Chapter 39
Finley
“Coach Blake?” Paige says, popping her head into my office.
I look up from my computer. “Yes?”
“Ken Peterson is on the line and would like to talk to you.”
“Did they say why?” I ask, my mind flying through every option that it could be. Very few of them are good.
I wish I could disappear. To drop off the face of the earth and then resurface again in five to ten years when I am no longer a story. Not because we lost. Though the pain of doing everything right and still losing still smarts at unsuspecting moments, even now, almost three days later.
We were disciplined. Professional. And we still failed.
But because I can’t shake the hollow feeling that settled in behind my sternum weeks ago when I didn’t hold myself to the same standard as the rest of the team. The one that I’ve codified in the culture of accountability.
Paige shakes her head. “No. But it didn’t seem… important.”
She says the last word like she knows what I’m thinking. Like everyone is thinking: Is this loss going to be the end for me?
“Okay,” I reply, taking a calming breath before picking up my phone. “Hello, Mr. Peterson.”
“Coach Blake, how are you today?”
“Doing fine, and yourself?”
“I can’t complain. Look, I know you’re a busy woman, so I’ll cut to the chase.
I know this is your first year as a head coach, and that wasn’t the ending that we were hoping for.
But I’ve talked to White, and I just want you to know that I’m pleased with how the season ended up.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, I want to get the Cup.
But this was a rebuilding year for us, and we knew that going in.
So still being in the running until after the last game of the regular season, it’s as good as we could’ve hoped for.
Plus, viewership is up: we didn’t have a game after mid-February that wasn’t completely sold out. ”
“I do think we’re in a good place to move forward.” My fear starts to disappear as I realize he might not be calling to fire me.
“We are. The press around you has died down some, and with the stability you and your culture of accountability have brought, I fully expect us to make the playoffs next year. So don’t go sharing your résumé with anyone, ya hear?
” he asks, giving the old-man chortle I’ve come to know means he’s amused at his own joke.
“Yes, sir.”
With that, we say our goodbyes. I hang up, his final words ringing through my head.
Yes. This is… I should be excited. Pleased.
It’s the call I wanted and could barely dream of getting after not making it to the playoffs.
And there is a small part of me that is excited.
The part that wants this more than anything.
But the bigger part of me is crumbling. My chest aching at his praise of the culture I’ve intentionally been building here.
The one that says to own up to your mistakes, to admit to them, and to learn from them.
“You have to be in the press room in five,” Paige reminds me, sticking her head through my door. “Everything okay?”
“Good,” I answer, giving her what I hope is a reassuring smile.
I walk into the hallway, surprised to see Larsen and Li, both in suits. “What are you doing here?” I ask, wiping my sweaty palms onto my pants.
“Press,” Li replies.
I pull in a deep breath, trying to get air past the lump in my throat. “And you suited up for it?”
“Of course!” Larsen replies enthusiastically. “I knew you’d be in your game-day suit. Culture of accountability, Coach. You wouldn’t ask us to do something you wouldn’t do, so why should we ask you to do something we wouldn’t do?”
My nose starts to tingle as the need to cry tries to overwhelm me. I bite the inside of my cheek hard. “Right.”
“You okay, Coach?” Li asks, his dark eyes taking me in.
I nod, forcing out a cough. “Think I might be coming down with something.”
We walk the rest of the way to the press room, Larsen’s rambling filling the space between us, even if it refuses to fill the hole in my chest, the one that his comment made larger.
I go through the motions of the end-of-season interviews, and when I get back to my office, I pull out my cell phone only to discover I have a voicemail from my dad. Worried something happened with his flight home, I press play.
“Hey, Finley, just heard from a couple of contacts that the Yeti are planning on extending your contract. Congratulations. It never would’ve happened in my day, but I guess the Yeti likes what you’re doing there.
Both men I talked to mentioned your culture of accountability—whatever that is.
Said they think it’s going to pay off big in a couple of years. Anyway, good work.”
Good work.
It might be the highest praise I’ve ever gotten from my dad. But of course, it has to be about the culture of accountability. I swallow hard, rubbing my face with my hands as I try not to get distracted.
Get it together, Finley.
I move through the rest of my day in a haze, trying to find the excitement I should be feeling from the calls from Ken and my dad, but it’s lost beneath my shaking hands.
The unease in my chest. The way my mind is constantly pulled from the present to the memory of what I did with Beckett.
The guilt I feel for my decision, and my inability to regret the time I spent with him.
I keep hearing the players say, “culture of accountability” in the teasing way they do. Like it was a catchphrase they all found a little funny. Like it should maybe have a hashtag in front of it. But, fuck, they’ve bought in to it, and so have I.
I’ve sweated through my shirt and my suit jacket by the time I get back to my office that evening, and I realize I can’t do this. I can’t feel like this every day for the rest of my life.
The weight of it settles within me. With almost manic clarity, I realize what I need to do. I need to confess, and I need to resign, so the team isn’t forced to fire me.
In a new email, I type a resignation letter to White and Mr. Peterson, one that explains what I’ve done and why I can no longer lead the team. But something about it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel like I’m holding myself to the accountability I’ve preached since day one on the job.
Reading through it again, I make a few small edits, my mind continually caught on the words “my decision to step down is in the best interests of the team…”
The draw to send it sucks me in: I just want to have it done with.
Then I can disappear, taking with me the burning guilt over the fact that, if any player confessed something like this to me, I would tell them they had to turn themselves in and let the system work out what the repercussions are. Culture of accountability, and all.
I hover the cursor over the large blue “send” button when I realize I am in no condition to be making this decision.
My heart is pounding, my hands shaky. It’s like I chugged fifteen cups of coffee and then walked through a haunted house.
The relief I expect to feel isn’t there.
Instead, there is a slow trickle of ice falling down my sternum that feels wrong.
I don’t examine it, though. With the push of a button, I save the email to my drafts.