His lips twitch as though he wants to smile. He nods and glances back at his computer, where I assume my résumé is pulled up. My painfully bare résumé. Seven years of experience in the league, with no movement. He’s probably wondering how many times I applied for a promotion and was denied.
“I was happy where I was, sir,” I tell him, before he can ask. His sharp hazel eyes find mine again. “I like strategy, and performance data. I like reviewing hours of video, and coming up with a game plan. I find that head coaching positions have to focus more on the big picture, where an assistant is able to specialize.”
“And where would you say your specialty lies?” he asks. I force a smile. This is very likely the moment he’s going to decide I’m not the right man for this job.
“I didn’t grow up playing hockey, sir. Not in the capacity that you did, nor most of the professional coaches in theNorth American leagues. I played for a club team, and it was the kind of team that rotated the players to every position, if you know what I mean.”
He chuckles a bit, nodding.
“A Stanley Cup ring isn’t a requirement of the job,” he says, kindly enough that my throat burns. Anyone being nice to me these last couple of days has run the risk of making me cry.
“I can skate around, set up drills, and blow a whistle just fine. But the grunt work off the ice is what I’m truly good for.”
“All right.” He sits forward, and spins his computer screen so I can see it. A game is pulled up, paused mid-play. He clicks the mouse. “Tell me what you see.”
I stop trying so hard, and let myself relax into the familiarity of talking hockey. For his part, Nico Mackenzie mostly sits and listens quietly, every now and then reaching a long finger out to point at the screen.
“Can I use a piece of paper?” I ask at one point, bending over the end of his desk where I’ve scooted my chair up. I sketch out a quick drawing of a rink, adding the circles and lines that only someone in our business would understand. “I usually prefer a two-one-two defensive system, but with what you’re working with, I feel like you could make a strong case for a one-two-two system. Particularly if you use that kid”—I point at the screen—“as your point defender.”
I get another small smile from that, and he nods. “Goaltending is where we are lacking,” he adds.
I haven’t prepared enough for this interview to have any opinion on that. My mood plummets again. As enjoyable of a distraction as this has been, this is still an interview and I am still failing. Noting my silence, he continues.
“My first year coaching the team, my starting tender wasaggressive and we fostered that style of play. He was—is—an incredible player. My current netminder prefers playing deep.”
“Not necessarily a bad thing. I know several NHL goalies prefer defending deep because they are always square. Longer reaction window, too, I suppose,” I add, mind sorting through how many active goaltenders play that style.
“I agree. Unfortunately, it’s not a style preference for Micky as much as it is timidity and lack of confidence.”
“Ah.” I grimace internally. That might be difficult to train out of someone at this age and skill level.
“But he has the talent. He only needs to trust it.” Coach Mackenzie sighs a little bit, rubbing a finger into his temple and sitting back in his seat. I glance at the watch on my wrist and am surprised to find that I’ve been here nearly two hours.
“You have a game tomorrow, sir?” I ask.
“Yes. Which brings me to my next question: if you were to come work for me, when could you start?”
I open my mouth to tell him tomorrow, as soon as possible, but swallow the words back. I can’t start tomorrow. I need to get the apartment set up, and Parker moved in. I need to put Victoria’s house on the market. I need to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do with my things in Australia. I need to go to my sister’s funeral.
“I…I don’t know, sir,” I admit.Tell him about your dead sister,Vic whispers in my ear.Go on,pity might get you the job.I clear my throat. “There are some things I need to take care of. Moving and…and planning a funeral.”
He nods slowly, eyes on mine. “Would it be a fair assumption that you couldn’t start until the next season? End of July, beginning of August?”
“Probably,” I agree, knowing that there is no way I could give this team the attention they deserve right now.
“Okay. Well, I have a few friends who can help out in the interim—truthfully, I haven’t been particularly proactive in looking for a new AC, so we can continue to manage as is. I think you’ll be a good fit for the team.”
“Are you—what?”
“You’ll receive a formal job offer in a few days.”
“I—well, thank you, sir. Thank you. Are you sure, though?”
He makes a soft huffing sound as he stands that I tentatively identify as a laugh. I rise as well, waiting for him to join me on this side of the desk.
“Yes, I’m sure. As I said, I think you’ll be a good fit with the team. And I think it might help to have someone a little closer in age to the boys on the payroll.”
I laugh. “You’re not that old, sir. And I’m not that young.”
