Page 24

TWENTY-THREE

Joey

“No!” I shout. “Not a fucking chance!”

Yeah, I don’t yell at my players.

The refs on the other hand…

Tonight they’re going to fucking get it.

Missing two blatant penalties and an offsides that led to a goal against us (though, thankfully, my video coach was on point and advised that I use my coach’s challenge, so I was able to get the goal called back). Worse, though, my guys are getting hammered and the calls are one-sided and…

We’re all frustrated.

Hence my shouting.

And cursing.

“That is completely unacceptable!” I’m still shouting, trying to get the ref’s attention even though the fucker seems to be purposefully ignoring me in lieu of sprinkling his focus on the other bench.

I step forward, one foot on the boards, leaning over and glaring at him. “This is bullshit and you fucking know it!”

He just…skates on by.

Fucking asshole.

I step back, teeth grinding together so fiercely that a bolt of pain shoots through my jaw. I take a breath, know that I need to find my control, that losing my temper isn’t going to help anything and it sure as shit isn’t going to get the assholes in black and white stripes on the ice to change their minds.

Plus, me yelling at the assholes is already going to end up on TikTok.

Last thing I need is to give the bloggers even more ammunition against me.

Kind of like sleeping with the GM?

That sends a bucket of cold water through my consciousness and I freeze.

“What do you want to do?” Tommy asks.

A breath. Two. Then I step back and mutter, “You all keep your heads. I’ve lost mine enough for the rest of us.” One more breath and then I lift my voice. “No retaliating,” I tell the guys. “No letting them get us off our plan. Let’s keep grinding and focus on winning this period, yeah?”

I get a lot of nods.

A couple of amused looks.

And then Lake says, “Let’s fucking go, guys, yeah?”

More nods.

Storm glances over his shoulder at me, eyes concerned.

“Focus, bud, yeah?” I say softly.

He’s young but I don’t miss the way my words hit him. Because I spent years feeling the same impact of Damon’s words—wanting something I can’t have.

Storm is a good kid.

But he’s a kid.

He’s too young for me, even if I was open to exploring something somehow even messier than the fire I’m playing with that’s Damon and me.

And there’s the power dynamic.

Messy between Damon and me.

A freaking kiss of death between me and a player.

But more than that…he’s a kid.

He has an innocence that means that even in an alternate reality, he wouldn’t be for me. He hasn’t approached the blurry line in morality, those shadows and darkness that cling to me. He’s a good kid from a good family who’s got a big heart.

Not for me.

Because he wouldn’t ever be able to comprehend everything inside me.

Unlike Damon.

Who’s seen the dark underbelly of life and crawled his way out.

Who’s now seen me .

Still stupid. Still messy. Still likely to blow up in my face.

But it’s also something I can’t let go of, not without seeing it through to the end.

“Yeah, Coach,” he says quietly, and I hate that his eyes are a little sad before he turns and points his gaze back out to the ice.

He’s young.

But he’s a professional.

And he doesn’t let that sadness—that I can’t give him what he needs—affect his game. He jumps over the boards when it’s his turn, skates hard on his shifts, and focuses on the team’s game plan.

And I’m a professional too.

I ignore the blatant unfairness—though, I’m happy to report that my outburst seems to have cut out some of the most egregious calls. Things are still leaning heavily toward the other team, but we’ve dug out of worse holes before.

I sink back into cool and collected, work with Tommy and Dave and Kaitlyn, and by the time we go into second intermission, we’re only down one goal.

Thank God.

My speech between periods is short and to the point.

“Heads down. Keep working. We’ve got this.”

And then I leave, let Lake and company get the guys to focus.

After some extensive changes in the off-season, we’ve been left with a great core of players. There are still a couple guys from the old guard who are lazy and unmotivated, who don’t completely buy into my choices as coach—or me as a coach at all.

But they’re in the minority.

Most are good. Most can rise to the occasion that a game like tonight presents.

And most of them do.

Twelve minutes into the third, Colt Madden, one of last season’s additions, picks up a great pass from Storm and drives hard into the offensive zone, dancing around their defensemen like they’re cones and not living, breathing hockey players.

Colt is fast and has great hands.

He struggles with battles in front of the net and occasionally on the boards, but we’re working on his strength there—well, he and Ivy are working on it—and Kaitlyn has suggested some adjustments to his positioning that have given him a new lease on life in those instances.

Something he proves tonight, using those great hands to make a pass to Lake before sprinting to the goal and circling tight.

Screening the goalie for just a moment.

Not getting tied up into a battle for position and taking away productive space for our guys to use.

Because he’s sliding back, ceding that lane to Lake…

And then putting himself in the perfect position to receive a pass back.

Lake dekes, throws the puck, and?—

I hold my breath.

Crack!

Colt’s one-timer sails into the top corner of the net.

And five minutes later he, Lake, and Storm connect on another goal.

Fuck yeah.

Then it’s a matter of hanging on—something made more difficult when we receive another penalty with a minute left in the game.

It’s a scramble of clears and hard forechecks, solid defense and great saves by our goalie.

But we squeak it out for those two points and a satisfying as shit victory when the odds were stacked against us.

During my post-game interviews, I talk about perseverance and grinding out wins, about blatant unfairness and…I address misogynistic questions head on for a change instead of just ignoring them?—

“Do you really think that it was necessary to scream obscenities at the refs?”

I want to scream obscenities at the smug fuck with the tape recorder pointed in my direction.

“You again,” I mutter under my breath. It’s the same asshole who asked about my love life.

Yup. I definitely want to invoke those obscenities.

But I find my calm, fix him in place with a stern stare, and say, “You wouldn’t ask a male coach that. I’m protecting my players and sometimes that gets messy, and I will call out unfair treatment whenever necessary.” A beat as I stare him down, and fuck it feels great when I add, “Including when it comes to me.”

I allow my mouth to curve up then turn back to the rest of the reporters.

“Any other questions?”