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Adjusting my suit jacket, I take a slow, deep breath to calm my racing heart. “Jackson is gifted. His abilities are exceptional. But, unfortunately, the team is not. My job as a head coach is to develop a strategy for winning and execute change, no matter how difficult it may be.That,” I emphasize by pointing at Aurora’s ex, “doesn’t scare me.”
And if the coaching and training staff have ignored Jackson’s issues with alcohol, they’ll be replaced. I won’t allow that on my team, and I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.
The interview ends, and disappointment hangs heavy in the air. No handshakes, no excitement, only a collective effort to evade eye contact while scrambling from the room with their heads bowed.
Fuck, I can’t return to Boston. My wife is the owner’s daughter, and the man she’s cheating on me with is the general manager.
Everyone knew of their affair—except for me.
An uncomfortable silence marks the elevator ride. I can only hope they’re reflecting on my suggestions. On the ground floor, I part ways with all but Robert, the owner.
While texting, he massages the back of his neck. “Let’s…uh…Let’s go watch practice.”
Shit, this doesn’t appear promising. I consider other teams in need of a head coach. There’s Colorado. It’s not as warm as LA, but it’s far from Boston. I’ll always be welcomed back to New York, where I played for a decade, but no way in hell am I staying that close to my soon-to-be ex. And I left New York for a reason.
Behind the bench, I watch as Jackson takes shot after shot at the goalie, making most of them. He’s one of the league’s leading breakaway artists, but if he passed the puck, the missed shots might lead to goals. He also fights with his teammates who play defense against him. But I say nothing.
After practice ends and the team gathers around, Robert clears his throat. “Why don’t we, ah, introduce you?”
“Yeah?” I ask, taken aback.
“Yeah.” A smile plays at the corners of his lips. “Let’s do this.”
A wave of relief and excitement washes over me, tingling every nerve ending in my body. Adrenaline courses through my veins, and I can’t stop smiling.
Only one 6’3” hurdle to get over.
I’m shaking hands with the assistant coach when a helmet thrown against the boards narrowly misses me.
“No fucking way!” Jackson snarls, dropping his gloves to the ice.
If it’s a fight he’s preparing for, he’s not getting one from me. Not on the first day, at least.
The goalie, Killian Rathe, and right-winger Grant Cohen, who stopped by our table to talk to Aurora at dinner, try to calm him. I can’t hear their words, but he pushes them away, unable to control his anger. Yet another instance illustrating his lack of leadership.
He’s more of a cancerous distraction—a toxic little shit who needs to be disciplined.
I give him a courteous nod. “Jackson. It’s nice to see you again.”
He sneers and mutters, “Fuck you.”
I move on to the next player, not allowing his tantrum to divert attention from the team. He can take a seat on the bench, where he’ll be staying if he keeps being a dick.
“Killian, that shutout against Cincinnati was fantastic.” I slap the goalie on the helmet and receive a hesitant smile.
“Connor, I missed coaching you at the Special Olympics this year.”
A few snickers resonate among the guys. Connor and I met through volunteer work with the Special Olympics program. He wasn’t on the team, of course, but we had a lot of fun.
I go down the line, establishing a connection with each player. When it’s all said and done, I step out of the arena, and the weight off my chest is tangible. I’m almost free. My plans are coming to fruition, and one person comes to mind.
Aurora.
Despite how things ended, something compels me to share this with her.
I let out an exhale, taking in the LA sun. I can’t fucking believe it. I’m getting out of Boston.
And maybe, just maybe, I can see Aurora again.