The crowd claps, worried murmurs rippling through the arena.
“Go with him, Dr. Lowell,” I tell the team doctor as they shuffle past me. I’ve seen the way Pike’s knee buckled before, and I know what it means: Pike’s out, likely for the season.
I force myself to exhale. He’ll be lucky if it’s not the end of his career. A career that, just today, I asked him to do more with. To give more.
And he fucking gave itall.
I’m laser-focused for the rest of the game, being more vocal than I normally would be as the team struggles to find its rhythm. I know I’m distracting them as much as I’m helping, but the guilt of pushing Pike to overextend himself overrides my logic, causing me to overstep my role as head coach.
We lose 2–3, Volkov playing an extraordinary game to keep us that close when the shots on goal were 49–20.
“Update,” I demand when I meet Dr. Lowell, waiting for me in the hallway after the game.
“Torn ACL. He’s out for the season.”
Despite the guilt eating at my chest, I force myself into my Ice Queen role. I go through the motions of reassuring the team, show nothing but calm confidence as I talk to my team, and then answer the press’ questions.
Now is not the time for emotions. Now is the time for White to get me a goddamn defenseman.
***
“I think Gus Reed is our best bet,” I announce, walking into the GM’s office at eight the next morning.
I’ve been in the gym for the last two hours, hoping to find a place of clarity as my feet pound miles into the treadmill. When that didn’t work, I tried pushing my body to its limit with a heavy-lifting circuit, but still… nothing. White arrives punctually at eight each morning after dropping off his twins at daycare. So, I’ve been stewing in my own office, waiting for him to arrive.
Pike was our sole hope to get our defensive lines together. Now, well, now I need White to make a trade.
There are four names on the list we gave White yesterday, and I need him to pick one. Hell, I needed him to have picked one six months ago when I said we needed more experience on the team, but he said it was a building year. That may be all well and good for him, but I’m the first female head coach in the history of professional hockey. My first season can’t be a building season—it looks terrible for those of us breaking glass ceilings in all industries. And, even if you put my need to representallof womankind aside, the average tenure of a head coach is a little over two years. The average for a GM is almost double that. It’s a lot easier for him to argue in favor of a building year when he’s far more likely to survive it.
“Coach Blake,” White starts, but I cut him off. I need to make my case before he turns me down.
“I know Jenson is better statistically, but I spent hours last night watching film. He doesn’t have the same off-ice presence as Reed. Reed is the guy we need to get all the lines in order.”
White narrows his eyes at me. “How much sleep did you get last night, Finley?”
“Enough.” I fight the urge to take a long pull from the half-empty coffee cup in my hand.
“I know you well enough to know you watched our game film at least once. Plus, you’re telling me you watched film ofat leasttwo other players, though I’d have to guess you watched the film of all four of the names you had Rob leave on my desk. That’s what? At least four hours of film after last night’s game, when you didn’t get home until… let’s call it midnight just for easy numbers?”
“Dr. Pearce had compiled a film for each of the four men. I wasn’t watching full games.”
The smile White offers me makes me slightly jealous of his daughters. He must be a great dad.
“You have to take care of yourself, Finley.”
“I am. No first-year fifteen for me,” I reply, patting my stomach and trying to lighten the mood. I can sleep when I’m certain I’m going to get a next season with the Yeti. Plus, it’s not like I could’ve relaxed enough last night to get any quality rest, anyway.
White shakes his head, not commenting on my weight either way. See? Great girl dad. “I’m not your mom, so I’ll let you worry about your health, but as GM, I am going to remind you that it’s my job to handle scouting and building the roster. Your job is to take the players I give you and make them a better team. Which means, no spending hours watching films of players to make the decision about who to recruit for me. I have an entire team we pay to do that, Coach. Youcoach.”
“I’m part of the team, too,” I say. “I want to make sure I’m giving you the informationyouneed to get me the playersIneed.”
“And I will. I know you’re thinking about the conversation we had last spring about bringing on a veteran.”
He’s right. I am thinking about that conversation. And about how he didn’t choose to listen to me.
People always seem to think that the hardest part of being the first female head coach is the trolls on social media, but the truth is, it’s questioning the motives of the people I respect. Of theones I work with every day and have a professional relationship with. It’s not knowing whether White would’ve told a male coach in his first season that he needed to focus on his health, or if he would’ve told him to double down and praised him for his extra work.
Greg White seems like a good guy, but at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter. The only way I can ensure I’m treated the way I want to be is to be the best—and I can’t do that without damn good defensemen.
