Even though she’s mad, it’s obvious she’s stressed too. This is only her second season with NEU, and last year, the team struggled—hard. So, this year, she built a team, handpicking us all, yet now she doesn’t even have a goalie. Well, the ones she has aren’t nearly as skilled as Jazzy and Sage.
“Our opening game for the preseason is in two weeks, and we don’t have a goalie worth a shit.”
As the words leave her lips, I cringe for the few young goalies who are here, knowing that must have sucked to hear.
Coach’s eyes land on mine, and I try not to show how uncomfortable I am. In this moment, she has no reason to focus on me. I’m no goalie.
“Hardy, I’ve been told you played the position before.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “I heard your team went to the championship that year too.”
“Well, I—” I stop, swallowing when my words come out in a squeak. “We only had one true goalie on our team, and she was in a car accident that took her out for the season. I stepped in for her, just for that one season.”
She lifts an eyebrow, her expression stone-cold. “And then the next season, the regular goalie was back, but your team didn’t even make it to the playoffs. Correct?”
I frown, looking around to see who’s staring at me before looking at Coach again. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“Is it true that the goalie was the coach’s daughter?”
My cheeks heat. I know what she’s getting at, and it’s making me want to crawl into a locker and close the door until everyone leaves—including her. Coach Johnson was a good coach, but she did have a tendency to put her daughter’s wants first, and the truth is … her daughter, Nicole, just wasn’t that great of a player. But I’m not about to tell a locker room full of people that.
“Um … yes,” I reply, chewing my bottom lip.
For a moment, Coach just stares at me before finally exhaling. “All right then, that’s all I need to know.” She suddenly looks slightly annoyed and sighs. “Next line of business is a fundraiser that Brody O’Brien chose to take place here at NEU.”
There are a few cheers, and some of the players look at each other. Brody is like an uncle to me, but to most, he’s hockey royalty. I knew he was thinking about doing his fall fundraising event here, but I’m not sure what he decided to do for it. Hopefully something fun though.
“All right, calm down,” she grumbles as everyone’s excitement grows. “You may not be too excited when you hear what you all have to do for this event.” She pinches the bridge ofher nose. “Apparently, Mr. O’Brien has decided to do an auction type of event. But instead of items … it’s athletes.”
“What’s that?” I blurt out. “Is that … is that legal?”
“I have no idea,” she mutters. “There will be a few different teams from NEU taking part, but I know that we have to—because he’s a big supporter of our program—and the men’s hockey team is participating as well because, obviously, that’s fitting given he was an NHL player.” She shrugs. “I know it sounds kind of icky, but basically, someone will just bid to win a date with each of you. And you’re welcome to bid on other athletes too.” She pauses. “Though I don’t know many college kids with the money to do that, but do your thing.” She looks around. “So, do we all understand that taking part in this fundraiser is not optional?”
Everyone signals yes in their own way, though some seem more excited than others.
Coach slaps her hands together lightly. “All right then, let’s get to work.” She jerks her chin toward the exit. “Get your asses up and head to the ice.”
Quickly, we all stand, filing out through the door and walking past her, but when I reach her, she stops me by putting her arm across the doorway.
“Hardy, Coach Stratton is going to work with you and a few others today.” Finally, she smiles, but it’s almost a smirk. “Time to show us what you got.”
As she drops her arm, nodding for me to go to the arena, my body tenses. Because Coach Stratton mainly works with goalies. And I … did not come here to play that position.
I’m not ready to either.
An hourand a half after working with Coach Stratton and two other players, the rest of the team is gone, and the entire coaching staff stands before me, Paisley, and Margo, looking down at their iPad, which no doubt has notes on how bad we each suck.
“Pickering,” Coach Sanchez says to Margo. “You’re out of shape. You’re lazy. And you don’t have the skill set to be our starting goalie.” She pauses, tilting her chin up the tiniest bit. “Not yet anyway.”
Even from the corner of my eye, I can see Margo darting her gaze toward me and glaring before she looks back at Coach.
“Yes, ma’am,” she utters. “I’ll work hard this season to fix those things.”
“Good. You can go,” Sanchez says.
As Margo skates away, she narrows her eyes at me, and it’s clear as day she’s pissed.
I look away, not wanting to engage, just as Coach looks at Paisley.
“You’re overplaying the shit out of the position. You’re not ready either, but I do think that once you settle in and find a way to cope with your nerves, you’ll make a great goalie. But the thing with hockey players? They can sense your fear. They’ll sniff it out and use it against you.” She jerks her chin toward the exit. “Go on. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
