Chapter 5
Beckett
“I’m not exactly worried about that hip flexor,” the doctor says, clicking on the tablet as he scans through the files the Cyclones sent over. “But it does seem like your range of motion isn’t what it should be.”
“I get by just fine,” I reply, not lying, but not telling the whole truth, either. Over-the-counter pain pills may be my best friend, but I’m a thirty-four-year-old hockey player. It’s a price I’d gladly pay for the ability to keep playing the game.
Doctor Lowell gives me an appraising stare, one I meet with a slight glower of my own.
“I’ve been working with professional athletes for almost as long as you’ve been alive, Kane.
You can bluster and bullshit me all you want, but I’ve learned you lot are the least reliable patients in the world—and I have to tell you, basically everyone lies to their doctors. ”
I nod toward the screens on the walls, the ones showing my data from all the sensors and monitors I’ve been hooked up to since I got here.
“A lot harder to lie when you know how many breaths I took in the last twenty-four hours because my stats are lighting up your walls like a stalker’s wet dream. ”
Doc lets out a chuckle. “The team does love data. I’m not sure what Dr. Pearce does with it all, but she comes up with some pretty amazing results from her models.
I know you’re new around here, but you’ll see soon.
We’ve got young players, and not everything can be solved through data analytics, but the Yeti are on the cutting edge, and it’s going to start paying off here in a year or two. ”
Now that I can get behind. I don’t know that I feel one way or the other about all the monitoring—Li made a pretty sound argument for it this morning when he noticed I had biometric monitors taped to various parts of my body—but I’ll take whatever help I can get to make sure I can still play the next couple of years.
When I was out on the ice with my new team, I saw the potential the doc is talking about. With the way they’re almost where they need to be to be great. And I’m going to be there with them. Holding the Cup over my head while wearing that C patch on my jersey.
Doc looks through my records one more time before turning his stare back to me. “You sure you don’t have any pain you want to tell me about?”
“I’m sure.”
“Because you don’t have any, or because you don’t want to tell me about it?” he asks, sitting on the stool next to the bench I’m on.
I decide to be at least a little bit honest with him. “I’m thirty-four and a professional hockey player, Doc. Thirty-four-year-olds have pain. But you saw my routine. I’m prepared to manage it, and it’s not going to slow me down on the ice.”
I walk out of Doc’s office a few minutes later, moving past the PT tables and into the weight room, where the rest of the defensemen and a few of the forwards are getting their workouts in for the day.
“Kane!” Larsen yells, abandoning his position as Li’s spotter as he rushes over to me. Fortunately, there’s someone from the trainer team to step in as Li completes his bench presses.
“Rookie,” I say, glancing back to where he just stood with Li.
He follows my gaze. “Oh, he’s fine. I was bored after I finished my workout, so I told him I’d spot him. But Jeff was mad at me for taking over his job anyway.”
“Not mad, Larsen,” the trainer replies. “Annoyed.”
“Anyway, a few of us are planning to go out tonight. Dinner, drinks. That kind of thing. Want to come along?”
I shake my head. “Nah. Not tonight. I’m busy.”
“Come on. What could you possibly be busy with?”
I mentally run through everything I still need to do today, including interviews with three private chefs recommended to me by the team and other professional athletes in the area who work with Vic.
Now is the time to buckle down, to focus on making sure my body is ready for peak performance.
Not going out for dinner and—God forbid—drinks.
“I—” I halt, Vic’s words coming unbidden to my mind. The ones reminding me that this is my chance. And maybe there’s something to being friends with the guys if I’m going to lead them. Guthry always invited the rest of the Cyclones over to his place for dinner or game nights.
“I’m not big on going out,” I admit. “But I do have a few interviews with private chefs lined up. I’m sure I could convince them to make extra food if a few of you want to come over to my place for dinner before you go out.”
Larsen nods enthusiastically. “Yes. Yep. I’m in. I’m definitely in.” He whirls to look at Li. “Evan! Chef tryouts at Kane’s tonight. You in?”
Li grunts out a “yep” in the middle of his set, as Larsen takes in the rest of the room.
“Probably don’t want too many. Your table only seats four, anyway.
Oh, I know. Hammer lives in our building, too.
I’ll invite him. Plus, he and I have been talking about sharing a chef.
And it’s always good to have the enforcer on your side. ” He winks.
I let his excitement bounce off me, regretting ever making the offer. How do I attract the golden retrievers on every team?
“Rookie. Calm down,” I tease. “You’re going to eat like five variations of mostly plain meat and vegetables. Maybe a sample-sized breakfast smoothie if you’re lucky.”
His eyes widen. “I fucking love banana smoothies. Do you think they’ll use that salted chocolate protein powder in it? I hope so.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. But I’ve got a meeting with Coach to get to. Be at my place at five, okay?”
“Done. I’ll be there. We’ll be there,” he says as he heads back toward Li, a noticeable pep in his step. “I’m so pumped.”
***
“Go on in,” Coach’s executive assistant directs when I approach her desk, not even bothering to look up at me. “She’s been expecting you, Beckett.”
It’s weird hearing my first name in the barn. Almost everyone in the professional sports world calls each other by their last names, whether they’re players or not.
“Thanks,” I reply, moving past her and into the office. Coach Blake sits behind a large wooden desk, wearing a black Yeti jacket, her dark hair pulled back. It’s the exact same thing she’s worn every time I’ve seen her, and I immediately feel guilty for noticing it.
I don’t think I ever thought about what Coach Mack was wearing.
“Coach,” I say as I step in front of her desk.
Her piercing blue eyes flick from her computer screen up to meet my gaze, and I feel the hair on my arms rise.
I guess I’m more anxious about this meeting than I realized.
“Kane. Please, take a seat,” she replies, gesturing to the chair closest to me.
She locks her screen and turns her chair to face me, giving me her full attention.
“Doc just sent me all your intake documents. You’re officially cleared to play. Welcome to the Yeti.”
A wave of relief rolls through me; muscles I didn’t even realize were tense relaxing.
“Thanks, Coach.”
She nods. “Now, I know you’re a solid player in your own right, but as you might’ve guessed, that’s not the only reason you’re here.”
“You need a leader for your team.”
“I need a player who’s going to be a leader,” she corrects. “And, apparently, you’re the guy for the job.”
I tilt my head slightly. That’s an interesting way of putting it.
“Apparently?” I ask.
Coach Blake tilts her head as well. “You’re a solid defenseman.
Your turnover rate is practically nonexistent, your gap control is excellent, and your read on developing plays is one of the best I’ve seen.
That said, I need someone to step up on and off the ice to help the team gel.
Our coaching staff is highly competent, and, technically, our players are some of the best out there—even if they’re a bit young.
But they aren’t clicking. Aren’t coming together as a team when they’re on the ice.
Because—much to my annoyance—there is only so much a coaching staff can do to create those connections. That has to come from a player.”
She thinks about it before flicking her gaze back up to meet mine.
“It has to come from you, Kane.”
I nod. “I can do that.”
“I know you can.” Her eyes search mine, and I swear a flicker of disappointment moves across her features before she moves on. “But I also haven’t seen a lot of evidence of that in the film I’ve watched recently.”
I clench my fist against my thigh, forcing myself not to react, her words like a brand against my ego.
What is this deficiency in me that coaches seem to spot but I remain blissfully unaware of?
“Okay. Can you be more specific?” I ask, something building in my chest, causing the air between us to feel more alive.
“Of course. You’re smart, and you play well.
You’re consistent. But I need more than that.
As I’m sure you likely guessed, my plan is to put you on the first line with Li.
Evan is solid, even though he doesn’t trust his instincts as much as he should.
But the second line needs just as much of a veteran presence as the first does. They all do.”
“Okay,” I say, not hiding the skepticism from my voice.
I’m not the fucking coach. How does she expect me to impact the lines I’m not even on?
After years of putting my head down, focusing on what I can control, this feels wrong.
Like wearing a skate that’s too big or playing with someone else’s stick.
Coach Blake gives me a small smile, as if she can read my discomfort, and something tells me it’s not something that she shares often. Then she starts walking me through it. The defensemen on the team. The support they need.
“You’re going to be paired with Li. He has good instincts, but he questions them. Overanalyzes everything. He does best when he knows what to expect, but, as we both know, that’s not hockey.”
“I can’t make him trust himself,” I grumble.
Coach Blake’s dark eyebrows dip toward each other.
“And yet that’s exactly what I need you to do.
But you can’t do it through drills or talking to him about it.
He grasps it in theory. You need to show him that you trust his instincts.
If he respects you, which I have no doubt he will, that will have more impact on his trust in himself than anything else. ”
With each word, I not only get a clearer sense of what she needs from me—and what likely caused me to be looked over for captain by the Cyclones—but also how Finley Blake was the woman who managed to break this particular glass ceiling.
She’s fucking smart, not only when it comes to the game but the players.
And despite the frigid exterior I saw at practice yesterday, I’m starting to realize it might be an act.
She seems to truly care about the men who play for her.
At one point, she even pulls up video clips of Larsen on her computer and walks me through what they’ve been working on.
“He’s young, but he’s damn strong. See how explosive he is?
He doesn’t need you to tell him what to do; he’s had coaches his whole life.
He needs to know that when he does something stupid, you’ve got his back.
Because he is going to do something stupid.
And he’ll do it so hard and fast that it creates waves of chaos on the ice. ”
By the time my meeting with her is done, I have an entirely different perspective of what it means to be a leader on a team.
And I can practically see that C on my black-and-blue Yeti jersey.