Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Lennon
Ididn’t give myself much time to think about nerves in the lead up to my first away game as an NHL coach.
I had been so focused on ensuring that the team was ready that the idea of having twenty thousand out-of-state people watching your every move hadn’t been something I had bothered preparing for.
But now that I can feel their eyes on me, watching as I manage the lines, trying to finesse the plays we had practiced in the weeks prior at home, I feel like I could vomit.
Or pass out. Potentially both.
I am so out of my depth it's not even funny.
I can feel a whine crawling up my throat as the stress of the night wears me down.
But I fight it. I refuse to let it control me.
To let it be the thing that has me hightailing it out of here.
It is just nerves. Just first game-day jitters.
That nagging anxiety that threatens to bring you to your knees.
Home games are different. The local supporters are more than happy to shout and support the Vedena Cardinals. But here, they don’t like us so much.
I shouldn’t be worried, though. We are already up two—nil halfway through the second period.
The Gators have always been an impressive team, but this season, they seem to be lacking.
Their center is far too aggressive, which is not something I would normally point out in a player, but this one is an exception.
He is a liability to his team. This anger is forcing him to make errors that my players can take advantage of.
It only seems to piss him off even more.
I call a time-out, motioning for the team to gather at the bench.
“Coach?” Tyson questions, skating over after being on the ice for the last few minutes.
“54 is getting reckless. He’s making errors every single time he’s in possession of the puck. Volkov, Woods, Burk, Smith, and Boone. I need you five to go out there and take advantage of his fuck ups. Encourage errors that will see him sent to the box.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Holden chuckles, tapping his stick on the ground.
It’s an arrogant move, one that I would have berated in any other moment, but not this.
The team needs all the hype they can get.
There are a lot of boos happening from the crowd.
I don’t want to add to that unless it’s absolutely necessary.
Call me soft, but I know how the male ego works.
And they don’t need to cop it on both ends tonight. One is enough.
I’ve seen how the center plays. Analyzed the air he has about him when he’s got something to win for.
I can see it now. The frustration. The way his shoulders tense beneath his pads every time possession slips away from the Gator’s forward and defense.
It makes something in my chest spark. An excitement that has me far too ready to watch these next five minutes before the period is over, play out.
I turn to Sasha, who has played exceptionally well, though I’m not surprised.
He plays his damn best every single game.
Gives his all to his team. He always has.
He’s the Captain, and rightfully so. The man bleeds for the Cardinals in a way that very few players do.
There isn’t a single player in that locker room who wouldn’t follow him into battle if he asked.
It’s admirable, I won’t lie. As infuriating as the Alpha can be, his loyalty is unquestionable.
He carries the weight of the arena on his shoulders without complaint, even if that same weight seems intent on crushing him half the time.
Which is why the brief glimpse of anger I caught on his face yesterday morning had unsettled me more than I care to admit.
It wasn’t the normal kind. Not frustration after a bad drill or annoyance over conditioning.
It had been something far deeper. Like he was fighting a war solo.
Whatever the change in him was, I’m all too happy for it right now.
I don’t need that attitude out there on the ice.
We are seeing a prime example of how unchecked anger can be used against us in real time.
I don’t want the media trying to play the blame game and pointing their fingers my way if one of my players lost control.
I want them to watch the way they play. Watch their skill as the scoreboard goes up and the opposition stays stagnant because they can’t seem to get their shit together.
I want them to talk about hockey. My coaching.
Not my designation. The fact that I am Patrick Gilmore’s daughter will be discussed whether I like it or not, and the last thing I need is for our first away game to be a fucking dog's breakfast. I need to make my father proud.
Need to show the world that I, his legacy, was the perfect fucking choice for my players.
My team.
Because they are mine now.
Not in the same way my father once claimed, but close enough.
They are my players. My responsibility. I will guide them.
Protect them. Celebrate their victories and drag them kicking and screaming through every failure if I have to, because I know they’ll eat each other alive long before the media ever gets the chance.
That's just what Alphas and Betas do. They tear apart weakness, and I want the world to see that this little Omega knows her fucking shit.
“Holden, Burk, I want the slot locked down.” I raise a brow at the second-best defenceman we have.
“Fifty-four’s running hot, and thirteen and ninety-eight have enough skill to see this through.
Keep them outside, finish your checks and protect Keller.
Nobody gets a free look at our net. Understood?
” Both Alphas nod, easily accepting my assignment.
I had been expecting an argument or a challenge, any kind of disagreement against my plan from Volkov.
Instead, all I get is a single nod. The movement is so out of character that half the bench turns to stare at him in disbelief.
The players break away, vaulting over the boards in one smooth motion, their skates cutting across the ice as they take their positions.
I step back behind the boards, arms folded across my chest, watching as the linesman skates into the circle and prepares to drop the puck.
Decker Tallas, one of my assistant coaches, settles beside me behind the bench.
Out of the entire coaching staff, he has been the only one who hasn’t fought me every single step of the way.
He has challenged me, sure, but that’s only because he spent years working beside Dad.
I practically grew up around the Alpha. Even when I was in high school, he had already been talking about stepping back and enjoying retirement.
Instead, he somehow found himself back behind the bench in a reduced role.
“You are changing things around here, kid.”
I shoot him a sidelong glance. “I don’t know if that's a compliment or not, Decker.”
He chuckles while officials prepare for the draw before turning back to me.
“Volkov is a tricky bastard. He has more talent in his pinky finger than half the league. He used to give your dad grey hairs.”
I frown, turning a questioning look toward the Alpha beside me, “I don’t know what you mean, Decker. Volkov has done nothing but be an arrogant asshole from the moment I walked through those locker doors. We haven’t exactly gone head-to-head yet, but he hasn’t been all that accommodating either.”
Decker shakes his head, looking almost disappointed that I’m missing whatever point he’s trying to make.
“He isn’t challenging you, Lennon.” His eyes flick back to the ice before settling on me once more. “You gave him an order tonight that he didn’t fight you on it. No one has been able to achieve that. Not even when he was a cocksure rookie with bright ideas for the team. No one but you.”
I turn my attention back to the game, watching as Sasha slams the Gator’s left winger into the boards, gaining possession of the puck before feeding it to an awaiting Holden breaking back up the ice.
Sasha Volkov’s pigheadedness when it came to hockey wasn’t new information to me.
Going into this job, I knew that he would challenge me.
Hell, I had expected it. I prepared myself as well as I could in the short time I had before arriving.
But now that Decker has brought it back to my attention, I find myself replaying every interaction we’ve had over the last few weeks.
Which isn’t saying much. Other than being late on the first day, an offense that earned him little more than a reprimand and me a grunt and reluctant nod in return, we haven’t exactly spoken.
I talk. He grunts. End of interaction. Hardly what I would call a legitimate conversation.
While Decker seems to believe it’s a good thing, I can’t exactly say that I am all too fond of the Alpha’s sudden willingness to agree with me. Especially not if he has been known to contest plays and question coaches and their judgment calls in the past.
No, that little piece of information is something I need to tuck away for future reference.
For the moment, I’ll settle for pretending I don’t notice the strange intensity in Sasha’s eyes every time I catch him watching me.
Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle only he can see.
Either that or take me out. Both are possible with him.
And why do I like it?
Refocusing on the game before my thoughts spiral any further, I turn my attention back to the ice.
Just as I had been anticipating, number fifty-four continues to make reckless plays, his anger becoming visible to more than just the coaching staff and the players.
Murmuring from the fans behind me catches my attention.
“He is going to fucking kill someone.”
“They need to get him off the ice.”
“He’s fucking lost it.”
“Where the hell are the refs?”