He kicks at the concrete floor. “Meaning?”
“I’m going to run drills with you today.”
Another frown. More skepticism. “What?”
“Yup.” I dip my chin. “And tomorrow morning you’ll join me for my yoga session at six. We’re going to train like I did when I was a player. It’s the way I’ve always done it and I think that’s why I was hired.”
Dirk’s tongue goes to his cheek like he’s trying to keep his words in. I imagine he wants to argue, to tell me I was hired because I’m a Langfield. But like Brooks said, that’s an issue I’ll have to deal with. Probably repeatedly. So I’m leaning in. Playing the cards I’ve been dealt.
“Got it?” I grind out, my tone letting him know this isn’t really up for debate.
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
His nostrils flare, and for a second he doesn’t respond. But finally, he mutters,“Yes, Coach.”
I give him my fakest smile. “All right, I’m going to get my gear on. Get dressed and meet me on the ice in twenty.”
I forgot how much I loved doing this. Or maybe I just swallowed the longing down, telling myself that coaching NHL goalies was as close as I’d ever come to performing at the highest level in the sport I’ve dedicated my whole life to.
Playing in the PWHL was incredible, but—and I mean this in the most diplomatic way—it’s not the NHL.
The NHL comes with a level of prestige, a level of respect, that isn’t given to the women’s version of this sport.
Seeking validation from a man goes against every single fiber of my being. I’ve spent years in therapy dealing with my biological father’s choice to walk away. Eventually I came to understand that no matter how successful I am, at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter. He didn’t abandon me because I wasn’t good enough, but because he wasn’t.
Logically, I recognize that I don’t need a male to validate my existence, and yet, when it comes to this sport, I’ve done it time and again.
Needless to say, while I love being out on the ice, doing the drills with the rest of the goalies, I love the praise I’m getting almost as much.
I block a low shot on the right, then have to immediately stop a slap shot on my left, holding back a grin the whole time.
“Jesus fuck, Addie, do that again,” Sidney says.
One of the hardest skills to master as a goalie is the ability to predict when a player is going to fake a shot one way, only to switch at the last second and aim for a spot out of our reach.
Goaltending is as challenging mentally as it is physically. This is why we study tape. So we can pinpoint the tells of our opponents. I could watch hockey all hours of the day, so reviewing tape, studying every offensive player prior to a game, isn’t even close to a hardship.
“No one does it better,” JJ mutters to him.
While my cheeks go hot behind my mask, I don’t let my reaction show. Instead, I deflect.
“You should do it better.”
I straighten, ready to leave the crease so one of them can take my spot and practice the technique, but before I get more than a foot or two away, Aiden calls out, stopping me.
“Hey Ads, can you stay there for a second?”
He signals the offensive line to follow, and as they make their way over, I snag the water bottle from above the net and pull my mask up.
“I wanna show the rookies how we do our drills.” There’s no missing the signature sparkle in his eye.
People tend to give Brooks the most credit for coaching me when I was a kid, and while his guidance has been absolutely invaluable, they forget that a goalie is only as good as the person they play against.
And I learned to play against the greatest center of all time: Aiden Langfield.
“Sure.” I drop the bottle and pull down my mask.
