Chapter 19
AVA
Awful bold of you to assume this is a good time for a team session.
Yeah, well, something tells me that my father’s handling of the situation will be…less than delicate.
Maybe a proper ass-chewing will get them in line.
Or maybe it’ll push them further apart.
They just dropped gloves in the middle of a game. I’d say that’s as far apart as it gets.
Oh, for god’s sake. Why am I arguing with myself?
I raise my hand to knock again, but the locker room door is yanked open.
“What?” Adam’s face softens when he sees me.
“Hey, Coach. Rough night.”
He rakes his fingers through his hair, looking spent. “I’ve certainly had better.”
It’s as good of an opening as I’m going to get. “I figured you might need a hand.”
“What gave you that idea?” He turns to glare back into the locker room, and when his attention returns to me, his features remain stony.
I’ve only known him for a few months, but I’ve never seen him this angry before.
“Look, I appreciate you stopping by, but this is beyond the scope of mental performance coaching.”
The comment stings, but I try not to take it personally. He’s had a crap night, and the team has put him in a crap position. Anyone would feel defensive in his situation.
“What happened on the ice tonight sucks. Addressing it now, in real-time, while the emotions are still raw, will prevent it from festering.” I meet his steely gaze, willing him to trust me.
“With any luck, I might actually be able to break through and find out what’s really going on with this team. ”
“Ava, you’ve been working with these knuckleheads for weeks, and look at them…” He crosses his arms and sighs. “They’re no better off than when we started. Hell, they might be worse.”
His words land hard, but even more devastating is the disappointment in his voice. Does he really think so little of my work? Of me?
It’s bad enough having Banks’s words hanging over my head, but to know my own father doesn’t believe in me? It might just be the knockout blow.
You are so much more than the work you do.
I’ve always struggled to separate my worth from my work. Growing up, I assumed it was an environmental trait, but staring at my father, I can’t help but wonder if I was wrong.
It doesn’t matter. What matters is the guys in that locker room. I know I can get through to them. I am getting through to them.
Just this week, Lindholm came to me for relaxation techniques because he’s stressed about his wife’s pregnancy, and Johnson revealed he’s apprehensive about in-game contact after a nasty concussion at the end of last season.
We’re making progress, even if it’s slow.
I can’t give up now.
Remembering what Emerson said about hockey players, I square my shoulders and pull myself up to my full height. “If that’s truly how you feel, then it can’t hurt to try. It’s not like things can get any worse.”
“Fine.” Adam throws his hands up in defeat. “You deal with them. I’m going to take a walk before I say something I regret, and then I have to go fend off the media.”
He stalks down the hall, and I do my best to push our conversation from my mind. I can deal with my own feelings later. Right now, I need to focus on the team, and my feelings have no place in that conversation.
I slip into the locker room to find the assistant coaches hovering by the door. They look as uncertain as I feel, and I dismiss them with a confidence that is entirely manufactured.
Once they’re gone, I dump my tote bag on an empty bench and shift my focus to the players.
“We need to talk about what happened on the ice tonight, and no one is leaving this room until we’ve sorted it out.
” Rousseau starts to protest, but I hold up a hand to silence him.
“I don’t care if it takes all night. I have nowhere else to be. ”
“What is there to talk about?” Kristiansen asks. “Fedorov lost his shit and cost us the game.”
“Dude, we were already trailing, so don’t try to pin this on Fedy,” Bates says.
“Fuck off, Bates. You know as well as I do that the first line could’ve tied it up if they weren’t so distracted.” Kristiansen shoots him a disgusted look, which is somewhat diminished by the ice pack pressed to his left eye. “It’s called momentum, maybe you’ve heard of it?”
“Okay,” I say, raising my voice to prevent any further bickering. “Can you tell me what happened, Fedorov? What caused the fight between you and Kristiansen?”
“Everybody knows they call him Bash because he likes to bust heads and he does not tolerate dirty play, but when he comes to Atlanta, all of a sudden he is angel? I do not believe it.” He shoots Kristiansen a dirty look.
“He has been taking it easy all season, and when his old team comes to play, he does not care that they make dirty hits on Baby Glider? Where is the loyalty?”
“Let’s—”
One word. That’s as far as I get before Chromiak cuts me off.
“It’s probably still in New York,” he says, “with his personality. It’s not like he’s made any effort to be a real part of this team since he got here.”
Forey snorts. “Like you have room to talk, Chromiak. If the D was performing, Boosh wouldn’t be fighting for his life out there.”
“Are you serious right now? There are six fucking defenders on this team, and you’re calling me out?” Chromiak stands and jabs himself in the chest with his thumb. “I have more blocked shots than anyone on this team.”
Irritation skitters up my spine. Why are they like this? Is there something in the water at the rink? “Guys, it’s really not productive to—”
“Don’t fuckin’ drag the rest of us into this,” Hardy barks, shaking his head. “I know my job, and I’m doing just fine.”
“Yeah, how many shots have you blocked? Better yet, how many goals have you scored this season?”
Hardy climbs to his feet. “More than your dumb ass, which you’d know if you were paying attention on the bench instead of trolling for bunnies.”
“Guys!” Knox shouts. “Knock it off! This is counterproductive!”
They ignore him too, but it’s no comfort. Is Banks right? Am I not cut out for this? I knew working in the pros would be more intense than working with college athletes, but this is ridiculous.
“Fuck this,” Kristiansen says. “I’d have been better off in the AHL than coming here.”
“Oh, please. That’s the biggest load of horseshit I’ve ever heard,” Dvorak says, rolling his eyes. “Unless, of course, you’re afraid to put the hammer down on your old team.”
“I’d say it’s less of a hammer and more of a Zamboni,” McGinnis says, smirking.
Kristiansen whirls on him. “And that’s why you’re constantly targeted! Chirp all you want, but you better be able to back it up on the ice, because this isn’t the NCAA.”
“Hey!” Knox leaps to his feet and jabs a finger toward Kristiansen. “I don’t give a shit what Ginny said on the ice. There was no call for the hits he took tonight. He could’ve been seriously injured, and that is not fucking acceptable.”
“Exactly!” McGinnis says, crossing his arms and looking far too smug. “Besides, be so for real, they’re targeting me because I was the number one draft pick and my moves are smooth as hell.”
As if on cue, the room erupts. It’s total chaos. I don’t even know who’s shouting. Maybe all of them. Insults fly, and when they start shoving one another, it hits me: I’m failing.
I am failing at the job I love. No matter what I try, I can’t get through to these guys. My father is disappointed. My boss hates me. And I can’t even be in a relationship with the man I want because I’m too invested in a job that I. Am. Failing. At.
I press the tips of my fingers to my temples. I did not go to school for six years or bust my ass day in and day out swallowing snide comments from misogynistic creeps to have it all blow up in my face now.
Anger bubbles up from the pit of my stomach. This is not okay. None of this is okay. I am not okay. Angry tears sting the backs of my eyes, and when they spill over, streaming down my cheeks, it only makes me madder.
I grab the closest thing to me—a puck—and hurl it with a feral scream. It bounces off the locker room door with a thud and lands on the floor.
God, that felt good.
I swipe the tears from my cheeks. Then I take another puck from the bucket and throw it with all my might.
Direct hit.
Adrenaline floods my system, and I grab another. I have no idea why the pucks are here, but I’m not about to let them go to waste.
This is bullshit.
Bang!
The team spiraling.
Bang!
The fact that I’m the only one who seems to care.
Bang!
The fact that my own father doesn’t believe in me.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Nothing I’ve done has made a damn bit of difference.
I draw back my arm and send another puck hurtling toward the door.
It makes the same satisfying thud, and I reach for a fresh one.
Fuck Banks.
Bang!
“Guys, are you seeing this?”
I don’t know who’s speaking, and I don’t care. I’ve tried getting through to them, and what do I have to show for my efforts? An on-ice fight that will make the Gliders the laughingstock of the league, and me along with them.
I hurl another puck at the door, and the thump is suddenly louder.
Because the idiots have stopped fighting.
The locker room is silent except for the sounds of the pucks hitting the door, which is somehow even more satisfying.
“Dude. She looks just like Coach when she’s angry. I’m not the only one who sees it, right?”
There’s a murmur of agreement.
“She throws pucks just like he does too.”
That last one is Knox. I’d know his voice anywhere, but still, I don’t stop.
If I’m going to get fired, I might as well go out in a blaze of glory. I throw another puck, savoring the thud that reverberates through the room.
“Oh, shit. I…I, uh, think we screwed up.”
“You think?” Knox snarls. “We need to fix this right fucking now.”
“This feels like a captain duty,” Dvorak says, clapping him on the back.
Knox approaches, but I’m on a roll now, and I still have eight pucks left in my bucket.