Page 19

Harrison

“ C oach! Coach, can we get a word?”

I pause, turning and finding the reporter at the side of the rink, a wide smile on her face and her microphone reaching out toward me, like she might be able to lure me in with it.

Around her are several other channel-branded techs, either holding cameras or wearing bulky headphones, their eyes flicking from me to her, waiting to see if I’ll stop and talk to them.

Every game, we have scheduled interviews before and after. It’s not often that I elect to do more than what I’ve agreed to, but I’m feeling generous today.

It’s our final game in the long string before the break over Thanksgiving. Luckily, the way our schedule falls this year is giving us three whole days—Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, game-free.

And we’ve been playing our best the past few days, conveniently free of the “play to the level of your opponent” mindset that we’d been struggling under last season. It has something to do with Lovie—I know that. Does that mean I’ll admit it to anyone? Not quite.

Thinking about Lovie reminds me that she’s here, and I glance past the reporter into the crowd quickly, hoping to see her there in the stands just behind our bench.

It’s where she usually sits when she comes to watch, and I’ve gotten used to seeing her there, glancing up and stealing a moment of eye contact before and after plays.

It’s validating to see my expression mirrored on her face when one of the refs makes a terrible call, when one of the players isn’t performing as he should, when we clearly need a boost to our strategy.

When I don’t see her, sitting there after a second of searching, I force myself to refocus on the reporter.

She’s younger than the others, with shiny blonde hair that almost looks like a wig, hanging, clean-cut, around her shoulders.

It moves when she moves, and accentuates her too-skinny collarbones above her bone-white blouse.

“Constance, hi,” I say, smiling and stepping toward her, knowing they find it charming when I remember their names.

The air around us is frigid from the ice, with that specific metallic scent that comes from the constant contact of skates against the surface.

The guys are out there on one side, warming up and fucking around, and the Seattle Kraken are on the other side, warming up efficiently, each clack of their sticks and slice of their skates a reminder that they’ll be our toughest game in this run, and maybe even this season.

Fans are already crowded into the arena, eating popcorn, laughing, drinking beer. When I was a player, I never noticed them. Now, as a coach, I straddle the line between player and spectator a little too much for comfort.

“Coach Clark,” Constance Evans responds, her smile oozing over her face when she realizes I’m going to give her an interview.

As a player, I’d dreaded talking to the press, had a bit of a reputation for dodging questions and being lippy.

Now, I still do it, but in what I hope is a more charming and nuanced way.

Her bright teeth flash at me, drawing me out of my thoughts. When she tucks a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, it’s with a certain flirtatiousness that I pretend not to notice. “It sure seems the Blue Crabs have been on fire recently!”

“Feels like it,” I agree, bracing a forearm against the divider and leaning in so she doesn’t have to strain so hard with her microphone to reach me.

“We’ve been talking to some of the Baltimore fans outside the arena, and many of them are telling us that something just feels different about this season. What’s your secret, Clark?”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “Something is different about this season. Probably has to do with the position of the moon, or Mercury.”

Constance laughs, like I knew she would, and when she leans in close to me, she lays a hand on my forearm. Without being too obvious, I pull away.

Normally, I would flirt with her. Charm it up for the camera. But right now the last thing I want is her hand on my arm, and my body twitches to turn around, looking back and see if Lovie is here yet.

Instead, I force myself to face forward, finish out the interview.

“No secret,” I go on, grinning into the camera lens. When I glance back at Constance, her eyes are shining with interest and intensity. “Just hard work. The guys are in the rink every day, working on their skills and cohesion.”

She raises an eyebrow, “Do you think hard work and cohesion are going to be enough against the Kraken?”

Nobody expected the Kraken to come out like they have this season, winning game after game and upsetting even the toughest teams on their schedule. Home or away, it hasn’t mattered—they push every play harder, throw their bodies into the game, bring a whole new energy to the ice.

“All we can do is our best,” I say, instead of the truth, which is that our practices have been a little lackluster this week, and I’m worried about this game. I’m worried that the guys aren’t in the right headspace to carry this through.

Everyone on the team—coaches and administration—has had endless PR training, but I’ve never needed it. You’re never supposed to really answer these questions. You just give them baseless platitudes they can cross stitch on a pillow. “And I’m confident our guys will do that.”

“Thanks, Coach Clark.”

This time, when I glance up into the stands, I spot Lovie scooting down the row with a girl I recognize from the PR department, but she doesn’t look over at me.

Disappointment sinks in my stomach when I realize she’s not wearing the jersey I gave her, but a standard, blank Blue Crabs sweatshirt, the little crab on the front folding as she sits down.

Clearing my throat, I turn back to the ice before she can catch me looking and find Samir and Deacon talking under their breath, head bowed.

“What’s going on here?”

“Greenhill isn’t playing,” Deacon says immediately, in a low, conspiratorial voice. His pale cheeks are flushed red—in fact, every inch of his skin is blotchy and ruddy, like he’s covered in a rash.

“What the hell are you talking about?” My eyes go to the ice, skipping through players and digesting numbers. A moment later, I realize Greenhill isn’t out there with the other guys, warming up.

“Just had his manager send us a text,” Samir says, flashing his phone at me. “Fucker didn’t have the guts to tell us himself.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I repeat it again, but I don’t know what else to say. Greenhill was in warm-ups this morning, so it doesn’t make any sense that he would have left now. Mind clearing a bit, I add, “Is he hurt? Why isn’t he playing?”

Deacon and Samir glance at one another, then back at me.

Their voices lower again, and they move closer, tightening our circle.

I glance up and spot Constance at the edge of the rink, her perceptive eyes on us.

The last thing I need is for her to start piecing things together and go digging into this before we even know what’s going on.

Samir says, “You know those rumors about him having a lot of gambling debt?”

“Sure, “I say, tucking my clipboard under my arm so I can rub my hands together. I just need to work some warmth back into them. Cold doesn’t get to you when you’re playing, but it can be a bitch when you’re on the sidelines.

“Well, we think it might be true,” Deacon says, his voice lowering, eyes darting over to the reporter on the sidelines. “They’re saying he’s not even in Baltimore—that he’s on the run or something.”

I suck in a breath, blow it out slowly, then nod and bring my clipboard back out.

Since his first day on the team, it was pretty obvious that he might eventually flake on us. “We’ll have to rework the lines. When we bring the guys together, Greenhill is sick, got it? Not a word about this stuff. We don’t need it clouding their heads.”

“Got it,” Deacon says, then mumbles something under his breath that sounds like, “Flaky motherfucker.”

The next thirty minutes before the game only gets worse. Apparently the news about Greenhill starts to spread, because a second reporter tries to approach me. I know better now, and bet Constance is kicking herself for not having the scoop before she talked to me.

Nick Telley is dealing with a twinging wrist. Our goalie suddenly can’t see past his mask. All at once, it’s like last season’s problems are hurtling back over us.

At the end of the second period, I’m working hard not to lose my shit. We adjust the lines again to work around Telley, and I’m telling the guys to tighten the fuck up when I turn and see her in the stands.

Lovie is looking right at me, a strange expression on her face. It’s stupid, but the sight of her mutes my anger, and I even manage to quirk my lips in her direction. The last thing I want is for any of this anger to head her way.

Then she does something I’m not expecting.

She stands up, turns around, and lifts the bottom of her sweatshirt only partially, so I can see the numbers there on the back. It’s only the bottom half, but I know that jersey anyway. I have one hanging in my living room back home.

Number fifty-five.

My jersey. Even though her sweatshirt still covers it, I can practically see Clark written over her back as she drops the bottom of the sweatshirt, turns around, and gives me a shit-eating grin.

Probably because she knows what the sight of her in that jersey does to me. Somehow, like she always does, Lovie cuts through the noise and takes first place over hockey in my head. Even right here, in the middle of coaching a game.

Even against the toughest game of the season.

Even when everything else is going wrong.

And it’s at that moment, watching her sit down and reach over for a bite of someone else’s popcorn that I have a terrible, horrible realization.

I am falling in love with Lovie Waters.