Chapter 4
Finley
“I am excited to be in Denver and to join the Yeti. So far, I’ve seen nothing but the highest level of play and professionalism from every level of the organization: from the coordinators who helped me get everything here on short notice to the players to the coaching staff,” Beckett Kane says from his seat in the media room.
Beckett fucking Kane.
And damn it, if he isn’t just as handsome, just as composed, as he was when he helped me with my slap shot when I was sixteen.
Not that I’m paying attention to that. Or the fact he doesn’t remember me. Even if it was a long time ago—and literally lasted for less than twenty minutes.
Okay, even I can admit that the nineteen-year-old version of him pales in comparison to the chiseled man in front of me.
I’m trying not to take it as an insult that White traded for one of the players I’d specifically crossed off my list, but it’s not as easy as I’d like it to be.
I had my reasons for not wanting Kane on my bench.
Like the fact he clearly didn’t read the PR prep package he was given before this interview, or he would know that we only mention the coaching staff on this team when absolutely necessary.
“And how do you feel about playing under the first female head coach?”
And this would be why. Just what we didn’t want to happen. To somehow turn this interview into yet another chance for the press to try to twist some player’s comment to make it seem like I’m anything other than your average head coach.
Kane glances up, his dark brown eyes meeting mine from where I stand in the very back of the room. I lift my coffee cup to my lips, covering my mouth and wishing I had a dry-erase board to hide behind instead.
Give them nothing.
“She’s not the first woman coach I’ve worked with.
I respect those who’ve managed to break into the field.
Plus, when you get to be as old as I am,” Kane says, earning him a chuckle from the reporters, “you’ve been through a number of first practices with a new team.
And I can honestly tell you the practice today under Coach Blake was no different.
She knows her stuff, and I’m excited to be a part of an organization willing to do things a little differently in order to make sure they’re giving their fans the best possible team to cheer for. ”
“Not too shabby,” Charlotte remarks next to me, and I jump.
“When did you get here?” I ask quietly, again using my coffee cup for cover.
She shrugs. “I was promised a hot new veteran. Didn’t want to miss the show. And I’m glad I didn’t. Damn, Mr. Kane is a hottie. And apparently not an idiot—or did your PR team tell him to say that?”
I shake my head. “We, in fact, told him to stay away from the coaching staff in general unless he’s specifically mentioning Rob.”
“So, he’s going to get the wrath of Finley when he gets down from there?” Charlotte nods toward the podium where Kane is still answering questions.
“As good as the answer was, I need to know my team can follow directions.”
We stand in silence, listening to Kane’s response to a question about leaving the Cyclones, until Charlotte turns to me and whispers, “As someone who climbed the corporate ladder on the media side of the industry, I want to tell that man to smile more when he’s up there, but unfortunately, he just looks damn good with that slight glare. Like, okay, Daddy.”
Daddy energy, for sure.
I suck in a deep breath, intentionally focusing on the bald head of Billy Carlson, my least favorite reporter, to keep myself from following Charlotte’s train of thought.
Beckett Kane is my player.
“Charlotte, let’s maybe not risk my entire career by saying that in a room full of reporters?”
“Ah, come on, Finley. They know he’s hot. Look at the way Carlson is salivating over there.”
I lift my cup again before whispering, “He’s likely already plotting how to spin some story about how women can’t coach men. You know, he said—”
“That you would be gone in less than a year? Yes. You’ve mentioned it. I’ve already renewed my membership in the Carlson-Hater’s Club.”
“It’s a lifetime membership,” I remind her, earning me a large eye roll.
“You’re getting good with the coffee cup.” Charlotte tracks my hand. “Though, now everyone’s going to think you’re tired.”
“Every adult on this planet is tired. I think it’s okay.”
“Maybe we can get a coffee company to sponsor you. Then, no one can say anything about you walking around with a cup all the time. You’re not tired, you’re a damn good brand ambassador.”
I let out a chuckle that I quickly stifle. “Shit, Charlotte. That’s the kind of creative thinking we need around here. Are you sure you don’t want to be an assistant coach?”
Charlotte raises an eyebrow at me, the look of distaste on her face almost comical. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d literally rather die.”
“How could I possibly take that the wrong way?” I joke.
“But you should meet my friend Sage,” Charlotte continues. “Or maybe you already know her?”
I shake my head.
“Sage Sinclair? She’s the GM for the Denver Miners.”
“Oh, sure.” We’ve been introduced at a few parties, though I had no idea she was friends with Charlotte. I suppose it would make sense that they, as heiresses to athletic empires in Colorado, would be friends.
“Ugh, of course you’re both too busy watching boys play with balls to actually be friends with the cool women in the room,” Charlotte pouts.
“No balls in hockey,” I tease.
She nods thoughtfully. “I’ve noticed that the few times I mistakenly went home with a puck pusher.”
“You know, it feels like more than once might not be a mistake.”
“Well, there was one time with—”
I shake my head. “Nope. Don’t tell me. I made the team doctor and the team captain give the safe-sex, don’t-be-an-idiot talk before the season started. Other than that, I want to know less than nothing about what the players do outside this building.”
“Oh, boo. That’s so boring.”
“I cannot know about their sex lives and still pretend to take them seriously. They are twentysomething-year-old men with unlimited options for bad decisions. Honestly, getting nauseous just thinking about it.”
“So boring,” Charlotte says.
When the reporters’ questions move from interesting to redundant, Sabrina calmly steps behind Kane, thanking everyone for coming and effectively shutting down the interview.
I say goodbye to Charlotte, who slips out a side door, headed to put out some fire about the rider for the musician who is performing in the arena tonight. Then, I make my way down to the practice ice.
The team built a new practice facility that connects to the main arena itself three years ago, and it’s now one of the nicest facilities in the league.
I have to admit, it’s an improvement from having the practice facility over twenty minutes away in some strip-mall-looking complex.
A few of the players who’ve been in Denver for a long time and have families here have houses down by the old practice arena, but the majority of the guys made the same decision I did and live in an apartment or condo downtown, since everything is here.
“Kane,” I call, catching up with him in the hallway. He’s in a black jacket with the number four in Yeti blue on the left sleeve.
“Coach,” he replies, stopping in the middle of the hallway to wait for me.
“You did well at practice today.”
“I’m excited to be part of the program.”
I raise an eyebrow, daring him to keep lying to me. “Is that so?”
“The Yeti have a lot of potential.”
“You were traded from the number-four-ranked team to one that is having trouble finding its footing after the season has already started,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “I might not have played professional hockey, but I’ve been around long enough to know that, unless you hated your old situation for some reason—in which case there would’ve been feelers out there that we would’ve run into when we started looking for a veteran defenseman—you are not pleased about a mid-season trade.
Don’t bullshit me, Kane, we have a culture of accountability here. ”
“Fine,” he replies, crossing his arms and widening his legs, a mirror of my stance.
“Even though I knew it was possible to be traded mid-season, I never thought it would happen to me. I, like every other professional athlete, have enough of an ego to think I was far too critical to the Cyclones to be so easily removed. It’s not the best feeling knowing that I was wrong—that I wasn’t needed.
But I’m here now, so I’m planning to make the best of the opportunity. ”
He holds my gaze, something most of the younger players avoid.
I’ve been told the icy blue of my eyes—the one that is so close in color to Yeti blue—can be intense.
Though I’m pretty sure it’s because the guys don’t know how to turn off their inherent need to flirt with anything that isn’t an asexual blob, so they make the wise decision not to look at me.
“Good.” I tap his chest once before quickly pulling away. Fuck. “Because you are needed here.”
He nods once, his hand moving to rub the spot where I poked him.
“Now, go read your damn PR brief, like you were supposed to before you met with those reporters. I want you in my office at three to talk about your role on this team and what, exactly, it is that I need from you.”
“You’ve got it, Coach,” he answers, still standing there as I turn to walk away.
“But for the record, I read every single thing they gave me. I just don’t agree with the strategy.
I’m playing for you. I’d mention the coaching staff in that answer on any other team.
I’m not going to change that because you’re a woman. ”
My heart skips a beat at the sincerity behind his words.
I truly believe Beckett Kane doesn’t see this as anything other than him playing for a new coach.
Unfortunately for him, he’s wrong. The club has paid a lot of money for a marketing team—one that specializes in the psychology of change—to figure out the best way to pull professional hockey into a new era.
And that way is to control the narrative. Control the optics. Control everything.
It works out well since I’m very good at control.
“I’m not asking you to change it because I’m a woman, Kane. I’m telling you to change it because I’m your fucking coach. Now, don’t you have a meeting with the team doc to get to?”
I sigh. Why must the men in my life make everything harder?