He studied me, calculating whether I was full of shit or actually knew what I was doing. “I'll leave you to it. But I'll be checking in regularly. This team needs to make it, Grant. Don't lose sight of that.”
He walked away, and I stood there feeling the weight of his expectations crushing down.
I gavethe team ten minutes to recover, then got them on the ice. No high-tempo drills today. Just teaching them to move as a unit.
When Hallowell pinched when he shouldn't have, I stopped the drill.
“Hallowell, what's your assignment?”
“Support the rush?—”
“Wrong. You hold the line. You don't chase opportunities. You play your position and trust the forwards to do theirs.” I looked at the rest of the team. “One player freelancing breaks the entire system. You want to be a hero, do it on someone else's team.”
Tate's jaw tightened, but he nodded.
We ran a quick scrimmage at the end — first line against second. Hartley scored twice, both times with a release so fast the goalies barely saw it. Pure talent. The shot everyone paid to watch.
But his shoulders were still too tight. His grip still too controlled.
“That's it,” I said at noon. “Good work. Stretch, hydrate, get out of here.”
They limped off the ice. I stayed, making mental notes, and was about to head to my office when I heard skates behind me.
I turned. Hartley was standing near the blue line, helmet off, stick in hand. Waiting.
“Hartley. You need something?”
He skated closer until he was maybe ten feet away. “Five minutes.”
“What?”
“One-on-one work. Shooting drills. Whatever you think I need.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened. “Why not?”
“Because I don't do private sessions. The team sees favoritism, it undermines everything we're building.”
“The team's gone.”
“Doesn't matter. Someone will hear. Someone always hears.”
He took another step closer. “I'm asking for help, Coach. Isn't that what you want?”
“During practice. With the team.”
“I can't.” His voice cracked, barely noticeable. “I can't figure this out in front of everyone. I just need five minutes. One drill. That's it.”
I studied him. The set of his jaw. The way he was holding himself like the ask had cost him something. “What about the assistant coaches?”
“It's not the same.”
“Why not?”
He was quiet for a moment, eyes dropping to the ice. “Mitchell never watched. Not really. He'd run the drill, stand there with his clipboard, and you could tell he was already somewhere else. Thinking about his contract, his next job, whatever. Didn't matter whether you figured anything out as long as the power play percentage looked okay on paper.” He looked back up at me. “I spent three years asking him for this and getting nothing.”
I kept my face neutral.
