Hartley's footage kept pulling me back. I watched his shifts on a loop, cataloging the inconsistencies. The way he'd dominate one sequence, then vanish the next. The tightness in his posture when the pressure climbed. The way his shot release varied between pure instinct and overthought hesitation, sometimes in the same period.
Talent wasn't the problem. His mind was.
I made more notes. Drilling plans. One-on-one work. Pressure situations designed to force him to trust his handsinstead of his brain. It would take time. Patience. The careful coaching that couldn't be rushed without snapping what was already fragile.
At noon, Tess knocked on the video room door. She handed me a stack of files without preamble.
“Current injury reports,” she said. “Nothing catastrophic, but you should know what you're working with.”
I scanned the list. Rook's hip. Volkov's wrist. A few minor bumps and bruises. Standard wear and tear for professional athletes.
“Anyone hiding anything?” I asked.
She hesitated. Just for a second. “Rook's hip is worse than he'll admit. He'll tell you he's fine. He's not. But good luck getting him to sit.”
“Noted. Anyone else?”
“A few guys are doing extra ice time. Early mornings. Late nights. Off-schedule stuff.”
“That's not unusual.”
“It is when it's obsessive.” She met my eyes. “Some days guys are here at five a.m. running drills alone. Here past midnight sometimes, just skating circles.”
I filed that away. “Anyone specific I should know about?”
“Hartley. Callahan. Mercer. Different reasons, probably. Hartley's the franchise face with all the pressure that comes with it. Callahan's a rookie trying to prove he belongs. Mercer's got discipline issues and might be working off frustration.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“Yeah.” She crossed her arms and looked at me straight. “These guys respect the room more than they respect authority. You want their buy-in, you earn it. Don't expect them to fall in line just because you've got the whistle.”
“Good to know.”
She left, and I sat there with her words ringing in my ears. Earn it. That's what I'd always done. As a player, you earned respect with your work ethic, your sacrifice, your willingness to bleed for the crest. As a coach, the principle was the same. The execution was different.
I pulled up the practice plans I'd been drafting and started refining them. High tempo. High intensity. Drills that would expose weaknesses and reward effort.
By the time I looked up, it was past two and my coffee had gone cold.
My phone buzzed and Cal's name lit up the screen.
I answered on the second ring. “Yeah.”
“Holy shit, you're alive. I thought maybe you'd been absorbed into some corporate hockey cult.”
“Not yet. Give it a week.”
“How's the new gig? You settling in okay?”
“It's fine. Good roster. Lots of work to do.”
“You're already obsessing and working sixteen-hour days.”
“I'm not obsessing.”
“You're always obsessing. That's your factory setting.” I could hear him moving, probably at the firehouse, background noise of voices and equipment. “Seriously, though. You doing okay?”
“I'm fine, Cal.”
