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EIGHT

Clay

“This looks bad,” Murph mutters during the team scrimmage. “The new goalie’s getting shelled. Are we in trouble, or what?”

He isn’t hallucinating. I’m watching some of the most awkward goaltending I’ve seen in my adult life. “Don’t rush to judgment. He doesn’t usually practice at altitude. And bear in mind that he hasn’t broken in a new team in almost a decade.” The younger Jethro Hale bounced around to a couple great teams before landing in Detroit for the past nine seasons.

“Wait, I thought you hated this guy,” Murph says.

I wince. It would be so much easier if that were true. “Hate is a strong word,” I say carefully. “We don’t get along. But he’s one of the most decorated goaltenders in the league.”

“He was ,” Murph says quietly. “But Detroit didn’t want to carry him through the playoffs. So now we gotta, instead?”

“Seems so.” And Murph’s blunt little analysis of the situation echoes my own thoughts. Then again, it’s impossible for me to be objective about Hale. Maybe Frank knows what he’s doing and just scored the best trade of the year.

For the team, anyway. Not for me, personally.

I’m so confused.

“Here’s a thought,” Murph says, giving me a sideways glance. “Give Volkov the night off and put Hale in the net tomorrow night against St. Louis. Sink or swim. If he falls on his face, Frank will have to listen. Maybe we need a Plan C.”

“Get out of my brain.”

Murph snickers.

With only a few minutes left on the clock, I watch the scrimmage closely. Playing goalie isn’t just about stopping goals. The goaltender has the best view of the game, so he drives the defensive strategy from the net. Being a goalie is really about communication and trust.

Unfortunately, Jethro seems to have left both communication and trust behind in Detroit. He’s not getting through to his guys. And he’s playing too far inside the net, a common sign of feeling vulnerable. He’s not trusting the defense to stop breakaways or screen shots effectively, which makes him less effective at angle plays and more susceptible to long shots.

The scoreboard agrees. The scrimmage is 6-2 when the whistle blows. When Jethro removes his helmet, he’s red-faced and panting.

I look away from that face I know so well. The one I still see in my dreams sometimes. How do I coach this guy? There’s no rulebook for this.

“Hey, Coach?” Kapski skates up and steps off the ice. “Got a sec?”

“Of course.” Our team captain is as solid as they come, and if he needs a word, I always have time.

He leads me over to the far wall where nobody can hear us. “I gotta ask,” he says in a low voice. “Something wrong with the new guy?”

“Besides that disaster of a scrimmage?” My eyes flick involuntarily to the rink, where Jethro is pushing the net out of the way so the ice can be resurfaced. “Why are you asking?”

Kapski gives me a flat look. “You didn’t introduce him to the room the night he arrived. And there’s a rumor that you didn’t want the trade. Is he staying?”

I pinch the skin between my eyes. “The trade caught me by surprise, because I thought we were going in another direction.” I’m not a good enough actor to convince my perceptive captain otherwise. “And obviously, it caught Hale by surprise. I’ll pull it together, and I’m sure he will, too.”

He nods, like he’s thinking it over. “Thing is, Coach, you like everybody . So I gotta wonder about this guy. I got curious and I googled him. You two were teammates once?”

“Uh-huh,” I say quickly. “Long time ago.”

His eyebrows quirk. “And you didn’t get along?”

“Not always,” I hedge, wondering how to end this conversation. “But that was kid stuff. He’s, uh, a good guy. I’ll get over my snit and figure out how he fits into our organization.”

“Okay,” Kapski says, still frowning. “Just let me know if I can help out? We don’t have a lot of time to gel as a team. We got fourteen games in January.”

“We do,” I agree. “And we’re going to be unstoppable.”

He gives me a knowing grin. “All right. Later, Coach.”

“Good work today,” I tell him before he clomps off to the showers.

After he goes, I lean back against the concrete wall and stare up into the rafters. What the hell am I going to do about Jethro Hale?