I pull my helmet off, placing it on the top shelf of my locker. My gloves go on the shelf below before I drop onto the cushioned seat, my eyes drifting up to the image of the yeti mascot on the ceiling.
“I never let down my fans,” I retort, hoping if I don’t mention TeamBlane, he won’t, either. I pull my jersey over my head and throw it onto the pile, careful to avoid the logo in the middle of the room.
“But these are not just your fans, yeah? Coach is the one they’re all watching,” Volkov says, from across the room.
“Really, Volkov? You pay attention to this shit, too?”
“I find Americans’ obsession with silly little videos very interesting. Plus, I looked damn good up there. The judges were obviously biased toward English music.”
“Oh, please,” Larsen starts, but we all quiet as Coach’s double knock comes, followed by her assistant coaches walking into the room. Finley enters last. She’s in complete coach mode, with her black suit and heels on.
“Good game tonight, fellas. They hit hard, but we hit harder. It’s exactly the type of play we need to get us to May. Focus on recovery tonight. Hydrate. Fuel. Hit the cold tubs. We’ve got Winnipeg in two days. They play heavy. Optional skatetomorrow. Mandatory treatment. We’ll dial in systems and matchups then.”
It’s the exact speech we need. Short, sweet, and to the point. This isn’t about getting us fired up. It’s about letting us move forward without needing to be the loudest voice in the locker room.
“Anything else?” she asks her assistant coaches.
When they have nothing, she nods at the team. “Good work out there. J.D. and Lefevre, you’re on for press.”
“You know,” Larsen says thoughtfully as he works his pads off, “if I weren’t competing in The Great Yeti Challenge, I’d totally be cheering for Coach. She’s a fucking badass. Even if she could lighten up a little.”
“She is pretty great,” I agree. “But I totally disagree. She’s funny. I think you just can’t tell when she’s being sarcastic, Rookie.”
The room goes quiet.
“Oh, shit,” Lefevre whispers, and I catch J.D.’s slightly downturned mouth.
“What?” I ask, looking around.
When no one answers, I bark it again, “What?!”
Volkov stares at me, his blue eyes piercing my soul. “You know you can’t actually like her, right?”
“He likes Coach,” Larsen groans, like he just found out why everyone is being weird, too. “You can’tlikeCoach.”
“You literally just said you like her.”
Larsen widens his eyes like I’m the slow one here. “Yeah, as a coach.”
“Iagreedwith you.” I rub my hand through my sweat-slicked hair. “It was the exact same.”
“It wasn’t,” Volkov states.
“We’re… partners. In this stupid competition. I like her as a partner.”
Hearing what I said, I shake my head.
“I mean, like a colleague. A person I don’t hate spending time with. A work friend.”
It’s okay, I canlikeher. I mean, it’s impossible to spend any amount of time with the woman and not like her. I just can’tdoanything about it. Which is fine.
“A friend… who’s a girl?” Larsen teases. “So, a girlfriend.”
“Larsen,” Volkov chastises. “Enough.”
“I’vebeen friends with women before,” I say. Probably.
“Dude, no, you haven’t,” Larsen disagrees.
