Page 4

CHAPTER 4

ELLE

W alking into the coaches’ office feels like stepping into controlled chaos—emphasis on controlled. The space has a scrappy charm you’d expect from a place where hockey strategy gets hashed out, like something straight out of Ted Lasso but with more pucks, no soccer balls, and less tea.

On one wall is an old dartboard, riddled with tiny holes showing years of frustrated dart throwing, and on another is a giant whiteboard. It currently boasts “WELCOME TO THE BEAVER BELLY, ELLE!” and elicits a huge grin from this gal.

“Guys, you remember Elle from the Zoom calls?” Ben asks excitedly from the doorway. “She’s here!”

Three heads turn our way, nodding in unison with a welcoming manner as far as hockey coaches go before turning back to their work. I wasn’t expecting fireworks. So far, so good.

“I know it may seem like they aren’t excited, but I’m pretty sure on the inside they’re ready to hang out and talk shop,” Ben manages to say out of the corner of his mouth.

“Well, you can all rest easy. We won’t be braiding each other’s hair any time soon,” I tease, a lame attempt at a joke. I earn an eyebrow arch from a guy dressed as a beaver as he walks past.

“That’s Trevor,” Ben says, nodding toward the beaver as the sound of footfalls echoing down the hallway pulls our attention. I turn around and see someone jogging our way, his face flushed bright red. I recognize him, I think from one of my video calls with these guys, but I can’t be sure.

“Ben,” the disheveled man asks, in between gulps of air. “Have you got a minute?”

Ben looks at me as if asking permission to leave my side.

“Please, I can get settled in on my own just fine. It’s not my first rodeo.”

“Awesome, thanks.” Ben gives me a mock salute. “I’ll be back soon.”

Finding myself alone, I take the first step and walk into my new place of work. It’s intimidating when it’s the first day, but it’s also exciting because of the ‘new’ of it all. New job, new desk, new people…or in the case of Dixon, old people with the same old problems but in my new place. But never mind that, at least for now. What I’m noticing at this very moment is the noise in this place, or rather the sounds emitting from my officemates.

Cannon, or Rick as he’s known to most mere mortals, is the offensive coach. He’s known for his powerful offensive plays, the kind that make an opposing team’s knees turn to jelly, to the point they earned him the nickname Cannon. He’s at his desk, smacking gum and clicking his pen like it’s part of his thought process.

Don’t even get me started on his desk. It’s a disaster of snack wrappers, I think I see a couple of darts, there’s a half-empty coffee cup, and a dry-erase marker that’s rolled dangerously close to the edge. Every part of me, especially the part that likes things neat, fights the urge to clean his desk up or at least offer to spring for a cleaning service.

There’s Pete, who, if I’m remembering this right, is Cannon’s assistant, pacing by the whiteboard. One hand is in his pocket and the other is swiping at the board with a tissue that’s leaving faint smudges of marker behind.

“We need better markers,” he mutters, letting his eyes roll toward the heavens as though it’s a mantra that will magically summon a delivery from the office supply gods.

“You need a better eraser,” Cannon says as he tosses one at Pete’s head. I think we’re all a little surprised, or maybe it’s just me, when Pete, who isn’t even looking, pops his hand up and catches the eraser like his third eye knew it was coming.

Someone clears their throat in the corner. If I’m remembering it right, that’s Todd and he’s the video guy. He’s currently hunched over the ancient TV setup with a rat’s nest of wires draped across his lap, looking like some kind of tech wizardry gone wrong. He’s the man who films the games then edits them so we can review them, and get tighter. Cleaner. Meaner.

“This thing’s older than me,” he grumbles, twisting a cable and running his fingers through salt-and-peppered hair. “And less cooperative.”

A quick look around and I spot an empty desk tucked into the far side of the room, next to one that is clearly Ben’s—the family photographs and Best Dad Ever trophy give it away. I schlep my things over, pull out a cracked leather swivel chair, plop myself down, and proceed to spin in a circle.

When my chair stops, my line of vision lands on a giant photograph of the rink on the opposite wall from me. We may be in the belly of the arena, but that rink, that glorious sparkling sheet of ice which reflects a thousand dreams, is why we’re here.

As I look closer at the photo, I can see that the stands are speckled with people. Squinting my eyes, I realize some of those folks are Renegades players from over the years gathered for a picture.

“They did that last year, for the ten-year anniversary of the Renegades,” Todd calls out. When I look his way, he’s staring at it now, too. “They had all players who could make it to the party step in for the photo, and they asked all of us to bring our families and anyone who supported us, too.”

“I like that it was for family, and it didn’t only mean it had to be family by blood,” Cannon interjects. Even his pen ceases clicking.

“Their found family,” I acknowledge with a quiet understanding.

“Exactly,” Cannon continues. “The family that was found and gathered on the journey to becoming a Renegade. That picture, it’s a reminder for us that we’re shaping something bigger than just hockey.”

There’s something about Cannon’s words that makes my chest tighten, but in the best way. It’s my own reminder of why I’m here. I want to make a difference. I want to add to someone’s journey to becoming more, to help shape these guys to be all they want to be and more…on and off the ice.

“Together we rise,” Pete says dramatically, holding his head high and pointing to a homemade sign beside his desk. Someone had taken a couple pieces of copy paper, taped them together, and used a black marker to write, in bold, that statement. Twenty bucks says Pete did it.

“Oh, please, Pete. It’s like trying to make a video go viral. You can’t plan for it.” Cannon tosses some crumpled-up paper at Pete’s head. “Stop trying to sound thoughtful and call a salt truck like I asked, please?”

“I’m simply trying to lift us up with a positive motto.” Pete sighs as he grabs the phone on his desk and starts to dial. “After all, we are ‘All In, All Together’…right?”

Cannon’s head snaps up and he stares at the ceiling, biting his lips and looking like he might either be praying or about to cry, I can’t tell which.

“Pete,” he hisses.

But young Pete is unfazed. “Unity on Ice?”

“Pete…”

“‘One Team, One Family’?” Pete shakes the phone in the air. “That one feels good, right?”

I’m beginning to worry about his welfare when someone on the end of the phone line finally gets on and takes him away from us, at least for the moment. I’m holding back my own laughter as I watch Cannon’s shoulders sliding down his back from where they were hiked up beside his ears a mere moment ago. Bless Pete. He gives the phrase “for Pete’s sake” a whole new meaning.

With my entertainment over, I pull open my bag and start arranging a few things. First, my notebook and pens go in the top drawer, followed by a stress ball shaped like a hockey puck that I toss onto the desk. It’s silly, but I know from experience that we’ll use this at some point. Next I grab out a pile of folders, each one ready to be labeled with the names of the players so I can start notes on them all. Finally, I fish out a framed photo and place it carefully in the corner of my desk.

In the image, I’m standing between two people: a teenage girl with her hair in loose waves and a mischievous smile, and an older woman with kind eyes and a soft gray bob. My arm is slung around the girl’s shoulders, and the woman is hugging both of us like she’s holding the world together.

“Who’s in the picture?” Todd asks, rolling his chair over with an obnoxious squeak. A strong odor arrives with him, and with a quick glance his way, I can see the culprit: what looks like a homemade vegetarian curry over rice, stuffed with lots of broccoli. And I mean lots.

I glance back at the photo, a lump forming in my throat, but I smile. “That’s my mom and my niece, Hayden.”

Todd leans in for a closer look, a waft of korma hitting my senses, then points to the teenage girl. “She looks like trouble.”

“She’s the best kind,” I say, reaching into my bag again. This time, I pull out another photo. This one is of Hayden in her hockey jersey, her cheeks flushed from the cold, holding a stick over her shoulder like she’s just won the Stanley Cup. I set it next to the first picture.

“Wow, two pictures of the niece. Must like her best, huh?” Todd jokes, treating me to his broccoli-speckled grin that is easy but also curious. I pray this man has a toothbrush hidden in his desk for moments like this.

I chuckle softly, but there’s an edge to it. “I’m her guardian. My sister passed away in a car accident when she was a little thing. Hayden’s dad wasn’t in the picture, so…my mom and I have been working together the last few years to co-parent in a unique way.”

“I’m sorry.” Todd’s grin falters and he nods, his tone softening. “That’s a lot.”

“It is,” I say, smoothing my fingers over the edge of Hayden’s hockey photo. “But she’s worth every bit of it.”

The moment is sweet, reflective, until I hear the unmistakable roll of an office chair across the floor as Cannon slides our way. He spins around in his chair, leaning back with that cocky grin of his, his eyes landing on my heels. I’ve learned to ignore the attention by now, but it’s hard not to notice the teasing glint in his gaze.

“Nice to have you on the team, Heels,” he says, his voice dripping with a familiar playful tone. There are some guys out there who would say this and you could tell they were trying to get a rise out of me. But not Cannon.

“Heels?” Todd looks at me, then to Cannon, confused. “What’s the deal with the heels?”

Cannon doesn’t miss a beat, leaning forward with a wicked grin, pointing to my feet. “Elle’s known for wearing those heels to games, practices, even on the ice. Social media can’t get enough of her walking across the rink in them—people lose their minds every time she steps out there. I’m convinced she could skate in stilettos if she wanted.”

I roll my eyes, trying to stifle a laugh. “It’s not that impressive,” I say with a shrug. “I can do it when the ice is all roughed up after a game. It’s all about balance. And not caring if you look a little ridiculous.”

Before Todd can respond, Cannon swivels his chair again, a new gleam in his eyes. He stares at me for a moment, looking like he’s about to say something else.

“You’re a badass, Elle,” he says with admiration in his voice, as though it’s a simple fact.

I burst out laughing, shaking my head. “Oh, please. I just have a talent for not breaking an ankle.”

Cannon chuckles, clearly impressed, his gaze lingering on me for a second longer than necessary. “Sure, sure. Just a talent. Keep telling yourself that.”

We’re interrupted when the door swings open and Ben strolls in, a sealed Tupperware container balanced in one hand and his phone in the other. He glances around the room, then zeroes in on my desk like a man with a mission.

“Elle,” he says, collapsing into the chair next to mine. “I need to talk to you—” Ben stops and sniffs the air dramatically. “What is that horrific odor that is assaulting my senses?”

“Chicken korma,” Todd replies, circling the container in the air with a flourish. “It’s called flavor, Ben.”

“I have a word for it and it’s not flavor.” Ben is unimpressed, but kind in his delivery. “Keep it up, Todd, and popcorn isn’t going to be the only food banned from the office.”

I smirk as Todd sniffs again, his expression pinching.

“What’s this about popcorn?” I ask, curiosity piqued.

“Last month, Todd here decided to make popcorn in the office microwave.” Ben leans closer to me, lowering his voice to what my mom would call a “stage whisper” as though sharing a classified secret. “Burned it so badly the smell lingered for days and now the word ‘popcorn’ is basically his trigger.”

“I didn’t burn it that badly,” Todd mutters, wheeling his chair back a few inches away from us.

“Smoke alarms went off,” Ben counters, raising a brow.

“They’re too sensitive,” Todd mutters like a child who has definitely set off more than one fire alarm in his life and still thinks the real villain is the smoke detector, not the flaming toaster pastry.

Ben doesn’t miss a beat. “Facilities had to air out the building, Todd.”

“They could’ve just sprayed some air freshener,” he offers.

I bite back a laugh, watching Todd start to wheel himself away, his face a mix of irritation and retreat.

“People thought the rink was on fire.” Ben adds, raising his voice slightly as Todd retreats further.

Todd’s chair squeaks as he spins it toward the door. “I’m going to check on my equipment,” he says, his tone flat, and he rolls out of the room in defeat.

As he disappears into the hallway, Ben turns to me, his grin as wide as ever. “For the record, you’ll want to keep your snacks tightly sealed around here. Todd’s sense of smell rivals a bloodhound’s. He’ll eat what he finds. He’s borderline feral.”

“Noted,” I reply, laughing as I reach into my bag to grab a pen. “So, you said you needed to talk to me about something?”

“It’s a favor really,” Ben continues. “I’ve had an emergency pop up and I need a solution to a problem.” He sets his sights on me. “And I think you could be that solution.”

“High praise,” I say, leaning back in my chair and also praying at the same time that it doesn’t flip over and send me flying out of it. I have no clue how old this thing is, but it feels fairly unstable.

“You’re a great coach.” Ben scoots his chair closer to my desk. “We’re so flipping lucky to have you. I’m grateful for your experience and expertise.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, except with me,” I joke. I can tell Ben is winding up for a pitch here. “What’s going on?”

“We’ve got an emergency. One of our guys was working upstairs up until a few minutes ago. He’s been called home to Toronto to be with his family. His wife is pregnant and she went into labor a month early, so he’s on the first plane out of here as soon as he can arrange it.”

Cannon, who had been listening, snaps his head our way. “Is his wife okay?”

“Apparently, she’s fine,” Ben says, waving a hand in the air. “The doctors said they feel like the baby and mom are healthy enough to do this early. It just means no one is as prepared as they wanted to be.”

A feeling I completely understand, even if it’s not about babies in my situation. I have no clue who it is he’s talking about, but I still sit up a little taller, excited to show my team spirit and to pitch in as needed. That’s one thing about AHL versus NHL: we’re working with different budgets, and sometimes you have to branch out and do something you may not have thought you’d ever be asked to do when it comes to your work.

“Well, of course I’m happy to help in any way I can. What do you need?”

“Oh. Good.” My heart lifts as I watch the stress ease from Ben’s features as he lets out a sigh of relief. I hadn’t met Ben until I was interviewing for this job, but the word on the street has always been about how positive and commanding he is as a leader, albeit in a very subtle way. “Thank you for that. Since you know defense, I take it you’re versed in goalie-speak, too?”

“What?” The word bursts out of me before I can stop it, sharp enough to cut through the air. I force a smile and try to smooth over my tone. “I mean, of course.”

Ben nods, his grin growing like he’s just solved a massive problem. “Perfect. You’ll do great.”

I blink, feeling a sudden wave of unease wash over me. “Wait, hold on a second. What exactly are you asking me to do?”

“Coach the goalies until I can get a replacement in.” Ben tilts his head at me, his expression now one of mild confusion. “Is that okay?”

Goalies. My stomach flips. Not goalies .

“We’ll find a schedule so you’re still across defense, but it would be good to incorporate the goalies. We have two of them, plus a backup who practices with us when he can. You’ll run their drills, keep them sharp, that kind of thing.”

“Okay.” Part of me is blacking out, which is definitely not an ideal look for a first day. My brain fumbles for something smarter, smoother, anything better. “I mean, of course I can do that. Totally doable.”

Ben’s relief is palpable and he claps his hands together. “Great. I knew I could count on you.”

I swallow hard, my gaze darting to the door as if Dixon might appear at any moment.

Of all the assignments on this team, this was not what I saw coming. Not by a long shot, not by a slapshot.