“Well, as long as you keep pulling out hidden talents, I think we’ll be okay.” I grab the box of cupcakes and make a beeline toward the door—not even taking the time to pull off the stupid yeti apron. I have to get out of this room and away from whatever it’s doing to my heart rate.
Chapter 9
Finley
“Congratulationsonagreatgame tonight, Coach.” Ken Peterson steps in my path as I make my way from the media room to my office after a 2–1 victory over Las Vegas. His wife is next to him, looking ready to go to high tea at the Brown Palace in her suit jacket and pearls.
“Thank you, sir,” I respond, shaking his outstretched hand. “The Phantoms are a tough team. It was a good win.”
“It was an impressive show the men put on out there. Our defensive line, especially, is looking good.”
Too good, in fact. I find myself tuning out everything other than Kane’s almost supernatural ability to know where the other players are going to be, rather than focusing on the bigger picture.
“Yes, sir,” I reply, waiting for him to continue with his recommendations for next game.
“Well,” he says, gesturing to his wife that he’s ready to leave, “keep up the good work.”
Wait. Does he not have any suggestions for what we should be working on? What we need to be doing next? He’s fully ingrained himself in the ridiculous PR competition, butthat’sall he has to say to me when the team is in the middle of a major rebuilding year and barely on the cusp of making it to the playoffs?
“Always,” I reply when I realize all he wanted to do was tell me, good game. As he and his wife walk away, hand in hand, I feel flat. Almost hollow. Definitely not the swell of pride I expected to feel from my boss telling me I’m doing a good job as the head coach, when I’ve worked my whole life to get here.
“Why does your face look like that, Coach?” Larsen asks as he, too, exits the media room. After scoring one of our goals tonight, he deserved to be in there. And the media love him.
“What does my face look like?” I ask, tipping my head to one side, attempting to bait the rookie into saying something dumb. It’s becoming my favorite pastime.
Larsen’s gaze flitters between my eyes and my mouth, clearly trying to figure out a way to describe what he sees there. “You know, like you took a drink of an old protein smoothie only to realize everything has separated and there’s a thick film of something gross on the top.”
“That’s—” I start, but Larsen cuts me off, “Oh! Did you hear about the name the public has given you and Kane’s team?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Like, they’re calling us L-squared. Yours isn’t as cool, but that’s not your fault. You two don’t have the same chemistry we do.”
“Fuck.” Li pauses mid-step as he walks by with the third-pair guys. “Are you talking about the stupid trending team names again?”
“Woah,” Larsen exclaims, looking slightly offended. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call theirs trending. And L-squared isn’t stupid.”
Li sighs. “If I hadn’t been with you the entire time after the bake-off competition ended, I would’ve sworn you started it yourself.”
“I consider that to be one of the greatest compliments you’ve ever given me, honey,” Larsen replies, fluttering his eyelashes and pretending to kiss Li.
Li shoves him, and the two start tussling there in the hallway.
“Oh, hey, Dr. Pearce,” I call, catching sight of Sutton’s dark brown hair from down the hall.
“Fuck,” Li groans as I speed away, desperate for any reason to escape that conversation.
“Coach,” Sutton replies, her eyes never leaving the tablet in her hands. “I don’t have my analysis yet.”
“Not a problem,” I say, falling into step next to her. “I just needed to escape those two.”
Sutton’s eyes momentarily flash to the two grown men still play-fighting as she shrugs. “Do you know the amount of adrenaline currently pumping through their bodies?”
“Do… you?” I ask, not sure whether she’s quizzing me or genuinely interested.
“The best guess I have based on sports physiology is it’s approximately twice—maybe even three times—what it should be at rest, even this long after a game. During peak-play stress, such as a fight or last-second goal attempt, it would likely reach six to ten times their normal amounts,” Sutton answers as if she’s lecturing a class. “If you would let me take blood samples pre- and post-game, I could get you a more precise answer.”
“Not necessary, Dr. Pearce.”
