CHAPTER ONE
Noel
Killingdreams is the worst part of this job. I’ve got nine guys battling for three roster spots, which means six hard conversations soon.
I always get the hard ones out of the way first. And even though I remind them to keep working and earn another call-up, there are sometimes tears. Men I’ve come to know and respect walk into my office with their stomachs in knots, their futures hanging in the balance, and they sometimes walk out trying to compose themselves.
Nick Simmons, for example. He’s on the locker room bench now, his head down and his elbows on his knees, and if it was just a matter of attitude and work ethic, he’d be the first guy I keep. He puts in his all every day, and he takes direction well. Respectful of the veteran players. Works his ass off in the workout room while others are talking and laughing. I saw his awestruck look when we walked into this locker room for our first preseason game, and it’s a no-frills visiting team locker room.
He won’t make the cut, though. It’s his skating. He’s good, but not great. And even though he does everything he can to compensate for it, it’s not enough to keep him here. I want him to have a taste of the big league though. Give him motivation to dig deep and keep grinding.
I scan the locker room, my brows dropping when I see our starting goaltender, Isaac Moss, holding up his phone like he’s taking a selfie. He’s actually taking a video. Our team captain, Carter Stanton, is standing next to him and they’re both grinning. Isaac seems to be interviewing Carter.
“Feeling good, Cap?”
“Feeling outstanding. We put in the work in the offseason, and now it’s time to get back out there.”
“You got any picks for MVP tonight? And don’t say me. You’re always heaping me with praise, it’s just a lot, you know? Give someone else a chance.”
I exhale through my nose, Moss’s energy grating on my nerves. He’s still got two years left in his contract and he’s one of the top tenders in the league, so he knows his roster spot is safe. It’s easy to laugh and joke when that’s the case. Some of the players in this locker room are fighting for their dreams.
Stanton gives Moss a quick side-eye. “I’d say Lundgren. Guy’s a warrior and he’s proven he’s still got it. He’s great at anticipating and intercepting. It’s fun to watch him play.”
Magnus Lundgren will get one of our roster spots, and Stanton knows it. He’s a thirty-one-year-old veteran player who hit some bumps rehabbing from a shoulder injury and got cut by his former team. He’s back at a hundred percent and he fits in well with our team. I’m looking forward to telling him he made our roster.
“Hey, fellas,” I call out as I walk over to them. “Making some TikToks for the Gram?”
Isaac has already stopped filming, and he grins at me. “You’re not that old, Coach. TikTok and the Gram are two different things.”
I cross my arms, about to put my foot in his ass, when Stanton intervenes. “The new PR girl asked us to make short videos when we’re on the road. It’s for the team’s socials.”
Aggravation rises in my chest. “How about we worry aboutthe socialsafter the game, boys?”
“Yes, Coach,” Isaac says, setting the phone on a bench.
“Leo’s on his period!” someone yells from the other side of the room. “Anyone have a heating pad for his cramps?”
I turn and glare at Anson Hunt, who’s grinning like he’s the first one to tell that joke. Some of my players are younger than my oldest two daughters, and it shows.
Lucien Beaumont flicks a glare at me and puts a hand on Hunt’s shoulder, saying, “Hey, man, let’s stretch.”
Beaumont is dating my daughter, Talia, one of our team trainers. I spent time with them over the summer, including a two-week family trip to the South of France, and his devotion to Talia was obvious. Initially, I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of them being together, but I’m warming to it.
One thing I’ll give Beaumont—he has more situational awareness than some of his teammates. He knows this game is important, even if it’s preseason. We made it to the playoffs and then choked last year. I expect everyone to step it up this season.
We’re playing my son-in-law’s team tonight, and I’d love to smoke them. Kyle Macintire is at the top of my shit list, which is saying something since I have two ex-wives who both cheated on me.
I walk into the weight room, where the row of eight bikes is full of players warming up. I approach Levi Johnson, one of our third-line forwards. He has a troubled expression.
“You good?” I ask him.
He shifts his attention to me. “Yeah, Coach. I’m good.”
“How’s Kyler doing at school?”
His shoulders sink slightly. “Hanging in there. Sierra’s supposed to tour another private school today. We’re hoping it’s a good fit.”
Levi and his wife have a first grader who’s been getting bullied at school. It amazes me what kids can get away with at school these days. Kyler is in counseling, but Levi’s told me he cries before school every day and begs not to go. They’re eager to get him switched to a new school.
