“That's what you said last time, and then you got fired and spent three months pretending you weren't spiraling.”
“I wasn't spiraling.”
“Grant. I love you, but you're a shit liar.” His voice softened. “I'm just saying, this is supposed to be a fresh start. Don't turn it into another way to punish yourself.”
I didn't answer. Couldn't, because he wasn't wrong.
“You still there?” Cal asked.
“Yeah.”
“Look, I'm not trying to be a dick. I just want you to actually be happy for once instead of white-knuckling your way through life like it's a fucking endurance test.”
“I'm a hockey coach. White-knuckling is the job description.”
He laughed, but it was strained. “Just take care of yourself, okay? And if you need anything, call. I'm serious. Anytime.”
“I will.”
“Liar.”
“Love you too, asshole.”
He hung up, and I sat there staring at my phone like it held answers it definitely didn't have.
Cal was right. I did turn everything into punishment. Work harder. Stay later. Prove you're not the liability everyone thinks you are. It was the only way I knew how to function, the only language that made sense to me.
But this time, I told myself, it would be different. This time I'd build something that lasted. I'd take this talented, fragile roster and turn them into a team that could win.
I workeduntil the building emptied around me. Maintenance staff came and went. Security made their rounds. I stayed, watching footage, taking notes, building the system that would turn potential into results.
Every player had cracks. Every player had pressure points. My job was to manage them, not fix them. To build a structure strong enough that individual weaknesses became collective strengths.
I made a final note on my practice plan.
First week: establish expectations. No favorites. No exceptions. Everyone earns their ice time.
Then I added one more line.
Next shift.
It was a rule I'd learned as a player, back when the game was simpler. You fucked up? Next shift. You scored? Next shift. The past didn't matter. The future was irrelevant. All you had was the present moment and the next opportunity to prove yourself.
Maybe that's what this team needed. Permission to stop living in their mistakes. Permission to focus on what came next instead of what had already happened.
Or maybe I was projecting.
I finally shut down my laptop and grabbed my coat. The arena was dark again, the way I liked it. Quiet. Controlled. Empty of expectation.
Tomorrow was the first practice. Tomorrow I'd meet the team properly, not as names on a roster but as bodies in the room, egos and insecurities and the hundred ways players tested new coaches to see what they could get away with.
I'd handle it. I always did.
I walked through the empty hallways, past the locker room, past the medical suite, past all the polished surfaces and branded signage that screamedlegacyandfamilyandwinning with integrity.
But I knew the truth. This wasn't about legacy. It was about survival. Mine and theirs.
CHAPTER 3
