And Coach looked like he wanted to murder all of us.
The entire game, his voice from the bench had that edge to it—harsh, cutting, never satisfied. When I scored the first goal and the guys mobbed me, I looked toward the bench automatically, looking for that nod, that acknowledgment.
He was already turning away.
Second period, Finn took a stupid penalty—hooking, completely unnecessary—and Coach benched him for two full rotations. When Benny made a perfect defensive play to break up a two-on-one, Coach called him over and ripped into himabout positioning like he'd just cost us the game. Tate missed a shot by an inch and got pulled immediately.
By the third period, the whole team was skating like they were being chased by something invisible and vicious.
We won. Should've been a celebration. Should've felt good.
Instead, the locker room after the game was tense and quiet. Guys stripped off their gear without the usual chirping, without the energy that came after a dominant road win. Even Finn was subdued, which was fucking unheard of.
I sat in my stall and tried to disappear into my phone.
Rook stood in the middle of the room, still half in his gear, and his voice cut through the quiet. “Alright. What the hell is going on with Coach?”
Silence.
“I'm serious. That's two practices and two games where he's been riding everyone like we're last in the standings. We just won by three and he looked ready to bury us in the parking lot.” Rook's eyes moved around the room. “So what is it? Anyone know?”
More silence. A few guys glanced at each other. Mace shrugged. Volkov stayed quiet, which was typical, but his jaw was tight.
Then Rook's eyes landed on me.
“Hartley. You've been with him more than anyone. You got any idea what's eating him?”
My stomach dropped.
Every eye in the room turned toward me, and I felt my face go carefully blank. “No fucking clue, Cap.”
“Fine.” He turned back to the room. “Whatever it is, we deal with it. We're a team. We show up, we play, we don't let his shit get in our heads. Got it?”
A chorus of agreement.
By the timewe got to the hotel, I was wound so tight I thought I might snap. The team filtered into the lobby, and I grabbed my key without looking at anyone, without waiting to see if anyone wanted to grab food or hang out. I just needed to get to the room and breathe for five fucking seconds without feeling like I was suffocating.
Coach was already at the elevator when I got there, standing with his hands in his pockets, face carefully blank. We rode up to the fourth floor in silence, the tension so thick I could barely breathe through it.
We walked down the hallway side by side but not touching, stopped at our room, and he unlocked the door.
Neither of us moved to go inside.
“Hartley—”
“You can't keep doing this.” My voice came out quieter than I expected. Tired. “Whatever you're trying to prove, it's not working.”
His jaw tightened. “Get inside.”
“Why? So you can ignore me some more? Pretend nothing's happening and let the team suffer?”
“Inside. Now.”
I walked in. He followed and shut the door behind us with a quiet click that sounded deafening.
The silence stretched between us, but it felt different than this morning. Less angry. More exhausted.
“I know what you're doing,” I said finally, keeping my back to him. “You think if you're cruel enough, I'll back off. That I'll hate you enough to make this easier.”
