She pushed open a set of double doors, and we walked into the players' space. It was massive. Lockers arranged in a horseshoe, each one custom-built with nameplates and accent lighting. The Wolves logo was set into the center of the floor, perfectly maintained. Flat screens covered every wall. A players' lounge was visible through glass doors at the far end, stocked with couches and a kitchen setup that probably cost more than my truck.
“This is where they live six months a year,” Tess said.
I walked through the space, noting the layout. Separate areas for equipment maintenance, stick racks organized by player, a whole section dedicated to recovery tools. Everything was branded, everything was expensive, everything screamedthis is professional hockey and we take it seriously.
“Hartley's stall is there.” Tess pointed to a corner spot, premium location. “He's got the most endorsement gear of anyone on the roster, so expect his locker to look like a sporting goods store exploded.”
“He show up early too?”
“Depends on the day. Sometimes he's here at five running shooting drills. Sometimes he drags in at nine-thirty looking like he hasn't slept. Consistent inconsistency. It's his brand.”
I filed that away.
We moved through the rest of the main floor: the weight room, players' dining area, recovery pools. Everything was top-tier, which meant the organization was serious about keeping these bodies functional. Or at least serious about appearances.
“You've got full access to all of this,” Tess said as we headed toward the stairs. “Medical staff's on call basically around the clock during the season. If you see something concerning, injury,overtraining, mental health red flags, you loop me in. I loop in team docs if needed. We handle it quietly.”
“Quietly meaning what?”
“Meaning the PR department doesn't need to know about every bumped knee or missed sleep. But if it's serious, if it affects performance or could become a liability, then yeah, we coordinate with the suits.”
We climbed to the second floor. The coaching offices were tucked into a corner overlooking the practice rink, which was lit now, a maintenance crew resurfacing the ice. My office was the second door, small but functional. A desk. A whiteboard. A TV mounted on the wall. A window with a view of the ice.
“Previous coach left nothing behind,” Tess said. “Which tells you everything you need to know about how that ended.”
I dropped my bag on the desk and looked around. The space was clean, impersonal, waiting to be claimed. I could work with this.
“Video room's next door,” Tess continued. “Full access to game footage, practice film, everything. You'll probably live in there for the first month. Most coaches do.”
She showed me the staff lounge, which had a coffee setup that looked like it required an engineering degree to operate, and a small kitchen stocked with protein bars and bottled water. Then the conference rooms, the GM's office suite, currently dark, and the communications department, which took up an entire corner of the floor.
“That's June Park's territory,” Tess said, nodding toward the glass-walled office space. “PR director. She'll find you soon enough. Probably today. She likes to establish her authority early.”
“Noted.”
We ended up back at my office, and Tess leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Look, I don't know what you've heardabout this place, but I'm going to be straight with you. This team's talented. They're also a mess. Too much pressure, not enough structure, and the previous staff let things slide because they were scared of losing the room.”
“I'm not scared of losing the room.”
“Good. Because these guys will test you. They'll push boundaries. They'll see what they can get away with. And if you give them an inch, they'll take the whole fucking season.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“It's not a warning. It's a fact.” She straightened. “But if you treat them like professionals, hold the line, and actually give a shit, they'll run through walls for you. This group wants to win. They just need someone to show them how.”
“That's the job.”
“Yeah. It is.” She tapped the doorframe once, a decisive punctuation. “Coffee's on the house your first week. After that, you're on your own. Welcome to Northgate.”
She left, and I stood in my office and felt the weight of it settle. This was real. This was happening. No more interviews, no more waiting, no more wondering if I'd ever get another shot.
I had the shot.
Now I just had to not fuck it up.
I mademyself coffee and settled in to study the roster. Names. Positions. Contract details. Injury histories. The architecture of a team.
Rowan Kincaid, number eleven, captain. Thirty-one, two-way center, dependable and disciplined. The reports said he played through pain, managed a hip issue with treatment andsheer stubbornness. A leader who'd bleed for the crest. Useful until he broke.
