Yesterday’s practice was basically a wash. They couldn’t get out of their own way. I swear, they were three-year-olds just learning how to skate. Denis was super frustrated, but I decided we just needed to switch tactics tonight.
Instead of normal practice, we played games. Games that also just happen to focus on agility and puck control, but it wasn’t long before they were laughing and feeling better. There was a mess of bodies on the ice as all twenty-three players moved around at once.
“This is your plan for the night, huh?” Denis asks as he sits on the bench next to me.
I nod as a peel of laughter fills the ice. “They’re still getting some basics in—teamwork, coordination, obstacles. Most of all,they’re being pulled out of their funk. Tomorrow will be better, and we’ll get back to business.”
He hums. I’m not sure he agrees, but he doesn’t disagree either. Denis sits in silence as he watches. Once or twice, he leans forward and calls encouragement, after which I give him a sly look. He sniffs and pretends that he doesn’t know why I’m smirking.
I’m not sure if this was the magic fix for them, but by the end of practice, they’re smiling. All twenty-three players have grins on their faces. They’re sweaty and tired and breathing hard as they playfully shove at each other while they gather round.
“Nice practice,” I tell them. When I get several snorts, I add, “Seth had some fucking mean saves tonight. Seriously epic. Braxton made some equally impressive, if not illegal, saves. A few adjustments and you could use those same moves in a game. The passes and coordination between my offensive line tonight were phenomenal. I wish I had them on video because you all should have seen the coordination. Every single one of you was at your top game tonight and you know why?”
I received several shaking heads.
“Because you remembered what it was like to play for fun. You allowed yourself freedom to get creative and went for a move, whether it was a good decision or not. You took risks. Some failed, but some were remarkable. This is the energy I want to see tomorrow. This is the creativity and the determination I want on my ice. One game isn’t going to ruin us, is it?”
I’m impressed with the loud chorus of agreement I receive.
“Go home. Get some sleep. Let’s see what we can do tomorrow.”
Denis remains beside me as we watch them head for the chute. “You’re very different from past coaches,” he tells me.
“I’m going to choose to take that as a compliment,” I say.
He laughs. “It is. We’ve had the best season in our history so far and it’s just begun. I’ve been coaching for a very long time and I’ve never seen a team quite like this. It’s refreshing. Encouraging.”
“Coaches who played the sport they coach often forget what it means to be the player,” I tell him as I grab my stick and water bottle. “They have it in their heads that they need to be the coaches that they’ve had instead of the kind of coach they’ve always wanted and sometimes needed. Then there are the coaches who have never played the sport they’re coaching and have no idea what it is like to be the player outside of what you imagine. Imagine the pressure to perform. To make goals or prevent them. To be a teammate, but also remember that your individual self is most important because you can be replaced. Coaches have a lot of pressure too, but at the end of the day, it’s the players playing the game.”
“Wise fucker,” he mutters.
I grin as he disappears into his office. Opening my door, I find Lemon sitting in my chair behind my desk. This time fully clothed, which I’m only slightly bummed about. He smiles at me, swinging from side to side in my chair like he’s a bored teenager.
“Hey,” I greet as I shut the door behind me. He’s once again in one of my hoodies. There’s always half a dozen in my office. Sometimes I find one missing. It’ll reappear and another will vanish instead.
Have to say, I kind of love it. Actually, there’s no kind of about it. He swims in my hoodies, but I love every second of seeing him in them. Especially the ones that have my name on them. I’ve started keeping those here most of the time, just so he has my name on him.
“Hi,” he says. “Good practice?”
I nod. “Much better than yesterday.”
“They’re hard on themselves.”
“They’ve won the first seven games, so I think that it really felt like a punch in the gut when they suddenly lost one.”
“It was a close game,” Lemon says. “One point. And I’m pretty confident that the ref is to blame for your loss. He had some really shitty calls.”
I grin as I unlace my skates, staring at him.
His cheeks pink and he adds, “So I hear.”
My grin doesn’t fade as I toss my skates aside and slip back into my sneakers. When I get to my feet, I round the desk and pull him up, straight into my arms, and kiss his breath away. He groans in my mouth, his fists clenching in my shirt.
“I fucking love that you’re watching my games, Lemon,” I murmur against his lips.
He shutters. “I’m n-not,” he weakly protests.
I cut off any further argument with more kissing. Deep, sloppy, wet kisses as I steal his breath for my own. He’s putty in my hold when I finally let his mouth go. “Ready to go?” I ask.
