Chapter 2
Finley
“Coach Blake,” Rob says as he knocks on my open office door. I’m working through my overflowing inbox before heading to the arena for our game, and happy for the distraction.
“What’s up?” I smile at my assistant coach.
“I’ve got that list of veteran defensemen you asked for. Want to walk down together and review it as we go?”
I close out of my email, flagging two interview requests to come back to after the game.
“Yes. Thank you for turning it around so quickly. After the conversation with Dr. Pearce this morning, I don’t want to waste any time convincing White we need a veteran defenseman.
” The GM argued against trading for one this summer, but even he has to admit that our team needs the support only an experienced defenseman out on the ice can provide.
After slipping into my black suit jacket, I do one final check in the mirror.
No flyaways have escaped my ponytail, no lipstick on my teeth, and—oops, an upside-down Yeti.
I twist the lapel pin on my jacket before tightening the back so it can’t flip again.
Real drunk mascot energy when it does that.
Game day ready, I follow Rob past my assistant, Paige, and into the hall.
As we walk, he hands me a list with six names on it, and I scan through them quickly, all players I’m familiar with.
My eyes snag briefly on the final one, and I force my body not to react to my high school crush who almost certainly forgot I existed after we spent a mere fifteen minutes together when I was sixteen.
Instead, I make myself peruse the list again, thinking through each of them, trying to be unbiased.
“Thanks, Rob. Let’s cut Erikson and Kane before it goes to the front office, but otherwise, I think any of the other four could be what we need to help build some confidence and experience on the ice.”
“Great.” He crosses out both names, and some of the tension in my chest loosens. “I’ll drop this by White’s office. He knows to expect it?”
“I briefed him earlier after our conversation with Pike.”
Pre-game flies by in a blur of flashing lights, loud music, and ice-blue-and-black jerseys.
The guys know Chicago is projected to make it deep into the playoffs this year, and despite it still being fairly early in the season, the energy in the locker room is reaching a level just this side of too much.
I knock twice, giving the men a chance to cover their dicks before I enter.
It’s really more for me than them, but I think we can all agree it’s better not to have flaccid penises out and about.
I give my pre-game speech, keeping it short and sweet like always. It’s J.D. Dalton’s job as captain to get them pumped up. My job is to remind them this is just another day at the office.
The first period is a bloodbath. Our defensemen let the energy of the place feed them as they push harder and faster than they normally would—than they likely should. I scan the ice, cataloging the movement of the players on both teams, noting when our lines start to get gassed.
“Well, you’ve got to give it to Pike,” Rob says as we huddle in my office between periods. “He’s stepping up.”
I nod in agreement. Leadership doesn’t come naturally to him, but he’s trying. He’s done everything we asked of him during our meeting. “He’s not going to have a voice tomorrow if he keeps it up, though,” I observe.
After a very quick debrief, we head to the locker room. I quickly talk through adjustments with the team, focusing primarily on our defensemen, but our forwards haven’t been perfect, either.
The second period starts better. Our breakouts are cleaner, the defense tighter, and Pike is doing exactly what we asked. He’s loud, more assertive, and the rest of the team is feeding off his energy.
Li hits their winger at the red line, and for a moment, it feels like the momentum is finally turning. The next line keeps up the pace, and I can feel the season turning in front of my eyes.
Li and Pike are back out on the ice for their second shift when the Guardians’ top line comes flying down the ice on an odd-man rush, the crowd rising. Li hesitates, for no more than half a second, but Pike crosses hard into the lane to cover.
He gets there, ready to blow up the play entirely.
Shit. “PIKE! BLINDSIDE!” I yell, but it’s too late. My heart flies into my throat, knowing what’s about to happen.
Their forward slams into Pike at full speed, causing his body to fly backward as his legs crumple beneath him.
Pike goes down hard, his gloved hands going instantly to his knee. Not screaming, not moving. Just that tight, breathless pain every hockey player recognizes.
“Fuck,” Rob mutters from beside me, and I couldn’t agree more.
Li reaches Pike as the referee blows the whistle.
I watch, doing my best to keep my expression neutral.
Using Li as leverage, Pike tries to stand but goes right back down.
The trainers leap over the boards, and Pike is helped off the ice slowly, one bulky arm around each of the two trainers, barely touching his right skate to the ground.
The crowd claps, worried murmurs rippling through the arena.
“Go with him, Dr. Lowell,” I tell the team doctor as they shuffle past me. I’ve seen the way Pike’s knee buckled before, and I know what it means: Pike’s out, likely for the season.
I force myself to exhale. He’ll be lucky if it’s not the end of his career. A career that, just today, I asked him to do more with. To give more.
And he fucking gave it all.
I’m laser-focused for the rest of the game, being more vocal than I normally would be as the team struggles to find its rhythm. I know I’m distracting them as much as I’m helping, but the guilt of pushing Pike to overextend himself overrides my logic, causing me to overstep my role as head coach.
We lose 2–3, Volkov playing an extraordinary game to keep us that close when the shots on goal were 49–20.
“Update,” I demand when I meet Dr. Lowell, waiting for me in the hallway after the game.
“Torn ACL. He’s out for the season.”
Despite the guilt eating at my chest, I force myself into my Ice Queen role. I go through the motions of reassuring the team, show nothing but calm confidence as I talk to my team, and then answer the press’ questions.
Now is not the time for emotions. Now is the time for White to get me a goddamn defenseman.
***
“I think Gus Reed is our best bet,” I announce, walking into the GM’s office at eight the next morning.
I’ve been in the gym for the last two hours, hoping to find a place of clarity as my feet pound miles into the treadmill.
When that didn’t work, I tried pushing my body to its limit with a heavy-lifting circuit, but still…
nothing. White arrives punctually at eight each morning after dropping off his twins at daycare.
So, I’ve been stewing in my own office, waiting for him to arrive.
Pike was our sole hope to get our defensive lines together. Now, well, now I need White to make a trade.
There are four names on the list we gave White yesterday, and I need him to pick one.
Hell, I needed him to have picked one six months ago when I said we needed more experience on the team, but he said it was a building year.
That may be all well and good for him, but I’m the first female head coach in the history of professional hockey.
My first season can’t be a building season—it looks terrible for those of us breaking glass ceilings in all industries.
And, even if you put my need to represent all of womankind aside, the average tenure of a head coach is a little over two years.
The average for a GM is almost double that.
It’s a lot easier for him to argue in favor of a building year when he’s far more likely to survive it.
“Coach Blake,” White starts, but I cut him off. I need to make my case before he turns me down.
“I know Jenson is better statistically, but I spent hours last night watching film. He doesn’t have the same off-ice presence as Reed. Reed is the guy we need to get all the lines in order.”
White narrows his eyes at me. “How much sleep did you get last night, Finley?”
“Enough.” I fight the urge to take a long pull from the half-empty coffee cup in my hand.
“I know you well enough to know you watched our game film at least once. Plus, you’re telling me you watched film of at least two other players, though I’d have to guess you watched the film of all four of the names you had Rob leave on my desk.
That’s what? At least four hours of film after last night’s game, when you didn’t get home until…
let’s call it midnight just for easy numbers? ”
“Dr. Pearce had compiled a film for each of the four men. I wasn’t watching full games.”
The smile White offers me makes me slightly jealous of his daughters. He must be a great dad.
“You have to take care of yourself, Finley.”
“I am. No first-year fifteen for me,” I reply, patting my stomach and trying to lighten the mood. I can sleep when I’m certain I’m going to get a next season with the Yeti. Plus, it’s not like I could’ve relaxed enough last night to get any quality rest, anyway.
White shakes his head, not commenting on my weight either way.
See? Great girl dad. “I’m not your mom, so I’ll let you worry about your health, but as GM, I am going to remind you that it’s my job to handle scouting and building the roster.
Your job is to take the players I give you and make them a better team.
Which means, no spending hours watching films of players to make the decision about who to recruit for me.
I have an entire team we pay to do that, Coach. You coach.”
“I’m part of the team, too,” I say. “I want to make sure I’m giving you the information you need to get me the players I need.”
“And I will. I know you’re thinking about the conversation we had last spring about bringing on a veteran.”
He’s right. I am thinking about that conversation. And about how he didn’t choose to listen to me.
People always seem to think that the hardest part of being the first female head coach is the trolls on social media, but the truth is, it’s questioning the motives of the people I respect.
Of the ones I work with every day and have a professional relationship with.
It’s not knowing whether White would’ve told a male coach in his first season that he needed to focus on his health, or if he would’ve told him to double down and praised him for his extra work.
Greg White seems like a good guy, but at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter. The only way I can ensure I’m treated the way I want to be is to be the best—and I can’t do that without damn good defensemen.
“But,” he continues, “I still believe that if Pike hadn’t gone out last night, he would’ve gotten there. And then we would’ve been solid for the next two or three seasons. Veterans aren’t the play for the future—not that it matters now.”
“I agree, but we need someone for now.”
Greg taps his desk once. “Well, luckily for you. I, too, did some work last night. And some this morning, also. As of ten minutes ago, we traded our second-round draft pick and one of our defensive prospects from the Kodiaks to the Florida Cyclones.”
My heart skips a beat as I realize what that means milliseconds before he says it. Only one defenseman would possibly be coming to us from Florida. The one I didn’t want because of that pesky little crush.
“Beckett Kane is officially a Denver Yeti. He lands tonight.”