Instead, I silently move back to the couch, grabbing my headphones from my backpack as I pass. Deciding I need a distraction, I make a call to the only person likely to answer at this time.
“Hey, Dad,” I say once the video connects.
“Finley, is everything okay? Shouldn’t you be watching film?” he asks, clearly confused about why I’m calling him now, rather than waiting for our usual check-in.
“I’m making my way through the Falcons’ last game as we speak,” I reply.
“That Lancaster is fast. Shows off too much with his stickwork, though.”
“Indeed.”
We sit in silence for a beat, and I question why calling my dad felt like a good option. He has always been there for me, but we don’t do feelings. We don’t do easy conversations or banter. We don’t do—well, anything that isn’t hockey.
He finally offers, “And you got Beckett Kane.”
“I did.”
“He’ll be a strong addition for your team. White clearly knows what he’s about over there.”
“He does,” I agree. Even I can see that I might’ve been a bit dramatic in cutting Kane from my original list.
“Plus, they can probably do some fluff piece about two kids from a few miles away ending up on the same team—one as the coach, one as the star player.” Dad laughs. “Did you know he’s from Superior?”
“Read it in the packet the team put together,” I answer, with no intention of mentioning to my dad that I met Kane oncebefore. Or that he hasn’t left my mind since he showed up outside my front door, disrupting the modicum of equilibrium I’ve tried so hard to achieve.
I mean, just look at tonight. It should’ve been one of the most productive evenings of my week. Home early from the arena, a good dinner, and a few hours’ worth of film watched with actionable notes to discuss with the coaches tomorrow. Instead, I’ve been distracted by the party across the hall.
And whose fault is it? The same man I clearlydidn’tchoose to be on my ice, and yet, somehow, is. BeckettfuckingKane.
That’s who.
“… why it’s so important that you let Rob handle him. He’s older than you, Finley. He’s not going to take a woman telling him what to do well,” my dad says, still talking about Kane, though, apparently, now he’s moved on from fun biographical facts to reasons why I’m not fit to coach him.
All my players are younger than me, but besides Sutton, none of my assistant coaches are, so I’ve moved on from the fact that I’m in charge of men many years my senior. It never crossed my mind that I should worry about Kane being three years older than me.
“I understand, Dad.”
Rob is the defensive coach, so he will work most directly with Kane, but at the same time, my dad’s worry doesn’t reflect my experience today.
“I do think he respects me, though,” I continue. “We had a long conversation about what I expect from him, moving forward, and he seemed receptive.”
“Of course he did. Kane’s a smart man. He didn’t make it this long by making an enemy of the coach on day one. Trust me when I say, he’s not happy to be on your team.”
Some people might think it’s harsh coming from the man who had me in skates before I could walk, but not me. Sure,my dad may have always been my harshest critic, but it’s only because he holds me to the highest levels of perfection. And if anyone is interested in arguing that it’s an “unhealthy parenting dynamic,” like my one and only long-term boyfriend, Travis, did, well, the results speak for themselves. Literally no other fathers ever will be able to say their daughter was the first female head coach in professional hockey. And just wait until I’m holding the championship trophy over my head—then he really will be proud of me.
“I’ll talk to Rob,” I concede, though my stomach turns at the thought. I’m the head coach. I shouldn’t need to ask Rob to handle a player for me. A player who, so far, seems to have no issues with me. And even if he does, well, he can do what veteran players do: retire.
But my dad knows this sport better than anyone else. Even if he’s not been coaching for over a decade now, he’s still one of the most respected minds in hockey. So, if he thinks I need to be worried about whether Kane respects me or not, I will.
Chapter 7
Beckett
WorkingwithPRteamsis something I’ve always hated. I understand fans love to know what I eat for breakfast on game day, or who has the strongest grip, but the truth is, it goes against everything in my nature. I don’t want the world to know my business. Which is why I’m annoyed to be currently sitting in the conference room with an assortment of players and staff in a meeting called by Sabrina, the head of the PR team.
I’m only three weeks into my time with the Yeti, and I need to be focused on hockey. Especially after we dropped a game to the Cyclones last night. After winning the last two at home, Iwantedthe victory over my old team last night. Shit. Ineededthat victory to show everyone it was a mistake to trade me mid-season—even though I’m starting to find my groove with the players here in Denver.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t in the cards. Pretty hard to win if you can’t score. The 0–1 loss hit hard, and all I want to do is beout on the ice right now, working to get better, not sitting in a damn conference room.
