“That happens to every coach, Hannah. Everyone always thinks they can do it better. You know what you’re doing.”
“I gotta go, Dad,” I say, turning to leave.
“Sport?”
His voice makes me stop and look back over my shoulder.
“I know I don’t say it, but for what it’s worth, you always make me proud to be your dad.”
I know my dad loves me; I know he’s proud of me. But hearing him say it . . . heals something broken inside of me. No matter how angry I am at him right now.
“Thank you,” I say pushing through the locker room doors.
The entire way back to the ice, I use breathing exercises to clear my mind of the shitshow that just went down.
The last thing the players need is for me to be a headcase.
Cheers from the fans swallow me up, and as I step back behind the bench, I drown out the noise, place all my feelings into a little box, and force myself to lock in on what needs to be done.
“You alright?” Carter asks, handing me the tablet.
“Yeah. I’m good. I just need to focus.”
The second period turns into a war of attrition, and by late in the third, we’re tied three-three. Anaheim tries forcing another entry through Jerome’s side.
“Step up! Step up! Close the gap!” I yell.
Jerome strips the puck and feeds it up the boards to Trevor. Two quick passes and Aiden takes possession. He drops it back to Petrov. Petrov wires it top shelf.
“Hell, yes!” I scream, pumping my fist into the air.
“That was your play!” Carter shouts over the screaming fans, slapping my back hard enough to rattle my teeth.
Grinning from ear to ear, I turn and give him a fist bump.
“You know . . . You’re really good at this whole coaching thing.”
“Don’t start with me too, Carter Graham.”
“Whatever you say . . . Coach.” He beams, bumping my shoulder with his.
We’re up by one, and the final minutes feel like a million years. This team is throwing everything they have at us. Sean stops shot after shot while bodies pile in front of him. My heart bangs against my ribs as the puck pinballs off the players’ skates and slides dangerously close to our goal.
“Clear it!” I yell.
Sticks clack together as both teams fight for the puck. Hayes snatches it up and snaps it back, launching it down the ice as the horn blows.
Game. Freaking. Over.
Emotionally drained, I collapse onto the bench and bury my head into my hands while the guys celebrate on the ice.
“You did good, mi amor.”
My head jerks up at the sound of Sean’s voice. He stands over me, dripping with sweat.
“Is it safe to call you that now, or are you still my coach?”
Relief settles over me, and I stand, throwing my arms around his neck.
“I thought you were mad at me,” I mumble against his chest.