Chapter 8 Brendan
EIGHT
Brendan
“Crushers! You’re going down!” a Charlotte fan screams behind me.
I turn toward the crowd, which is packed with Charlotte Checkers fans heckling our team during warm-ups. Hockey fans are some of the most passionate sports fans around, and I’m used to blocking out the taunts.
The only bright spot is catching sight of Scarlett in the staff box, her eyes wide as she takes in the Crushers hitting the ice for warm-ups. When she notices me staring, I quickly turn my attention to the whiteboard in my hands, trying to look like I was studying plays instead of checking her out.
The emotional part of me wants to spend as much time as possible with her, while the rational part knows I have a job to do—a job that could disappear if I screw this up. That’s why I made it very clear before we boarded the bus that I’m here to coach.
But then she fell asleep against me, her face so peaceful and sweet, and I didn’t want to wake her up. Her presence soothed the buzz of anxiety that’s always humming at a low level inside me. She was exactly what I needed before this game.
“I think you’re more nervous than Morgan,” Assistant Coach Jakowski observes, nodding toward our goalie doing his usual pregame stretches by the net.
“I’m not nervous.”
It’s only partially true. I’m not worried about the game. I’m anxious because Scarlett’s watching me coach for the first time. Will she think I’m unqualified like Jakowski obviously does? All I want is to turn around at the end of the game and see her smiling because we pulled off a win.
Jakowski crosses his arms, watching the players circle the ice.
With his stocky build, receding hairline, and overly large ears, he’s not exactly the picture of athletic authority.
The guys call him Coach Dumbo behind his back.
It’s partly why I’ve been channeling my inner drill sergeant with the team—to prove I’m as tough as the other coaches.
That’s what my uncle wants from me. After everything he did for me after my father’s death, the least I can do is not let him down.
“Typical beginner’s response.” Jakowski throws a sideways glance my way. “The nerves.”
“Beginner?” I lift an eyebrow. “I’ve been working with these guys for several years as their conditioning coach.”
“That’s not real coaching.” His dismissive tone makes my fists clench. The man despises me, because I’m related to the owner and got promoted over his buddy who’d been kissing Rafael’s butt for a decade.
Jaxon pulls over to the boards, giving his knee a rest between drills.
Jakowski narrows his eyes. “What is Jaxon Chance doing?”
“Resting his knee before the game.”
“Well, he needs to get that knee fixed or find another career,” Jakowski mutters before walking away to chew Jaxon out for taking a break.
“Don’t let Jakowski get under your skin,” Head Coach Jenkins says as he joins me watching the team. “He’s a first-class jerk, but he knows the game.”
“Well, don’t retire anytime soon, Coach. Because I’m pretty sure his first move as head coach would be figuring out how to fire me.”
Jenkins barks out a laugh. “He’d be an idiot to try.
You’ve got too much potential. That’s why your uncle pushed for your promotion.
” Jenkins glances toward Jakowski, who’s lecturing Rourke and Tate about defensive positioning now.
“Jakowski knows the game. But he doesn’t understand how to build a team. ”
I watch Logan Piper practice his shot and then hustle across the ice.
Coach leans against the wall, resting his forearms on the edge. “You need to prove yourself, Marco, not just to your uncle, but to everyone affiliated with this team. Show them you weren’t promoted because of your family connections.”
I frown, looking directly at him. “What are you saying, Coach?”
He glances over his shoulder before leaning closer. “How we perform this season—whether we make the playoffs—might determine if you keep this position. It’s not my call to make. You need to show you’re willing to do whatever it takes for this team. Understand?”
I stare at him for a few seconds. My entire future with the Crushers hangs on our performance this season. And right now, I’m giving Jakowski too many excuses to prove I don’t belong here.
“I understand, sir.”
Coach Jenkins nods. “Good. Then let’s win this game tonight.”
As soon as the puck drops, the rivalry heats up as it flies across the ice and bodies jostle for control. There’s a lot of pushing and shoving early in the game, but the score stays locked at zero as the goalies block shot after shot.
Late in the first period, Miles lets a goal slip past him, causing Charlotte fans to begin chanting, “You suck!”
My heart goes out to the kid. He’s one of the younger guys and still doesn’t have the bulletproof confidence that comes with experience.
During the second period we tie it up, which injects everyone with some energy. We still have a shot at winning. But by the third period, the first line is starting to wear down.
Right before the final puck drop, I glance up to find Scarlett’s attention completely riveted on the action.
She’s perched on the edge of her seat, biting her nails, trying to catch every detail.
I force myself to focus on the face-off, to forget she’s watching, even though her presence is the only thing I can think about besides Coach Jenkins’ warning.
During the opening minutes of the final period, Riley grabs a loose puck in the offensive zone. Even though MacPherson is open on his left, Riley goes for the goal himself, just as an opponent slams into him. He loses possession right as a Checkers center swoops in to steal it.
Jakowski swears under his breath. “He should’ve passed it to MacPherson for the shot.” Then he shoots me a look.
“What?”
“You’re the one who’s been encouraging Riley to showboat out there.”
“I never told him that. I said he’d be a better player if he actually pushed himself during shooting drills.”
“Scoring is not his main responsibility,” Jakowski reminds me. “Everybody knows that—except you, apparently.”
I clench my jaw and turn back to the game. He doesn’t realize that Riley asked me to help him with shooting drills so he could contribute more to the team.
Just then, the Checkers left wing loses control, and Leo steals the puck, racing down the ice and unleashing a shot that finds the back of the net before the goalie can react fast enough. Our fans go wild.
“Anderson looks good tonight.” Coach Jenkins looks over at me. “I think whatever you’re doing with Leo is helping. He’s usually burning out by the third period.”
Jakowski’s pretending not to notice, but the red creeping up his neck tells me he heard.
I may not know everything about coaching yet, but I do understand how to help players. Something Jakowski still hasn’t learned.
The rest of the period is a blur of bodies jostling and players chasing down the puck. At one point, Foster blocks a shot with his hip and then feeds a pass to MacPherson. Twenty seconds later, the puck is in the net and Crushers are up by one.
As the clock runs down, Miles Morgan blocks a shot that’s maybe the best save he’s ever had. When the horn finally blows, we pull off a win—barely. But it’s still a win.
As our fans cheer, I look up into the crowd and spot Scarlett on her feet with her hands raised, a huge smile on her face. Our eyes meet for a second, and there’s pride on her face. For the first time since becoming assistant coach, I leave the game with a smile.
After the media interviews and Coach Jenkins’ post-game speech, the team filters out for the night.
I catch Miles before he escapes, slapping him on the back. “Good game, Morgan.”
“Really?” He lifts his eyebrows, looking cautiously hopeful.
“Yes, really. Way to save the entire game at the end.”
“Thanks, Bren—” His eyes flick nervously to check if I’m going to correct him. “I mean, Coach Marco.”
I let it go and head toward the exit, when Leo intercepts me in the hallway. “Hey, you coming out with the team tonight?”
“Can’t. Need to analyze game footage.”
“Come on, Coach, take a night off. Remember what fun is? That thing normal humans do for entertainment?”
I think about Scarlett’s earlier comment about saying yes to the guys occasionally. Ever since I became an assistant coach, I’ve been turning down their invitations to go out so I can catch up on game prep, especially since Jakowski has years of experience on me.
“Sorry, Anderson. Jakowski will eat me alive if I’m not ready for the coaches’ meeting in the morning.”
From a side door, I see Lauren sneak Scarlett into the hallway that’s clearly marked for players and staff only.
Her eyes light up when she spots me. “Hey, great game, AC!”
Lauren tilts her head with interest. “Is that your official nickname—AC? Because we could do a social media post introducing you to fans with your new title.”
“Actually, he rejected my other suggestion.” Scarlett flashes me a knowing smirk. “Isn’t that right, Marco?”
I shake my head and chuckle. “Something like that.”
Lauren looks between us. “You’re coming to dinner tonight, right? It’s team tradition after wins.”
Scarlett shifts toward me. “Are you going?” She gives me those wide brown eyes that make turning her down difficult.
But then I picture Jakowski’s smug expression tomorrow morning when he’s prepared with detailed analysis while I’m scrambling to catch up. Given what Jenkins told me about my job security, I can’t afford to look unprepared.
Plus, spending more time with Scarlett makes it harder to keep my feelings in check. Ever since she fell asleep on me on the bus, I can’t get her out of my head. Her scent is still on my shirt and I keep noticing it, which is not helping either.
I rub the back of my neck. “I can’t go tonight. I typically get room service while reviewing game footage so we’re ready for tomorrow.”
“Oh.”
The disappointment that crosses her face twists my stomach into knots. She doesn’t know about the political dynamics I’m navigating, nor how hard it is to tell her no.
“I guess I could hang out with Lauren, even though I’ll be the world’s most obvious third wheel.”
“You won’t be intruding!” Lauren says.
“Are you sure?” Scarlett crinkles her nose. “Maybe I should just head back to the hotel.”
Imagining her sitting in bed, watching TV while she eats room service, feels like a problem I could fix. But that’s also the thing that keeps getting me into trouble.
“You will not sit in your hotel room alone,” Lauren says firmly.
Scarlett bites her lip. “Fine, I’ll go.”
Jaxon, Logan, and Miles walk by us, headed for the exit. All single, decent-looking athletes. “Is the entire team going?” I ask Lauren.
“Yeah,” Lauren says. “Everyone except you.”
The thought of Scarlett spending the evening with them while I watch game footage feels wrong on so many levels.
Scarlett looks at me one last time before heading after Lauren. “Don’t worry, Brendan. I’ll be fine tonight.”
Watching her leave, I last about two seconds.
So much for keeping my distance.
“Hey, Rossi.”
She wheels around. “Yeah?”
“Remember what you said earlier about hanging out more with the team?” I cross my arms, aware that I’m about to do the exact thing I told myself I wouldn’t. “I think you were right. I’ll come tonight.”
Apparently, I’m only focused on my job—until she walks away.
“Really? Coach Marco is going to show us his fun side?” She lifts an eyebrow. “This I have to see.”