Page 35 of Total Assist (For Puck’s Sake #13)

SHIVELY

There’s a skirmish in front of the net Marion is defending. Dasan breaks away with the puck and taps it toward the net, but there’s zero momentum behind it. I frown.

“Sloppy, Ukiah,” I call.

He’s laughing. “I was, Coach. Sorry.”

The slshhh chk chk slshhh of his blades on the ice as he moves around the net has me taking a breath of the cool arena air.

I've always found the sounds of blades on the ice soothing. I track him as he skates around the bubble of four of his teammates playing keepaway along the perimeter of the face-off circle to the right of Marion’s crease.

Wiley slaps the puck loud enough that I can almost feel it vibrate.

It hits Marion’s stick just as loudly and shoots away.

It’s one of those hits that you imagine feeling in your bones.

I wince, but my smile is climbing my face when Dasan catches the puck.

This time, his shot is good. He doesn’t make the goal but not for lack of trying.

“Better, Ukiah. Wiley, you beast. Did that hurt?”

Wiley laughs as he taps his stick on the ice. “Nah. It was loud though, yeah?”

A chorus of “yeahs” answers him, and I grin. I turn my attention to the other end of the ice, my skates already taking me that way when I stop and let my momentum continue to move me. I shouldn’t be surprised, but Felton is on his hands with his feet up in the air.

I’m facing them in time to see Nason shoot a puck to the right side of Felton’s body, toward the open net, but Felton shifts, bringing his leg down in a way that he blocks the puck with the big pad of his leg.

Nason shoots another before Felton has fully righted himself again, but the damn beast still manages to catch the puck as he slides himself like a door on tracks.

Then he’s up on his feet, grinning maniacally as Nason laughs.

I coast up to Ren and pause. “Do you condone this behavior?”

There’s the tiniest smile on Ren’s lips as he watches Felton. I can see the twinkle of pride in his eyes, but then he looks at me and says, “No.”

Chuckling, I call out, “What are you doing, Badcock?”

“I told Jordan I could block his shots upside down, but he didn’t believe me. So I proved it, Coach.”

Sighing, I shake my head. “While I’m definitely impressed, I’m implementing a new rule. Blades stay on the ice. Got it?”

“Yes, Coach.”

“Just so we’re clear,” I say, raising my voice and turning to encompass the rest of my team, “that rule is for everyone. Blades stay on the ice. Got it?”

A wave of “Yes, Coach” surrounds me before my players return to what they’re doing. Ren is still smirking as he goes back to his own bubble, playing keepaway. Likely, he broke off when he saw Felton upside down. Worry for his safety, no doubt.

My gaze catches on the group of suits in the stands as I swing my attention away. They’ve been showing up for practice pretty often this month, just hanging out and watching. I haven’t received an email or text in response to their attendance, so I assume they just want to… observe?

They’re far enough away that I can’t make out who they are in the dark bleachers. One, I believe, is the owner because he wears tropical shirts a lot. Or maybe his suits are just loudly patterned. I’m not sure, exactly, but I’m confident one of the men is always Edries Franklin.

“Swap,” Reno calls as he slowly skates in my direction.

The bubble of keepaway breaks apart and heads for the bench. Those shooting on the goalies move to the breakaway bubbles, and those who’d been on bench are now with the goalies. Once more, the arena is filled with blades digging into ice, the puck sliding, and sticks hitting.

And laughter. I love that my team remembers to laugh.

It’s one of my favorite parts about being a coach.

Hockey is hard work, and there’s no time to laugh during a game.

That’s when they should be entirely focused.

But during practice? I welcome a little laughter.

A little goofing off. Most of the time, I don’t even call attention to it because it lasts only a minute or two, then they’re back to giving it their all.

We continue to rotate positions throughout the rest of practice. Reno calls them in at the end, though I don’t have much to say.

“Good practice. Go wash up and enjoy your evenings. Get some rest. Be ready for Buffalo tomorrow.”

“Aye, Coach,” Felton says as the team begins toward the chute.

Reno and I remain where we are for a minute. Reno usually heads in with the team, so the fact that he’s staying here means he has something to say. I glance up at the stadium again, but the seats where the suits have been are empty.

“I want you to hear me with an open mind,” Reno says.

Grinning, I shift to face him.

“I understand and fully support how you handle Marion and Felton swapping during games, but we’re in the middle of the season now. We need to clinch our spot in the playoffs, so I think we need to back away from fair trade-outs and move into strategic planning.”

“You want to see Marion in the net tomorrow,” I guess.

“Yes. Marion is habitually better against Buffalo. I think it’s a smarter decision.”

It’s not that I don’t understand his position. It’s the same mumblings I hear my team voice when they don’t think I can hear them. But I need both goalies to be versatile and good against every team.

“I hear you, and I’ll think about it.”

Reno grins. “Good. I’m going to keep harassing you until you give in. Have a good night.” He raises his hand in a wave and heads for the chute.

At least he was kind enough to warn me that he plans to harass me. Though… maybe they’re all right. Let’s see if switching it up to which of my goalies has historically played better against a specific team makes a difference this season.

With this thought in mind, I head toward the chute as well and toward my office. The voices and laughter from the locker room drift through the air, making me smile.

My office is quiet, the sounds of my boys in the locker room not quite reaching me in here. Even so, I keep my door open as I drop into my chair and unlace my skates. I stick my feet into my sneakers then sit back to open my laptop.

The team cloud has an archive of all games in recent history. Most of what had been kept on VHS or within other formats was digitized so that they could be kept within the cloud archive.

I don’t need to go further back. Instead, I generate a search for the last dozen games against Buffalo and weed out the ones which had Marion in goal—about half, so that’s nice.

I watch both sets of games, though not the entire way through. I don’t care about the whole game right now. Only the bits where I can watch our end of the ice. It doesn’t take me long to determine two things. Reno is right, and Marion needs to work on his stick handling.

Once I’ve decided to try Reno’s suggestion and put Marion in net tomorrow, I lose myself down a rabbit hole of watching all the games this season with Marion in net to see if I’ve just missed this one thing in person.

It wouldn’t be entirely shocking if I overlooked it.

I have almost thirty players, so focusing solely on Marion for a game isn’t realistic.

But hands down, the majority of goals scored against Marion are on his stick side.

I watch a few clips in particular to determine whether it’s a need to strengthen reflexes or something else.

While I’m watching, I note which games I’m playing and the times of the moments that align with what I’m thinking so I can share it with Reno, get his opinion on it, and make a plan to strengthen Marion’s stick side going forward.

I pause on the replay of Marion adjusting so he can try to catch the puck with his glove instead of using his stick though the puck is clearly heading for a position that his stick could block easily.

He still blocks the puck but does so with his body.

Not an awful strategy. That’s why they wear ten inches of pads.

I’m startled when there’s a knock on my door. It’s wide open still, so I see Sylvan Vishan, the team’s general manager, in the doorway, watching me with an amused smile while I blink to focus my eyes. How long have I been looking at the screen? My eyes feel strained.

“Hey, Sylvan,” I greet and push my chair back, rubbing my eyes in the process.

“You look focused. Am I interrupting?”

“Nah. Just looking over some recent games, taking note of some weaknesses we can work on.”

He nods. “Very well. You have a minute?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Conference room, please.”

I get to my feet and realize my shoes are still untied. “Just a moment. I forgot to tie my shoes when I put them on after my skates.”

“No problem. Join us when you’re ready.”

Us. Huh. Maybe their purpose for watching practices is finally going to be shared with me.

I grab my water bottle on the way out and head down the hall to the conference room.

I’m not surprised to see Edries, nor am I surprised to see Chase Diamon, head of PR.

I am surprised to see not one but two members of HR—Banks Devonash and Marta Adams.

Most have smiles for me as I enter, and I greet them pleasantly enough. The door gently swings shut behind me as I take a seat.

“Team is looking good this year,” Edries says.

“It is,” I agree. “The boys are working hard, and I think we’ll end the season with a good standing.”

“A chance at the playoffs?” Sylvan asks.

“I feel confident enough in saying this since it has Toby Eads’ blessing, but yes, I think we’ll make it to the playoffs.” I’m not surprised that I receive several grins in response. Toby Eads has some prophetic abilities as far as I’m concerned.

“Do you know why we called you here, Shively?” Sylvan asks.

“No, but I’m guessing it has something to do with why you’ve been watching our practices.”

He tilts his head, and I interpret that as an eh.

Banks takes out a picture and slides it across the table to me.

I’m looking at me and Dasan at the airport.

We’re clearly in the middle of a conversation.

Smiling. Talking. There’s nothing very incriminating about the picture, though I know exactly when this is because of what I’m wearing.

We’re returning from Kala. This is at LAX.

Careful to keep my expression neutral, I look up. “Okay, what am I missing here?”

I can see Banks’ annoyance. He slides a whole handful toward me, and I spread them out.

The progression of the scenes makes it clear that someone has been watching us.

There are three more of us walking and talking, but then there’s one of us holding hands, though that’s not all kinds of incriminating.

The next one is though. We’re kissing. In the fucking airport. Granted, we thought we were alone, hidden in an alcove.

Beyond that are none of us together. Just a lot of Dasan’s vehicle pulling into my driveway and him letting himself into my front door.

I stare at the one of us kissing. The sides of my vision darken, and it becomes difficult to breathe. My hand circles my wrist, holding my new collar, while I wish that Dasan was here. I have a feeling he’d know what to do. I need him here to tell me what to do right now.

“Clearly, you’re breaking some rules,” Banks says.

I’m surprised when Marta cuts in. “He’s not breaking rules. We don’t have a single policy in place that states our coaches cannot be involved with members of the team. Only that they can’t be involved with management.”

It’s a technicality. I know that. These rules were written in a time when the world was only black and white. When toxic masculinity ruled sports. There weren’t any queer players back then and therefore, no need to put such a thing into policy.

Something Banks clearly wants to point out, but I’m sure, as HR, he knows that he’s treading on rocky ground.

“How long has this been going on?” Sylvan asks.

I consider his question. I think it makes the most sense to say from the beginning. “Four months,” I answer. There’s really no use denying it at this rate. The pictures don’t lie.

“He hasn’t shown Dasan any favoritism in that time,” Marta says. “We’ve all been watching. Closely.”

I shake my head. “Of course not. Dasan is a good player all on his own. He doesn’t need special treatment for any reason.

He earned his position, and he works his ass off every single day to keep it.

Nothing other than his raw talent, dedication, and hard work has gotten him where he is.

” The defensiveness in my tone isn’t just for our relationship, though.

I’m all too aware of my recent conversation with Ren.

“Calm down, Shively,” Sylvan says, raising a placating hand. “We’re not attacking Dasan’s game at all. He is a spectacular player. That’s why we’ve kept him on the team. In many ways, he’s our prize player, and we don’t want to see him go anywhere.”

Which means… they’ll see me go somewhere.

I swallow and look down at the photos again.

Panic begins to take hold as my breathing becomes shallow, making it difficult to inhale a full breath.

My hands would be shaking if I didn’t have them tucked tightly into my lap, one hand around my wrist—my collar.

My spine feels stiff. Despite feeling like my eyes are wide and ready to pop out of my head, I only see the one picture in front of me.

Kissing. Dasan’s hand on the back of my head. Keeping me in place. Taking my mouth for his. Fuck.

They’re still talking around me. I can hear them without understanding their words. Only snippets.

“Can’t punish without a broken rule.”

“…consequences…”

“…message it’s sending to other players…”

“…how it makes Winnipeg look…”

“…don’t know how Dasan…”

“…quid pro quo is policy…”

I squeeze my eyes shut and pray to God that I don’t pass out.