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TWENTY-FOUR

Clay

FEbrUARY

Once we get through the holidays, our schedule is packed with important games. I’m living at the rink, but honestly, I love this time of year. The leader board is starting to firm up, but there’s still plenty of opportunity for a team who wants it bad.

The Cougars do. We’re riding in the number-two slot in our division, and my players are healthy. Both Kapski and Stoney are on pace to score more goals this season than they ever have before. Our penalty minutes are down, and our shooting stats are up. Ask anyone, and they’ll tell you that we’re on a roll.

Except, of course, for Jethro Hale, as every sportswriter likes to point out. His stats haven’t improved, even though we’ve given him opportunities and he’s working hard. He shows up to the rink early every day and is often the last to leave. He works out with the goalie coach and makes every video meeting.

He’s even showing his face at the bar on the road, always nursing an NA beer and playing a little pool before heading upstairs. I can’t fault him for not trying.

Still, his stats are crap. His save percentage hovers below ninety percent, and I’m running out of ideas, so I’ve called a Monday morning private meeting with goalie coach Bernie Demski and the GM.

On my way up the stairs to Demski’s office, a voice stops me. “Coach!” It’s Stoneman. “Got a minute?”

“Sure, Stoney.” I pause, one hand on the banister. “What’s on your mind?”

He waves a big manila envelope in the air. “I need you to make a contribution to the Cougars’ vision board.”

“Our…sorry?”

He squints at me like I might be a little slow. “Our team vision board. I’m putting together a huge collage of everything we want to achieve as a team—every image that uplifts us. Every goal. It’s a way of opening your mind to all the best possibilities. Because if you can’t picture what you want, then it can’t come true.”

“Okay…” This is the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard, and I’m trying to think of something positive to say. “Sounds a little simple. We’ve all got the same goal. Won’t every player just give you the same photo of the Cup?”

Stoney gives me a look that suggests I’ve disappointed him. Then he shakes the envelope. “Nah, Coach. I’ll bet I get a buncha shots of the Cup, sure. But first of all, when you walk past the board every day, that means something. It spins a little energy directly into your soul, or something. I saw a video on TikTok.”

“Hmm,” I offer warily. “Okay. What’s the harm?”

He grins. “Knew you were cool, Coach. Get back to me by tomorrow, yeah?” He gives the envelope another shake and turns away.

I think about this project for another two seconds, and then call him back. “Hey, Stoney?”

He turns around. “You got something for me already?”

“Uh, no. But make sure you don’t, um, decorate the dressing room with porn, okay? Just be mindful when you sort those photos.” I point at the envelope.

His eyes narrow, and he gives the envelope a suspicious glance. But then his smile brightens. “Don’t worry. Imma edit that shit. It’s going to be a masterpiece.”

I head up the stairs, shaking my head. But I guess I shouldn’t care if Stoney wants to focus on some woo woo. It’s better than drugs, right?

Upstairs, I find Bernie Demski in his office, eating a post-practice granola bar and drinking a carton of chocolate milk. At seventy-two, Demski is the oldest member of our coaching staff, with a shock of white hair and bushy eyebrows that make him look perpetually surprised. He’s been in hockey longer than I’ve been alive, and his expertise is unmatched.

Using two knuckles, I knock on the door frame. “Ready for us?”

“Course.” He beckons toward the visitor’s chair. “Want a chocolate milk? I got more.” He gestures toward his mini fridge.

“No thanks.” I’m a self-confessed food snob, and I couldn’t choke that stuff down if I tried.

Frank Mullen steps through the door. “Hey all. Sorry I’m late. What’s the update? How was practice today?”

“Close the door,” Demski says, and I think uh-oh .

“That bad, huh?” Frank closes the door with a firm click.

“Well…” He sighs. “Hale is still up in his head. Feel like I’ve tried everything. The skill is there, and he’s working hard. But the poor fucker can’t get out of his own way. I thought we’d be doing better by now.”

That’s been my impression, too. Although I’m playing him every third game or so. Volkov needs the rest, and sitting on the bench isn’t going to help Jethro get over himself.

Luckily it hasn’t hurt us too badly. Yet.

“Goddamn it,” Frank says, rubbing the center of his chest in a way that always makes me wonder if he should see a cardiologist. He glances at me, red-faced. “Gotta say, Powers, you kinda called this one.”

Oof . “It’s not like I’m happy about that,” I say quietly. “Hale has still got what it takes. It’s in there somewhere. All we can do is be patient.”

“Is it?” Frank throws his hands in the air. “I’d feel better if he’d show us even a glimpse of his old magic. Maybe drastic action is called for.”

My heart nearly stops. “What? Where would we scare up another goalie this late in the season?”

And Jethro would die if he could hear this conversation . I have to put the team first, sure, but we can’t swing our players around like boomerangs. That’s not how you build trust.

“You never know,” Frank says. “I could make some calls. And, yeah, we’d look like idiots. But only until we won the championship.”

I feel sick just talking about it.

“Kids, if I may?” Demski says drily. “You both need to slow your roll.”

“Why?” Frank demands.

Demski tosses his empty milk carton into the trash bin. “I think Hale is going to pull through. I really do. And if you replaced him, the next guy might choke up worse. Let’s not give every player in the conference the idea that there’s a revolving door in front of our net.”

“Good point,” I say a little too loudly.

“Professional athletes are like thoroughbreds,” the older man says. “Strong and fast, but occasionally skittish. Hale is a warrior. And, yeah, he’s taking a little more time to settle in than we anticipated. But it’s not a physical issue. His reflexes are still sharp, and his range of motion is top notch. Which, by the way, I can’t say of Volkov this afternoon. I sent him to the trainers.”

“Why?” Frank barks.

“His lower back feels tweaky. Talk to the trainer. I think they might want to rest him a couple games.”

Hell . We all sit with this news a moment. Not that it’s surprising. Goalies are prone to lower-back stress because they combine constant crouching with sudden, violent movement. Volkov had the same issue last season, too.

“I don’t think Volkov’s issues are any more serious than last year,” Demski adds. “But talk to the medical staff. He might need a breather and some PT. And you’d rather heal him up now than during the playoffs.”

“All right,” Frank says, chastened. “Is Hale gonna hold it together for us? We’ll need a third stringer, too.”

“Where’s Hale right now?” I ask Demski.

“Probably still on the ice.” He shrugs. “I told the boys to call it quits, but he always stays behind to get a few more shots in.”

“Great work ethic,” Frank says, rising from his chair. “Too bad he can’t convert that into performance.”

“Maybe he can,” I say lightly. “Bernie’s right—this is no time to hit the panic button. Now if you’ll excuse me. I need to see that trainer. And then talk to Hale.”

I give them a salute and hurry out before Frank can make any more stupid suggestions.