FIRST IMPRESSIONS
JACE
We were all at the rink fifteen minutes early like good little professionals, pretending we weren't curious as hell about the new coach. The guy who'd replace Mitchell, who'd been a players' coach in the worst way—all charm and no accountability, fired after we flamed out in the first round last spring.
I sat in my stall between Rook and Mace, taping my stick for practice even though I'd already taped it twice this morning. Nervous habit.
“Think he's gonna be a screamer?” Finn asked from across the room, bouncing his leg like he'd mainlined espresso. The rookie was always moving, always talking, always making noise to fill the silence. “Or one of those creepy quiet guys who just stare at you until you confess your sins?”
“I'm betting on old-school hardass,” Mace said while lacing his skates. “Bag skates. Punishment drills. The whole 'when I played' routine.”
“As long as he doesn't fuck with the lines,” Tate said, checking his hair in a compact mirror because of course he had acompact mirror in his hockey bag. Pretty boy defenseman. “I'm not playing third pair. I didn't sign my contract to ride pine.”
“Relax, princess,” Volkov rumbled from his corner. “You play where coach says you play.”
“Easy for you to say. You're welded to the top pair.”
Volkov shrugged, unbothered. “Is because I am best.”
Volkov's English was perfect when he wanted it to be, but he played up the accent for comedic effect sometimes. Smart. Kept people underestimating him.
I stayed quiet, listening to the room, feeling the pulse of it. This was the ecosystem. Twenty-three guys, all with egos and insecurities and the constant background radiation of knowing you were one injury, one slump, one bad game away from being replaced. We were a team, sure, but we were also competitors. Sharks in the same tank.
Rook stood and cleared his throat, and the room went quiet immediately.
“Listen up,” he said, voice calm and flat. “New coach, new start. Whatever happened last season stays there. We show up, we work, we follow the system. No drama. No shortcuts. We're here to win.”
“And if he's a dick?” Finn asked, grinning.
“Then we deal with it like professionals,” Rook said, shooting the rookie a look that could've stripped paint. “Which means you keep your mouth shut unless you've got something useful to say.”
“Got it, Cap.” Finn mimed zipping his lips, then immediately whispered to Benny, “He's definitely gonna be a dick.”
Then the door opened.
A man walked in, and the room went still. He wasn't tall enough to loom, but he had that thing some people had—gravity that made you pay attention whether you wanted to or not. Broad shoulders. Solid build. Maybe early forties, lines aroundhis eyes that said he'd seen some shit and hadn't forgotten any of it.
He was wearing a Northgate quarter-zip and dark pants, nothing flashy, and he moved into the room like he owned it.
Tess followed him in, clipboard in hand, the forever-witness to locker room chaos. She gave us all a look that saidbehave or else, then stepped to the side.
The new coach scanned the room, taking us in one by one. His eyes were gray, and they didn't miss a fucking thing. When his gaze landed on me, it didn't linger, didn't skip, just moved through like I was data to be processed and filed away.
I hated that I noticed.
“Good morning,” he said. “I'm Grant Sutherland. Your new head coach. Some of you know my history. Some of you don’t. But that doesn't matter. What matters is what we do starting today.”
No jokes. No icebreakers. No bullshit about being excited to work with us or how much potential we had. Just straight into it.
“This team has talent,” he continued, and it didn't sound like a compliment. “That's not the problem. The problem is you don't know how to use it consistently. You freelance. You chase highlight reels. You play like individuals instead of a system, and that's why you lost in the first round last year.”
Mitchell had never talked to us like this. Mitchell had been all positive reinforcement and “let's focus on our strengths” and look where that got us.
“We're going to fix that,” Coach said, and started pacing, like a predator assessing the herd. “We're going to build a structure. Simple. Repeatable. Every line knows their role. Every player knows their responsibility. You do your job, trust your linemates to do theirs, we win. You try to be a hero, you break the system, we lose.”
He stopped pacing. Looked at us like he was daring someone to argue.
No one did.
