Page 14 of Edging Coach
Devon nodded. “Then you’ll implement your systems.”
“Where they’re needed. I’d rather find the team’s current strengths and weaknesses and make adjustments. Instituting a whole new system mid-season…” I rocked my head from side to side. “Sometimes it’s a good idea. Sometimes it’s a disaster.”
“So… you’ll decide what to do after tonight. After you’ve seen us against another team.”
“Exactly.” I held his gaze, trying and failing to read his expression. “What do you think about our chances? Uh, tonight? Against the Narwhals?”
“They’re a tough team.” He half-shrugged. “We’re a shit team.”
A laugh burst out of me. “The Grizzlies are not a shit team. There’s a ton of potential and skill—we just need to get everyone on the same page.”
“Mm-hmm. And that’s going to make a difference when we’re up against the team that’s number one in our division by seven points?”
“I think it’ll be a good chance to see where our strengths and weaknesses are, don’t you?” I ticked off the points on my fingers. “They have the best power play and the third-best penalty kill in the League. They’re number two in five-on-five.Both of their goalies have save percentages and goals against averages that would have them in the running for the goalie MVP award in the big leagues.” I mirrored his one-shouldered shrug. “It’s probably going to be a tough game, but it’s only one game. It’ll be a perfect chance to cut our teeth as a unit, see what we need to improve, and see what we can capitalize on.”
He nodded slowly as I spoke. “Do you really think you can fix this team?” I wasn’t sure if that was a challenge or a plea. If it was“you know you’re fucked”or“please tell me we’re not a lost cause.”Maybe a little bit of both.
“I don’t know,” I said with complete honesty. “I think the team is stacked with a ton of talent. I think the group is capable of coming together as a winning team under the right leadership.” I picked up my coffee. “Whether I’m the right coach for that job—that’ll come out when the rubber meets the road.”
Devon studied me for a moment, then nodded as he went for his own drink. I had no idea if he thought my answer was satisfactory, but he didn’t question it.
As he put his glass down, he said, “Tonight will be rough. We’ll get through it.”
“Of course we will. And the rest of the season will be better.”
He watched me again, searching my eyes as if he wanted to know how sure I was of that. Then he refocused on his food and continued eating.
Truthfully, I wasn’t sure. I knew I could coach a winning team. I believed I could get this team on a winning track. I believed I could coach them into what their ownership envisioned. I believed I could unfuck the mess the previous coach had left behind.
The part that scared me was that I wouldn’t find out for sure that it was working until the rest of the worlddid—when the Grizzlies either started climbing the rankings, or we fell flat on our faces.
No pressure or anything.
Nothing drove home that I was captain of a catastrophically leaking ship like being on the wrong end of a 7-1 score at the beginning of the third period.
Correction: Being on the wrong end of a 7-1 score at the beginning of the third period, and thirty seconds later, being on the wrong end of a five-on-three power play.
Fuck my life. They’d listened to my speech in the locker room, right? Like actually heard the things I said about not letting them put us on our heels, not turning over the puck, andnot taking penalties?Theyhadheard me, hadn’t they?
It didn’t help that the refs were tilting the ice hard in the Narwhals’ favor. The call against Arts was fair. Tripping was tripping whether it was intentional or not. Fine.
But Devon was in the box for the third time tonight, and he’d only deserved one of those penalties. The hooking call in the first period—sure. The alleged cross-check six minutes later? Absolute bullshit. And the one he was currently sitting? For a “hand pass”?
“How is it a fucking hand pass?” I’d demanded of the refs. “How in the fuck does someone hand passto himself?”
But they weren’t hearing it, and he went to the box, and now the Narwhals and their number-one-in the-League power play had a minute and thirty-two seconds of five-on-three. Fuckingfabulous.
I fully expected Devon to be heated about it, too. Maybe shouting and flailing his arms all the way to thebox, then continuing even after the door was shut. Breaking his stick over his knee. Throwing a water bottle. Something.
No, he just sat there. Stoic and quiet. Face blank. Eyes calm. The only thing that gave away that he was even a little bit agitated was the way he chewed his mouthguard. Like a lot of players, he had it hanging out of his mouth more often than not. That was how it was right now, but he was chewing on it like it owed him money.
He was livid. In the first period, he’d been furious about his stupid second penalty, and he’d come out of the box and scored. Nothing soothed the soul like a post-penalty revenge goal. All I could do now was hope he did it again. It wouldn’t dig us out of this hole, but it would help morale.
Just take out your frustration on the back of the Narwhals’ net, not on one of their faces.
Even if it would be hot as hell to watch you drop gloves and?—
I tamped down that briefly intrusive thought, tore my gaze away from the man in the box, and watched our penalty kill set up against their power play. At least it was the only time this game that I’d had a momentary unprofessional thought about Devon. Mostly because I was forcing myself to be professional.
