The Puck Drop by Jaqueline Snowe

CHAPTER NINE

Michael

It was a little humbling to learn how much went on behind the scenes with coaching college hockey. My dumb ass assumed it was a fun gig, making plays and motivating players. It was laughably more.

Coach Simpson got into the office early every day at seven a.m. after already working out. Then, he’d spend all morning preparing for practice or, in today’s instance, the game. He’d watch films of the opponent, confer with his assistant, and check stats. Then he’d come up with a few plans of attacks. First string, second, and back-up goalies.

Then it was working with high schools all around the country and beyond for recruiting. Central State didn’t just find all-stars. Simpson busted his ass to make connections and build a program that was inviting.

Then he had office work, forms for traveling, and collaborating with the trainer to make sure the guys were healthy. It was endless. That was just on the logistics end too.

Dealing with twenty guys was the hardest part.  In the week I’d been shadowing him, there had been ten instances of drama.

Four of them involved Cal, starting with the guy showing up late for the bus time.

Coach had me in the locker room before game time tonight just to observe. His assignment said to study the players. Super clear instructions.

I was a visual learner, so I took in the blues and oranges all around the walls. Their jerseys hung on hangers with their gear shoved onto top shelves. Pictures of girlfriends, families, and their heroes covered the individual lockers. When I played, I had one photo of me, Ryann, and our parents, and a bright red puck I got at my first pro game as a kid. I didn’t need more reminders than that. Back then, I had people who loved me and a sport I was passionate about.

The recovery room was to the right. Erikson was in there with a trainer as she taped up his right ankle from a brief twist.

He’d be fine.

Coach went into his office and engaged in an animated conversation with the assistant, Hank Wade. My stomach filled with nerves. This felt like home with the smells and sights, but I was a stranger. No Jonah giving me intense looks, no twins making me laugh, and certainly no inside jokes I was privy to. The twins had a new life and were so busy that a text here and there were all I had with them.

One of the players, Jay Mullens, held out a fist to me. “Hey, read about your team back east.”

“Yeah?” I fist-bumped him back. “All lies, I’m sure.”

“The twins went pro. You didn’t.”

“Wasn’t for me.” I eyed the team, my left eye twitching. It was a harsh reality to know that your chances of getting drafted went down once you hit twenty. NHL teams preferred you young, then wanted to watch you grow and get better in college. That meant fifteen of these guys had already missed their chance. Not that I’d say it.

Dream crushing wasn’t my thing.

“I want to so bad after this year, but I’m not standing out. Not with the forwards we have.” He sighed and leaned in closer. “Any advice, old-timer?”

I scoffed but wasn’t mad. If anything, the kid amused me. “There are two types of players that matter to scouts. The all-stars and the ones who pass them the puck. Keep being a good teammate and leave everything on the ice. If it happens, it’s well deserved, but if it doesn’t, you gave your soul to the sport. No regrets.”

He nodded, his dark eyes making him look older. I had to check my notes, but I was pretty sure the kid was here on scholarship. Still, he didn’t have the same swagger or talent as Cal.

I hadn’t seen the prodigal son yet, but it didn’t take long. He pushed himself up, shirtless, taking a selfie and ignoring the equipment manager. The poor kid stood next to him holding out a towel and clean jersey, but Cal laughed and kept taking pictures of himself.

The red-headed kid couldn’t be more than eighteen and was nothing but skin and bones and freckles. David. Cal faced him, and I wasn’t sure what he said, but fuck off carried over the room, and David’s face turned bright red. Fire engine red.

My blood boiled.

“Holt,” I yelled, making some of the guys next to me jump. My voice had an oomph that Ryann always bitched about because it apparently carried throughout the house. Right now, I used it. The kid looked up and smirked.

My god, if I was alt-captain, I’d be furious. Both Erikson and Helsing glanced up from the bench wearing equal expressions of confusion. I marched over to Holt and was glad to see I had a good three inches on him. “Any particular reason you enjoy being a dick to the equipment manager?”

“What are you talking about? The guy was in my space.”

“Yeah, with your jersey.” I picked it up from where it was neatly folded and tossed it at his chest. “You don’t deserve to wear this. Being part of a team is a privilege,” I said, my voice now low. This wasn’t for show. I knew I should’ve kept my mouth shut, but David’s crushed face flashed in my mind.

If Coach Simpson thought I overstepped, I’d handle it.

“Yeah, okay. I’m here on a full ride. Thanks for the advice though.” The kid went back to his phone, and my hand literally twitched. I wasn’t violent. Never had been despite playing hockey, but fuck. I wanted to punch this kid.

“Scouts ask questions, Holt. They interview coaches, staff, and teammates. Just think about that the next time you’re an asshole. No NHL team would take a chance on you.”

With that, I pointed at Erikson and Helsing and barked, “Be fucking leaders.”

Coach Simpson leaned against his office doorway, his expression tight and his lips pressed together. It was hard to tell if it was annoyance, disappointment, or anger. Probably a combination of all three and I held up a hand. “I’ll be in the stands.”

“Come here after the game.”

“You got it, sir. Good luck.” I ducked my head, my adrenaline pumping harder than it had since I was on the ice. I paced the hallway that led to the stands and took a few minutes to settle my breathing.

Why did Coach and the captains let Cal act like that? Was there something I didn’t know? I pinched the bridge of my nose and forced myself to go calm down. Patrick and Paxton would’ve handled that with me in a heartbeat. No excuses for being a piece of prima donna shit. God, I missed home. The team, the food, the way things fit together easier there.

My muscles throbbed from tensing so damn much that I sighed in relief at seeing Naomi sitting behind the team bench. She styled her hair in two braids, and two large hoops hung from her ears. Her hat had the team logo on it, and she even wore a Central State jersey.

I was a sucker for women in hockey jerseys. The fantasies were endless; wearing just the jersey, the long legs, fuck. I now pictured Naomi that way and shook my head hard, like it would fling the image out of my mind.

I’d already pissed her dad off once today. Twice in a night was out of the question.  I didn’t have to fake my smile though as I approached her. “Hey, Fletcher. Ready for your selfie?”

“Of course, a bet’s a bet,” she said, grinning at me.  Her pink lips pulled up, and she leaned in closer once I sat down. “Here’s the thing though… I went ahead and already did it.”

“Excuse me?” I took the phone from her hands and zoomed in on the photo in question. She definitely stood next to the bird. “We didn’t agree on what you’d do in the photo.”

“That’s not my fault. You said take a picture at the game, and I followed through. The devil is in the details, Reiner.”

“You think you’re slick, don’t you?” I studied the image more and found my mood improving. She wore four bead necklaces in the photo and looked like a huge hockey fan. I refrained from making a comment about how she got those beads. “Well played, Naomi.”

“Thank you. I lose gracefully.” She took her phone back and sat up straight so her shoulder wasn’t touching mine. “What did my dad think of the data report?”

My stomach sank. I showed him the report last Saturday, but he just tossed it on his desk. He didn’t even glance at it. He wanted me to summarize the contents, so I did. But she looked up at me with so much hope that I couldn’t be that crass. This mattered to her.

“Not sure it hit the mark.” I winced. “Look, I’m no expert at data and I was a decent player but not an all-star, so maybe my advice is helpful, maybe it’s not. But,” I said, pausing to read her reaction.

The only indication she could’ve been upset was a little line between her eyebrows. She tilted her head to the side, like she was interested in what I was going to say. “Your dad has a bunch of guys who do stats for him. I’m not sure why your dad wanted you to partner up with me. His motives are unclear, now that I think about it. He runs a great club, but there’s a lot I don’t understand.”

“Try living with him as a kid,” she mumbled, easing any tension I had.

I smiled. “Think differently. I know you’re all data and numbers and blah, blah, blah, but he probably has that information already. Think outside the box, or in this case, rink.” I showed all my teeth in a cringe, gauging her reaction. “Sorry? Was that too lame?”

“No, it’s good advice.” She brushed off my stupid comment. “There’s an internship I want this summer for a big data warehousing company. They receive thousands of applicants. Our professor told us to be original when we apply. Everyone chose social media data or a political engagement online as topics. Stats in hockey isn’t a new angle by any means, but it felt natural. A way to be unique against my peers.”

“Then stand out. Make the numbers jump off the chart.”

She rolled her eyes. “I appreciate the insight. Gives me something to think about.”

“Right on.” I leaned back into the seat and propped my elbows on my thighs, the adrenaline from earlier still trying to find an outlet. My knees bounced, and my neck burned. Did I go too far? Would Coach stop my internship? I’d end up confused and without a goal, again. The team warmed up on the ice doing laps, and Cal didn’t seem any different.

Did I fuck things up without making a change at all?

“Hey, you alright? Your left leg is shaking a whole lot.”

“I might’ve done something stupid.” I glanced at her, and she had that line between her brows, no judgement, just curiosity on her pretty face. “Like, mess up my internship stupid.”

Her pretty eyes widened. “Shit, what did you do?”

“I overstepped. I saw something going on with a player, and I addressed it. Might’ve cussed. Definitely yelled. It just… wasn’t cool how he treated another person.” I ran a hand through my hair and pulled the ends a little bit. My shoulders sagged with regret, and my stomach twisted as I replayed the moment. It wasn’t my call. It wasn’t my team.

“Hm,” Naomi said, clicking her tongue a few times. “You might’ve overstepped, but did you feel like it was the right thing to do?”

“Yes.”

“What was he doing?”

“I don’t want to blast any player. Locker room stuff is sacred, and I’m sorry if that sounds shitty, but I believe it. Teammates have moments in there, good and bad, and part of the strength of the team is keeping those private.” I ran a hand over my face now, tensing when Coach Simpson looked up and met my gaze from the bench.

His dark bushy eyebrows were set in a firm line, and he narrowed his eyes. My stomach about bottomed out, but I nodded at him. Naomi lifted a hand in a wave which he didn’t return.

“Oof, he looks pissed.”

“Yeah. Yeah, he does,” I said.

“Should we say our goodbyes now? I don’t want to drag it out, but I feel like a quick hug would be okay? You’re definitely gone after today,” she said, teasing me.

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. I nudged my arms against hers, making her laugh in response, and just like that, the nervous ball of oh shit dissipated. “Well done. I needed that.”

“My dad is a reasonable guy. If you called out shitty behavior, then shame on him for not doing it himself. I don’t think you’ll be fired from a job where you earn no money, but not many people stand up to him. He’s an intimidating human and very few cross him. There are pros and cons to that.”

“For sure, but what I’m having a hard time with is the fact he has to see this shit is going on, yet he’s not dealing with it.” My knee bounced again. “He’s been a coach forever. He knows his stuff and has his methods, but instead of trusting them, I took matters into my own hands. That’s not being a good teammate.”

“Talk to him. He’ll listen.”

“Are you sure? No offense, Fletcher, but I’m sensing you have some unresolved issues there that you haven’t brought up with him either.”

Naomi groaned, and the lightness in her eyes disappeared. Great. Now I pissed her off. I was just going through the Fletcher-Simpson family tree, making them all angry. Was Cami around so I could annoy her next? At the reminder of her sister, I made a fist.

“Hey, hold up,” I said, turning to her so my thigh pressed all the way against hers. “Real talk, did you ever speak with your sister? I wanted to ask you all week but couldn’t get ahold of you. I did search for you online, but there are like four Naomi Fletchers on social media, and two of them were a picture of a goat.”

Her lips twitched, and she ran her teeth over her bottom lip. “Maybe one of those is mine.”

“Okay, then I need an explanation why your picture is a goat. They were both very cute and pretty. Gorgeous goats.”

She swatted my arm just as the horn blasted to announce the starting line-ups. We paused conversation as we stood for the anthem. The rival team, the Woodhens, didn’t have an empty seat in the house, and I took a small step closer to Naomi to get away from a very large man to my right.

The movement had our hands touching, and I didn’t pull away. That contact of her small hands against mine sent a zing of electricity up my arm, all the way to my chest. Huh.

I was suddenly reminded how long it’d been since I hooked up with someone. At least a month. A long time for me. I used my other hand to adjust the hem of my hoodie and held my breath when Naomi perched on her tiptoes.

“Oh my gosh, look at their goalie,” she whispered, her lips almost touching my ear. “He’s picking his nose during the anthem.”

“How un-American,” I said, my tight voice surely giving away my reaction to her proximity. She smelled like fresh spring and lemons, and she even gripped my bicep for support as she stood. I swallowed hard. “I think guys forget we can see them all.”

She snorted and went back to her normal height, moving her mouth away from my neck. My entire body was on high alert from the locker room incident, and after adding in this insane awareness of Naomi, it was going to be a long night.

The best distraction for all of my problems? Hockey. I focused on Coach Simpson, how he watched the guys with his signature intense stare. Was he looking for signs of weakness or lack of focus? Or did he notice how Cal stood just a bit too far away from the other four on the ice?

Did he see Helsing and Erikson have an angry discussion while they warmed up? A part of me felt like it was about Cal, about what I said in the locker room, and my face heated, again.

We sat back down, and I angled myself closer to Naomi, and she did the same. There was a group of older women to her left who clearly had some drinks, and it was like slow motion when the woman waved her hand in the air, the very full beer sloshing around, and splat.

“Shit!” Naomi gasped. Beer covered her hat, face, and sweatshirt. Annoyance prickled down my spine.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” The woman paled and wobbled a bit. “You’re covered in beer. It’s shitty beer too. I didn’t want to pay for the good stuff.”

Naomi stared at her hands, her eyes wide as beer dripped off her face onto her shoulders. “Am I in a movie?”

“Here. Here. Take this!” The woman shoved a hundred dollar bill at Naomi. “I never thought I’d be this sloppy, but Marge and Linda insisted on the shots. The shots! What am I? In college again? No. I’m old now. Go buy a new sweatshirt and clean up, hon. Have that handsome man of yours help you.”

“Bud Light?” Naomi said after an awkward silence.

“Yes.”

“It tastes horrible.”

“I know.” The woman laughed. “Please, go clean up. I can’t look at you without feeling shame.”

“Come on, Fletcher.” I held out my hand, and she stared at it a beat before she took it. “Let the handsome guy help you out.”