Page 5

DAMIEN

T en minutes was a long fucking time in a hockey game.

In a final? With a one-one tie? Every minute felt like forever.

I wasn’t surprised by Kallinger’s comeback goal.

Even though I was pissed at the result of that play, it was hard to find fault.

Silas had done, well, pretty much what I’d have done in his position.

I’d been on the other side of the ice as a d-man myself, and I understood the pressures that came along with it.

Silas was talented, but I still questioned if he was right for this team and the next level of play.

For college hockey, he was good. For the pros?

After two semesters of coaching him, I still didn’t have a definitive answer.

Good wasn’t enough. And if he wanted to go all the way, only great got you there.

Silas had a keen sense of awareness when it came to protecting his zone; he was aggressive, sometimes too much, and played hard.

But something was missing. As to what that was, it was difficult for me to pinpoint.

I didn’t want to tell him “Sorry, you’re too old” because I wasn’t sure his age was the problem.

No doubt taking a year off didn’t help. But he’d stayed in peak physical shape, and his skating form over the last two semesters had improved exponentially.

It had taken him a long time to mesh with his teammates though.

I saw the change recently, and had high hopes that I’d see him break out.

That’s why I’d given him extra practice time.

Him and Finn. I wanted to see them both return at their best for their final year, but I had tough choices to make.

New guys came in every fall, and competition at this level was fierce.

My job was to take the best of the best and make them even better.

I got the sense that Silas was fighting something hard.

Exhaustion no doubt. Silas had family obligations, and more responsibilities than any usual twenty-two-year-old would ever dream of.

I respected that, but I also knew his mind was probably not always focused on the game.

When I was his age, I’d been drafted to play for Chicago and with a contract in place and my ego pumped up, I was a cocky, wild brat.

I lived like I played: full-on, full force, no thinking about tomorrow.

Responsibility? The only one I had was to my team, and to winning.

And to my then-girlfriend, who became my wife a year later, and my ex two years after that.

My focus was always hockey, first and foremost. From the time I was seven, that was it.

I was Canadian by birth, born and raised in Belleville, Ontario, by a widowed dad.

Hockey was a way of life, my family’s obsession, and then, mine.

My father coached, and my siblings played too.

I had an older brother, Trent, who now worked as a physiotherapist in the league, and a younger sister Olivia, who, like me, coached university hockey.

Except, she was off coaching in Switzerland and probably doing a better job.

Then again, here I was at the national finals, so it was tough for me to find fault with that.

I didn’t have reason to feel less than anyone else. Coaching hadn’t been my end game. I anticipated playing hockey into my thirties and after that? Well, I never thought that far ahead.

Not until that fateful day that changed everything.

I didn’t live my life on brash impulse anymore.

I planned and plotted. Everything was done with precision, direction, and control.

I’d reached the highest highs and lowest lows as a player, and I had no desire for a repeat as a coach.

When I hit rock bottom, I decided rollercoasters weren’t for me.

I’d stay on steady, firm ground from here on out.

A loud whistle suddenly pierced the air, and I shook off my musings and focused on the game in front of me. I glanced at the clock and called for a time out.

We needed a goal, and we needed it now.

“Rowland, Lund, you’ve broken college records this semester. Now’s not the time to stop.”

A familiar refrain of “Yes, Coach” rang out.

I gave another round of encouraging instructions to the rest of the guys and paced the bench before the play was about to resume.

Scanning the ice, I noticed Jace and Axel with their heads together, sharing words.

Thankfully, they were both smiling and not arguing like they used to.

There was still plenty of bickering between the boyfriends, but it was teasing rather than hostile.

Like our goalie, Maddox, and our d-man, Kayden.

Given the way players were matching up on my team, it felt like I was a dating coach, not a hockey one. Not that they needed any advice in that area from me of all people. I sucked at marriage and relationships in general.

How could I give anything to anyone when hockey was my everything?

The crack of the puck hitting the ice snapped everyone into action, me included.

Eight nail-biting minutes passed.

Ethan and Colin were on fire today, but even their best moves were challenged. Sneaking past Strong, Ethan’s shot got blocked by Gerard. Kallinger’s goalie was consistently cool under pressure, but I expected nothing less.

The minutes ticked by, but no one came closing to scoring again, on either side.

Kayden made an aggressive play and nearly came to blows with two of Kallinger’s forwards. Thankfully, Dane and Silas intervened, and the situation settled.

Then I glanced at the clock.

Two minutes remaining.

With no goal on either side, I made a line change.

Jace faced off against Gross. Kallinger’s forward was fast, but no match for our center, who took control of the puck and blasted down the ice like the rocket he was.

Jace was hitting his stride in this game, with his lethal combination of skating speed and skillful stickwork.

Axel and Dane were aggressive, pushing hard, not letting anyone get the drop on them.

Silas and Kayden too, taking hits and distracting the opposition so our guys could take the lead.

Axel deke’d around Kallinger’s defense and nearly got a stick in his face from Koskiken.

The ref didn’t call a penalty, and I screamed my head off in response.

Fuck, that could’ve been a bad outcome for Axel.

I hated nasty behavior like that. But I also knew what it meant: desperate teams got sloppy and resorted to cheap tactics.

And then, as fast as I was angry, I was shouting for another reason.

Jace suddenly got boxed in, but he managed to sneak the puck to Axel, who took it down and dropped it, right between Gerard’s legs.

The buzzer sounded off, the music blasted, and everyone from Sutton went crazy, me included. Axel’s teammates crowded around him, offering hugs and smiles.

But the game wasn’t over yet.

The last minute of play had me pacing even faster—my heartbeat kicked up a hundred notches, my fists clenched tighter, my adrenaline ran hotter.

“Bring it home!” I shouted along with the guys on the bench. “We’ve got this!”

When the final buzzer blasted, I jumped up with my hands in the air and yelled as loudly and proudly as my players on the ice.

Team Kallinger looked on in utter dissolution.

I knew both sides, and while I celebrated our win, I nodded in conciliation to the opposing team.

After I jumped back down from the bench and straightened my jacket and vest, that is.

Fucking hell, we’d done it. The Sutton U Cougars were national college champions.

For a second, it was like I was back on the ice, relieving those incredible highs. They were heady and addictive and made me want for things I could never have.

Never again.

Still, this was a big day for my team and for me. I’d take my wins now any way I could get them.

Confetti rained down on the ice, the music blasted, and the rink turned into a dance party. We lined up and shook hands with Kallinger’s team. Both sides played a stellar game and deserved recognition.

Then the jumbo screen lit up with the Sutton U logo, and there were so many flashes going on in front of me, I could barely see.

I knew what was coming next. I fully expected to get doused by a bucket of water or Gatorade.

What I didn’t expect was the champagne (presumably non-alcoholic). As soon as the initial shock of the win wore off, I got sprayed in the face. By Silas, no less.

Payback for sure.

My suit was drenched, my hair was a mess, and my eyelashes stuck together.

But I couldn’t stop smiling, which, for me, was a huge deal.

Most of the time I used the stern coach approach, since players at this age tended to be cocky as fuck and needed guidance, not a friend.

But, given the magnitude of this win, I let myself relax. A little.

I wiped my sticky eyes and met Silas’s. His dark gaze was unnervingly direct, and I swallowed hard.

It’s the intensity of the win. The shock.

For once, both of us were grinning like loons.

“Sorry about the suit, Coach.”

I shook my head and removed my jacket. My vest was soaked through, and my white shirt sleeves were plastered to my arms.

“Don’t lie, Silas. You’re not sorry in the least.”

He bit his lower lip and shrugged, giving me a once over.

“Maybe I am,” he admitted and met my eyes again. “They’re not for me, but I’d hate to ruin your best outfit. It suits you, pun totally intended.”

His words almost seemed like… no. That was ridiculous. That wasn’t flirting.

Jesus, where the fuck did I get that bizarre idea?

The players weren’t the only ones who were dehydrated. I was obviously punch-drunk from the win, my adrenaline crashing.

A shiver ran through me, but hey, I was soaking wet and standing in a freezing cold rink, so…

“You played a great game,” I finally managed to reply, my mouth suddenly dry. “I can’t wait to see what you can do next season.”

I didn’t wait to around to watch Silas’s reaction.

Shaking off my weird mood, I stalked off to greet the organizers, and then it was time for the winners to pose for pictures.

I managed to smooth my hair back, slipped my uncomfortably wet jacket back on, and stood proudly as the photographer snapped away.

I refused individual pictures, though, opting for one with the entire team instead.

The massive wood and silver trophy was brought out and there was more posing for the media. Then the guys took turns hoisting the mammoth trophy in the air and skating it around the ice.

My phone started buzzing, and when I saw the number flashing on the screen, I quickly answered it.

“Banning speaking.”

“Congratulations, Coach.”

It was Nora Renner, Sutton’s President.

“Thank you, Nora,” I replied. “But it’s the players you should be talking to.”

“I’ll get to them eventually.” She chuckled. “I’m sure they’re too busy celebrating right now.”

“They’re having the time of their life.”

And as I looked around at all the smiling faces, there was no doubt that the party was just getting started.

“I hope this means that you’ll be coming back to Sutton in the fall,” Nora continued. “Dean Chancer informed me that you haven’t signed your contract yet.”

David Chancer was the dean of athletics and the one who’d recommended me for this job in the first place. I played with him back in college, and once I moved to Vermont, Dave and I became fast friends again, in addition to colleagues.

“I’ll sign it when I get back,” I insisted. “I’m ready for another year. But I have a few additional clauses.”

One year was all I was committing to at this point.

I wanted to coach at the professional level, but I’d probably only get offered an assistant position.

Still, I had a year to figure it out. I loved Vermont, and it had been a great place for me to land after a two-year coaching gig with Pemberton College in Washington.

I didn’t like my initial college coaching experience, but I knew it wasn’t about them, but me.

It was my first job after leaving Chicago.

I needed the income and the change of scenery, but mentally, I’d still reeled from early retirement.

Five years after I stepped off the professional league ice as a player, and I was ready to return. Coaching wasn’t the same as being a d-man, but I’d found my footing again. I was ready for the next step in my career.

And with today’s success, another goal accomplished, restlessness was already taking hold. I wanted more. There was another milestone to achieve, another high I needed to chase. One thing in my life hadn’t changed and that was my unending desire to be the best.

You can take the player out of the game, but you can’t ever take the game out of the player.