Epilogue
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phileastonfanclub: Re-sign Phil! Re-sign Phil! No, but seriously. Dude rehabbed a whole-ass ACL in six months. If they trade him now, it would suck so bad.
“So, how are you feeling about the start of the season?” Michelle asked brightly.
“Didn’t we just talk about that for an hour?” Phil asked.
“No, I mean, like. Are the guys looking good?”
“Oh.” Phil considered. After the playoff disappointment of last year, it was hard to say.
They’d made it to the Conference Finals, but they’d lost to Seattle.
His last game would forever be a game six loss in their home arena, and it had taken a week of moping for that to sting less.
Still, shortly after the New York Pioneers had taken the Cup for the third time in their history, the trial against Trout finally ended, and Ben was able to publish his articles on the matter.
Sports media called it a miracle that the Sea Lions made it to the playoffs at all, let alone to the final four.
With the owner, GM, and the coaching staff all being replaced, summer trades were minimal despite everyone’s fears.
No one in the new front office really knew the players, so no one knew what to do with them.
They’d lost Mats to Calgary, which was a wrench, but otherwise, the team looked solid.
Phil still wished Pulvermacher had faced the consequences for his actions, but by the time the news broke, he’d long since accepted the job in Arizona.
They hadn’t fired him on the grounds that he hadn’t placed any bets himself and had, instead, tried to uncover the betting.
As for the homophobia he’d displayed by choosing to leave rather than support the team’s work with the LGBTQIA+ community, well, Arizona hadn’t even bothered commenting.
Phil would love to comment, but he’d sat through several media strategy sessions with management recently, all of which told him he should not put more fuel on the fire.
Michelle had heard all of his comments about that situation already, though, probably at greater length than she wanted to.
“I think the team is ready to prove to everyone that they can go all the way,” he said. “I know I am.”
“Remember to—”
“Focus on the fun of the game, not how we’re perceived by everyone. I know,” Phil interrupted. “I thought we finished with therapy for the day?”
“Sorry.” Michelle grinned ruefully. “Force of habit. I’ll see you in two weeks?”
He gave her a little salute as he walked out the door.
On his way home, he stopped by the butcher’s and picked up his order.
One of the compromises he’d made with Ben about being a normal family was to keep an eye on food waste.
Before, Phil had a standing order that kept his pantry fully stocked at all times, but he had to admit there had been a road trip or two when a few things had gone bad before he could get to them.
The compromise meant sitting down once a week to plan out their meals and order the necessities for those.
Anything else they wanted or needed, they had to pick up at the store like everyone else.
The upside meant seeing the expression on the butcher’s face when he handed over Phil’s order, which contained enough meat to feed a hockey team.
“Ben?” he called into the house when he got home. “Charlie? You home?”
“Living room,” Charlie called back.
After Tetris-ing all the steaks, ribs, and burgers to fit in the fridge, Phil wandered over.
He found Charlie hanging streamers from the lamp. A “Go Sea Lions” sign hung in one of the windows.
“You said I could decorate,” Charlie said a little sheepishly.
“And it looks great.” Ever since Camille had taken the more ostentatious decorative elements, such as the big candle holders and the rug from the middle of the room, as well as most of the art and all of the books, they had slowly been filling the house with things one or all of them liked.
Ben had picked up a patchwork quilt in the Castro, now draped over the couch, and on a recent trip to the mall, Charlie had found and framed a Where’s Waldo in the style of Van Gogh, which now hung on the wall. “Where’s Ben?”
“Taking a headache nap before the invasion of the hockey players.”
Phil shook his head. “Guess that answers my question about how his day went.”
After several local newspapers ran his articles covering the Sea Lions scandal, Ben managed to turn one into a steady job.
An independent paper in Berkeley had offered him a column about a guy who hated sports reporting on them.
Currently, he was covering baseball season.
He’d declared on day one he wouldn’t become a fan; baseball might be less loud than hockey, but it lasted longer.
The articles were very funny. Phil would give him that.
So far, the best part of Ben’s transition to a new job was that, ever since finding out Ben had been undercover all year, Charlie thought he was about 1000 percent cooler.
“You know they make those fancy earplugs for concerts and stuff?” Charlie asked. “I think we should get him some.”
“Good call.” Phil made a mental note to look into it. “And our special guest?”
“Hiding in the shed.”
A knock sounded on the glass of the patio door. They turned to find Tom and Jax there, laden with trays. Ever since Jax had revealed he could cook, Phil put him in charge of catering the food for team events Phil wasn’t interested in handling, namely anything he couldn’t throw on the grill.
Phil slid the door open and stepped outside.
Immediately, Artemis barked and barked, trying to either jump on him or through the open door, hindered only by Tom’s tight hold on her leash.
“How’s training going?” Phil asked with raised eyebrows.
“She’s getting there,” Tom told him valiantly, still struggling with the leash. “And we’re taking her to puppy school while we go to training camp, aren’t we, girl?” He crouched as he said it, and thirty-eight pounds of chocolate Labrador immediately attempted to climb into his lap.
Phil and Jax shared an amused glance. Puppy school would be for the best. Tom loved that dog so much he couldn’t deny her anything.
Phil didn’t know if it was her or Jax who had convinced Tom to finally give up his bachelor pad in Palo Alto, but he and Jax had spent the summer moving into a three-story Victorian house only a few streets away from Phil and Ben in Cole Valley.
The easy access to Golden Gate Park and the backyard for the dog were major selling points as far as Phil could tell.
It was the first summer that Tom and Phil hadn’t spent in the gym together.
First, Phil had taken Ben and Charlie to meet his parents. He’d stretched his usual weeklong visit to two and a half, which was pushing it for him, but letting his parents dote on Charlie made it worthwhile.
Then, Tom went on a vacation to the Great Lakes with Jax and his family, meaning they missed each other for a whole month.
Finally, for the first time this year, Tom did his conditioning with Jax, and Phil didn’t train at all. Playoffs had been rougher than he’d hoped on his knee, and he had to give it a well-needed rest before his next challenge.
Instead, Phil joined Tom on his long walks with the dog, something Jax found too boring for words, and Ben had said he wasn’t emotionally ready for after a full year of being forced into regular exercise.
Phil suspected Ben actually wanted to give them time—just the two of them—to rediscover their friendship now they could talk about things other than hockey.
The rookies arrived next, though Phil would have to stop calling them that.
Breezy was in his fourth NHL year now, and both Luca and Howie had made it through their first. At some point over the summer, Breezy even got his hair cut—trim at the sides and longer on top—and now that it didn’t curl all over his ears, he looked a lot less like a puppy and a lot more like a grown man.
Good for him. He’d need that since he would be wearing an A this year, though he didn’t know it yet.
“Phil!” Breezy bounded up to them. The haircut hadn’t changed much else about him, then. “Tell me you signed something.”
“I’ve signed lots of things,” Phil said. “Checks. Pucks. You name it.”
“You’ll be a free agent tomorrow! You can’t leave us!”
“Calm down.” Phil gestured around the garden as Hayes and his wife along with Vanderbilt, his wife, and their baby stepped out through the patio. Dmitriyev followed closely behind them, chatting to the new draft pick, a Russian forward. “Does this look like I’m leaving you?”
“But you haven’t said anything! And there haven’t been any updates on Instagram!”
“He has been checking all morning,” Luca said in a long-suffering tone.
He appeared not to be worried about whether Phil had signed an extension.
Nor should he be; his place with the team was more than secure.
He’d put up twelve playoff points his first go-around.
If the Sea Lions didn’t treat him well, the rest of the NHL would be pounding at his door.
“Let me get the grill fired up and—”
“No way, Phil. That will take you ages,” Tom interrupted. “Tell everyone now so we can get it over with, eh?”
Ben slipped out of the house in a gray T-shirt with a graphic of a cartoon hockey stick that had been snapped in half. The caption read, “Just my pucking luck.” Involuntarily, Phil smiled at him, and Ben smiled back.
“All right,” Phil said. “Is everyone here?”
“Yup!” Mooney called as he entered the garden around the side with the Swedes following hot on his heels. Far more interestingly, Mooney held hands with a woman with freshly dyed hair in pink, purple, and blue. Talk about punching above his weight.
“So, we have a special guest today,” Phil announced.
“Is it Mara?” Breezy asked, eyeing Mooney and his date with a mix of skepticism and glee.
Mara extended her middle finger at him lovingly.
“No, it’s your new head coach.”
Everyone swiveled to stare at Ben.
“Not me,” he said hurriedly. “My coaching days are over. I just live here.”
That raised a few question marks Phil had no interest in resolving. They were quietly out to Tom, Jax, and Breezy, and they acted the same as they always did around each other. Some guys had put two and two together; others didn’t want to see it. Phil didn’t need more fuss in his life.
“Is it you?” Luca asked Phil. “If you didn’t sign…”
Too clever for his own good, that one.
“Oh my God, this is so lame.” Charlie opened the door to the shed. “I’m sorry you had to wait in there for so long.”
“No problem. Hi, guys, nice to meet you. I’m Susannah Lindenberg.
Your new head coach.” Susannah beamed around at everyone.
She was of a height with Luca, shorter than most everyone else, and from her platinum-blonde, perfectly styled hair down to her meticulous outfit, she looked more like one of the WAGs than one of the staff.
When he found out who had gotten the job, Phil had spent an entertaining afternoon watching the highlights of her hockey career, first as a college athlete and then as an Olympian for Canada. She could teach Breezy a thing or two about legal checking, and her slapshot was vicious.
Luca recovered first. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
The other guys followed suit, some with more grace than others.
Susannah presented her professional and coaching history and her goals for the team.
She and Phil had talked through this over coffee, so he knew there was more detail to it than “reliable defensive presence” and “Cup or bust,” but the Cliff notes were good enough for a pre-training-camp garden party.
Phil used the distraction to get the grill going, and by the time everyone had more or less acclimatized to the news, Ben had passed around drinks, and Charlie had introduced Mara to the WAGs.
Phil wondered how she would get on with them as they obviously moved in very different circles.
The team drifted into its usual configurations—the Scandinavians in a loose group by the patio chairs, the Russians by the shed, Hayes and Vanderbilt playing basketball with a few call-ups, while the younger guys congregated by the table.
Howie talked Tom’s ear off about his summer, something to do with sustainable farming in Victoria, BC, versus rural Russia.
Phil tried to listen but tuned out when Howie began describing how his family farm’s quarterly results compared to livestock farms near Minsk.
Who knew the kid knew so much about Russian agriculture?
“If you’re not coaching, and you haven’t signed,” Breezy said when it was his turn to grab a burger from the grill, “what are you doing?”
“I never said I wasn’t coaching,” Phil said. “But I have nowhere near enough experience to be a head coach.”
“Who needs experience to coach?” Ben asked, coming up to pat at Phil’s shoulder. “Did you know Winnipeg actually offered me a gig as Special Teams coach even knowing the truth? They said if I could get Winnipeg into the playoffs, let alone the conference finals, they would keep me forever.”
Phil frowned and wrapped his free arm around Ben’s waist. “You’re not moving to Winnipeg.”
Ben kissed his cheek. “I’m not moving to Winnipeg.”
“Are you moving?” Breezy asked. “Did you sign somewhere else? Are you coaching Juniors?”
Phil turned to him. “Breezy, my man. Chill. I’m not going anywhere. I applied to be the new defensive coach, and I got it.”
“Oh, thank God,” Breezy said, rounding the grill to envelop Phil in a massive hug. “The team wouldn’t be the same without you.”
“It won’t be the same with me coaching, either,” Phil pointed out. “Get ready for that A on your chest, kid. It’s coming.”
Breezy went so pale Phil thought he might pass out. “No,” he said. “You can’t give it to me—I don’t deserve it. Give it to Luca instead.”
Then, with Phil, Ben, Tom, and half the remaining party staring at him in shock, Breezy turned tail and left, bumping into no less than three tables on his way out.
“I should follow him,” Phil said, eyeing the grill with worry. If he left it alone now, Tom would let everything turn to charcoal, or Hayes would serve it all bloody.
“Let me,” Luca said, a determined slant to his face, his lips a thin line. “And do not give me an A under any circumstances.”
Phil studied him. “All right,” he said.
So much for an easy start to his coaching career.