“Understood.”
“Which means any decisions you make, on or off the ice, reflect on the entire organization.” Her smile never wavered. “Media appearances. Player discipline. Anything that could be interpreted as controversial, we coordinate first.”
“I'm here to coach, not make headlines.”
“Good.” She handed me a folder. “These are our communication protocols. Social media guidelines. Crisis management procedures. Just so we're all on the same page.”
I took the folder and set it on my desk without opening it. “Anything else?”
“The players are assets. Expensive ones. We protect them. That means if you see anything concerning, injury, behavior, mental health, you loop in the appropriate people. We handle it as a team.”
“Makes sense.”
“Specifically,” she said, and her voice dropped half a tone, became more precise, “Jace Hartley is the face of this franchise. Sponsors love him. Fans love him. He's worth more in marketability than anyone else on the roster. So if there's ever a situation involving Jace, I need to know immediately.”
I met her eyes. Held them. “If any player has an issue that affects their performance, I'll address it. If it's relevant to your department, I'll coordinate.”
“And you'll let me know first.”
“If appropriate.”
She studied me for a long moment, calculating how much control she'd have, how much I'd push back, whether I was the type who'd play by organizational rules or go rogue and create messes she'd have to clean up.
“We're going to get along fine,” she said finally. It sounded like both a promise and a threat.
“Looking forward to it.”
She left, and I exhaled slowly. Politics. I fucking hated politics. But that's what coaching at this level was: half the job managing personalities and optics and the hundred invisible landmines that had nothing to do with hockey.
I opened the folder she'd given me. Crisis management protocols. Media training resources. A whole section on “brand protection strategies” that made my skin crawl.
I closed it and shoved it in a drawer.
The GM'ssuite was on the opposite corner of the floor, three times the size of mine and decorated like a boardroom crossed with a monument to ego. Leather chairs. A mahogany desk. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Championship banners mounted on the walls like trophies.
This was power that came with money and the ability to fire people without blinking.
Paul Hendricks stood when I walked in, extended a hand across the desk. “Grant. Good to officially have you on board.”
“Thanks for the opportunity.”
He gestured to a chair and I sat. He didn't sit immediately, stayed standing, looking out the window like he was about to deliver a speech he'd rehearsed.
“Let's be clear about what we're building here,” he said. “This team has talent. What it doesn't have is discipline. Structure. A system that holds players accountable.”
“That's fixable.”
“Good.” He finally sat, leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. “Because we're not in the business of moral victories. We win or we find people who can. Your job is to maximize thisroster. Push them. Challenge them. Make them uncomfortable if you have to. But keep it clean.”
“Clean.”
“No scandals. No controversies. No distractions.” His eyes hardened, and I saw the calculation there, the risk assessment, the reminder that I was expendable. “Your past makes you a gamble, Grant. I'm willing to take that gamble because I think you're the right coach for this moment. But if you give me a reason to regret it, you're gone. Understood?”
“Understood,” I said.
“Good.” He stood, signaling the meeting was over. “First practice is tomorrow at ten. The players are expecting discipline. Give it to them.”
I spentthe next three hours in the video room, pulling footage, taking notes, building the foundation of a system that would turn talent into discipline. Hendricks wanted structure, fine. I'd give them structure. Every player would know their role. Every line would have a purpose. We'd forecheck hard, collapse low, and play a grinding, suffocating style that made skill players earn every inch of ice.
