I had staff for attendance. I had a schedule. I had enough actual work on my desk to bury a less stubborn man. Whether one player came through the doors at 7:12 or 7:28 was not something I needed to personally track from my office window like a security guard with control issues.
Still, at 7:16, I looked again.
The parking lot was gray under a low ceiling of clouds. A few players moved toward the entrance in hoodies and beanies, shoulders hunched against the wind. Lowell arrived with a protein shake in one hand and his phone balanced against his ear. Milo followed two minutes later, wearing sunglasses despite the lack of sun and talking at Benny, who looked like he was reconsidering every career choice that had led him to that moment.
No Holloway.
I turned away from the window, irritated.
This was coaching, I told myself. He had been steadier yesterday. There had been a response to clear structure. If I wanted consistency from him, I needed to monitor whether the systems held.
That explanation was reasonable.
It was also incomplete.
I opened the practice plan and forced my attention onto the forecheck adjustments for the morning skate. Two minutes later, my phone buzzed with a message from Tessa.
Holloway is in the building. On time. He also said “good morning” to me like a hostage reading from a card.
I stared at the message longer than it deserved.
Then I replied, Thank you.
Her answer came fast.
That was not an invitation for feelings, Coach.
I put the phone face down.
Tiny snored from the dog bed in the corner of my office, one giant paw hanging off the edge. Olivia had come home late the night before, and Tiny had reacted like a soldier reunited after war, whining, spinning, pressing his whole body against her legs until she laughed and almost dropped her carry-on.
He had slept at the foot of our bed for exactly twenty-two minutes before deciding he preferred my office floor this morning.
Loyalty, apparently, was conditional.
I got to the video room five minutes before the team. The assistants were already there, coffee in hand, arguing quietly about whether the second power-play unit needed a personnel change or a better reason to stop looking like five men waiting for a bus. I let them go for a minute, then cut in with the plan.
When the players filed in, I did not look for Holloway first.
I looked at the screen. I adjusted the remote. I checked the first clip.
Then I looked.
He was third row, aisle seat, notebook open, pen tapping against his thigh at an irregular rhythm. His hair was a mess in a way that suggested he had tried and lost patience halfway through. Roman sat beside him with the dead-eyed expression of a man who considered mornings a personal insult.
Jace had the right sheet.
I noticed that too.
The session started clean. We reviewed entries, spacing, support options. Jace watched the first two clips with sharp attention, eyes tracking movement before I asked the question. He saw the ice quickly. Too quickly sometimes. His mind wanted the next step before everyone else had finished the first.
That was useful when it was controlled.
Dangerous when it wasn’t.
On the fourth clip, Milo leaned over and whispered something. Jace’s mouth twitched. His pen stopped tapping, then started again faster. On screen, Lowell carried the puck under pressure, and before I paused it, Jace spoke.
“If he reverses there, we’ve got weak side speed and their D is cooked.”
