Page 1 of Edging Coach
CHAPTER 1
JACK
There really was something to be said for a good lay.
Last night? Holy hell. I’d gone in expecting a roll in the hay and a couple of orgasms, and I’d gotten a hard, bed-breaking fuck. One that left my ass aching, but also my scalp sore from the way he’d gripped my hair. One that left my knees stinging from the way I’d dropped to the carpet at his feet when he’d ordered me. One that left my neck tingling from the hair standing up after he’d whispered filthy commands in my ear in that soft Quebecois accent.
Fucking hell. I’d needed that. All of it. Every minute of it.
I needed more of it tonight, but that wasn’t going to happen. Not because I was too sore—but because I wasn’t going to have time.
Ah well. It had been great, and as I pulled up to the practice facility for the Abbotsford Grizzlies this morning, I was centered and relaxed in ways I hadn’t been in a long, long time. Sore, yes, but pleasantly so. I’d be feeling everything last night’s hookup had done to me for awhile, and I loved it.
Shame we hadn’t exchanged numbers or promises to do itagain. Even bigger shame that I wouldn’t have time for things like that with him or anyone else anyway. Head coaching gigs were grueling, putting heavy demands on my time, energy, and headspace. Plus, there’d be near-constant travel. On top of all that, I was starting with this team mid-season, tasked with unfucking the disaster they’d been under my predecessor, who’d been summarily fired the day after their sixth straight loss. He’d left the team with a record of 14-14-8; I definitely had my work cut out for me.
So, yeah. Free time was going to be hard to come by until this season was over.
Eh, that was okay. I loved a challenge, and I was excited to be coaching again.
I parked in front of the facility, killed the engine, and took a deep breath. Time to go be a professional despite my mind and body wishing we could bask a little longer in last night’s bliss.
Time to go meet the men who were counting on me to turn their sinking ship around. No pressure or anything.
As I got out of the car, my hips and back ached, and I smiled to myself. Skating would be interesting today; at least I didn’t have to skate as hard as my players would.
Inside, Emil Tiller, the Grizzlies’ general manager, waited for me.
“Jack,” he said, extending his hand. “Great to see you.”
“You too.”
We exchanged a firm handshake, and he led me down a long, fluorescent-lit hallway. “We’re thrilled to have you. These boys are ready for a different direction, and I think you’re just what they need.”
I smiled. “Well, that’s why I’m here. There will probably be a learning curve while they adapt to me, but I’m confident we’ll get there.”
He grunted and nodded. “The sooner the better. This teammisses the playoffs again, it won’t just be the coaching staff getting fired.” He glanced at me and grimaced as if he could feel that noose around his neck already.
I kept the smile in place. “Still plenty of games left in the season. We can do this.”
I really was confident we could. We’d have to dig ourselves out of a deep hole, but I’d seen teams come back from worse. Would we win our division? Highly unlikely. But I was confident I could deliver a wild card spot.
In the days since I’d been offered this job, I’d spent hours poring over footage of the team from both this season and the previous one. The issues were obvious. Our forecheck was all right sometimes, but our backcheck was a disaster. The goalies were solid, but no goalie could be expected to stand up tothatmany odd-man rushes every single game. We had two incredibly good offensive defensemen, but the previous coach had reined them back, forcing them to lean harder into their defensive roles instead of also playing to their offensive strengths. What an absolute waste of a couple of talented 200-foot players.
I could see mixing up some of the lines and D pairs, too. The top line was pretty good, but the other three could use some tweaks. The bottom defensive pairs were seriously weak. Or, well, they had been; in the same hurricane of changes that had seen half the coaching staff fired, Emil had traded two defensemen and three forwards. Two of the forwards had gone for draft picks, so their replacements were getting called up from the second-tier minors.
I hoped Emil and the owners were patient for at least the next week or two, and I’d told him as much over dinner last night. Hockey teams had to be able to adapt on the fly, but he’d made a lot of massive changes in a very short period of time. A learning curve was inevitable for all of us.
I was confident that the players themselves were willing to be patient, too. Yesterday afternoon, I’d met with the captain, Ricardo Louissaint, and the two alternates, Antoine Noreau and Diderik Nygård. They were veteran players who’d been through multiple coaching changes, and they’d seemed more relieved than anything by my arrival.
Noreau—Anty, to his teammates—had told me, “Just having a coach who wants to be here will be a step in the right direction.”
That had prompted a grunt of agreement from Nygård, who the guys called Gards. “Any kind of direction would be nice at this point.”
So… I was optimistic I wouldn’t get a hostile reception.
“I’ve got the boys getting ready for practice,” Emil said. “Thought it would make sense to have you all feel each other out on the ice. Following that, there’ll be a team meeting so everyone can ask questions if they need to.”
I shrugged. That wasn’t how I would’ve set it up—I’d rather talk to my players first—but I could work with it.
