Istood in the kitchen at five-thirty in the morning, waiting for the coffee maker to finish brewing, and stared at the tower of boxes stacked against the living room wall. Most of them hadn't been touched since the moving company dropped them off three weeks ago. The furniture was minimal—couch, TV, kitchen table with two chairs. No art on the walls. No photos on shelves. Nothing that saidsomeone lives hereinstead ofsomeone's crashing here temporarily until the next disaster.
I'd unpacked the essentials. Coffee maker. Pots and pans. Enough dishes to function. My coaching materials were organized in the second bedroom I was using as an office—binders, playbooks, whiteboard mounted on the wall. The hockey stuff had been prioritized. Everything personal could wait.
The truth was, I didn't want to unpack. Unpacking meant committing. Meant believing this job would last longer than six months before something went wrong and I had to pack it all up again. Easier to live light. Ready to move.
The coffee finished. I poured a cup, black, and carried it to the window. The view looked out over a parking lot and a busy street, cars already moving even though the sun hadn't fully risen yet. Toronto was awake. The city didn't sleep, didn't slow down, didn't give you space to breathe if you weren't careful.
I liked it. The noise kept me from thinking too much.
My phone buzzed on the counter. A reminder I'd set for myself:Drink water. Eat breakfast. Don't just survive on coffee.
Cal had programmed it into my phone during my last visit, claiming I'd work myself to death if he didn't intervene. He wasn't wrong. Left to my own devices, I'd skip meals, live on caffeine, and convince myself that exhaustion was productivity.
I opened the fridge. Eggs. Bread. Orange juice I'd bought last week and hadn't touched. I made myself scrambled eggs and toast, forcing myself to sit at the kitchen table and actually eat instead of standing over the sink like an animal.
The discipline felt good. Small structure. Small control. Proof that I could take care of myself even when my brain wanted to skip straight to work and forget I had a body that needed maintenance.
I finished eating, washed the dishes, and checked the time. Six-fifteen. Practice wasn't until ten, but I needed to be at the arena early to review yesterday's footage and finalize today's plan.
I grabbed my bag and was halfway to the door when my phone rang. It was Hendricks.
I answered. “Morning.”
“Grant. I'll be observing practice today.”
“Understood,” I said.
“I want to see what you're building. How the team's responding to you. Whether my investment is paying off.”
“They're responding well. We already installed the foundation. Today we push harder.”
“Good. I'll be there at nine-thirty. Don't let me distract you.”
He hung up before I could respond.
I stood there in my half-empty apartment, phone in hand, feeling the weight of his expectations settle like a stone in my chest.Don't let me distract you.Right. Because having the GM watching your every move, waiting for you to fuck up, was totally not distracting.
I grabbed my keys and left, locking the door behind me on an apartment that still didn't feel like home.
The team was already therewhen I walked in at nine-thirty, gear laid out, guys in various states of getting dressed. Hendricks stood near the door in an expensive suit, arms crossed, watching me like a scientist observing an experiment.
I ignored him and focused on the room.
“Morning,” I said. No preamble. “Get dressed. We're not starting on the ice today.”
That got their attention. Confusion rippled through the room. Finn looked alarmed. Tate looked annoyed. Rook just nodded like he'd expected something unconventional.
“Where are we going?” Callahan asked.
“Outside. Running hill sprints in the park across the street. Full gear minus skates.”
Groans. Muttered curses. Mercer said something under his breath that sounded likefucking typical.
“Problem, Mercer?” I asked, voice flat.
He looked up, caught. “No, Coach.”
“Good. Because hockey isn't just played on ice. It's played in your lungs, your legs, your ability to push when your body'sscreaming at you to quit. If you can't handle running hills, you won't handle third period overtime when the game's on the line.”
