I shouldn’t be thinking about her at all. Not while I’m with them. Not while I’m alone, either. Especially then.
“Here, have another.” Mr. Lombard—David, that’s still weird to get used to—offers me a fresh beer.
“Thanks.”
I take a long pull to get my mind off Eve.
Yeah, I definitely can’t go there. She’s off-limits. I need this job, and he went out on a limb to get it for me. If I want to stop being a screw up, I have to stop doing screw up type shit.
Lusting after the head coach’s daughter is top of the list of Things Not To Do.
I can’t believe I’m nervous. Makes me want to laugh at myself, yet I can’t shake it on my first day on the job.
David was pleased when I showed up early this morning. He took the time to guide me around the college’s huge state of the art ice sports facility.
Those nerves rear their head again when he ends the tour at the practice rink where the team is warming up with stretches and skating loose loops around the ice.
David rests his elbows on the boards and blows his whistle twice to get their attention. I’m impressed by how quickly they circle up in a group. It’s clear they respect him.
“We all miss Kowalski since he retired suddenly, and we’ve made do up to this point in the season. I want to introduce a new addition to the coaching staff. This is Cole Kincaid.”
The transition from player to mentor was trippy at first. I haven’t felt these jitters since the first year I spent as an instructor at a youth camp. I’m used to showing little kids who are just getting down the basics of puck control how to improve their coordination.
I nod to the team and smooth a hand down my brand new Heston U Hockey track jacket, bumping the whistle dangling from a cord around my neck. David gave me both this morning. Beneath the logo it declares me as part of the program’s staff, and the back readsAssistant Coach Kincaid.
This is the real deal. Legit coaching.
After my days of playing in college ended, this is a path I thought about following often. It just took me five years and a lucky break to get to this point.
“Glad to be here,” I say when David gestures to me. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you guys can do.”
“We kick ass, that’s what we do,” someone pipes up.
“No funny business. I’m talking about you, Blake.”
He points at the young guy with messy brown hair and a huge grin that spoke. He’s wearing number twenty-four and balances a puck on the end of his stick. Players snicker and nudge him.
“Let’s get to work.” David blows his whistle again. “First up, shooting. Then we’re working on zone coverage rotation. Divvy up and, for fuck’s sake, pay attention to the drill explanation. Don’t waste everyone’s time by daydreaming. Hear me?”
A chorus of agreements sounds. Half the team breaks off to form a line at the other end and the rest stick with me on my side. I don’t even know their names yet.
The urge to glance at the roster David handed me is strong. I hold off for now, preferring to learn what I can about them without knowing where they stand on the team. Muscle memory kicks in when I put on a pair of skates and join them on the ice for a better view.
After they’ve run through the line, I break down the main thing David wants them practicing today.
“I’m sure you guys aren’t strangers to this one,” I say. “This exercise is beneficial for offense and defense. We’re focusing on building foundations of communication during gameplay for the forwards passing the puck from different zones in the corners and behind the net. For the guys on D guarding those zones, I want you analyzing plays as they occur to develop better reaction time.”
Their blank stares give me the urge to straighten my spine, which I decide I can’t do because then I’d be losing whatever weird unspoken pissing contest I feel I’m being challenged with as they size me up.
These players are much closer in age to me. It’s not like training kids. The specialty programs I bounced around in after college dealt with youth boys and girls divisions. Those seasonal summer and winter camps felt like a cakewalk compared to standing in front of twenty plus guys that have the skills to go pro if they have the drive to make it happen.
It was work, yet it never really felt like a true job since the programs only lasted for a short period. Then I’d move on and find another, enjoying traveling. David told me this was on a trial basis, but it already seems like a much more serious job than my previous experiences.
This is coaching high-level players. Something that could be a career, if I’m good enough at it.
Christ, will they even listen to me? Or will they buck my authority as a coach like the cocky little shit I remember being at their age? They probably think they know everything, and with Heston’s overall stats and win record, I’m betting they think they’re on top of the world.
“Any questions?” I prompt.
