“What do you mean?” I ask. “Apart from their obvious disdain for me, they haven’t so much as said good morning to me since I got here.” She just stares at me, her smile fading, though amusement still dances in her wide, golden eyes.
“Disdain?” she repeats softly, taking another sip. “Babe, I’ve worked with those assholes for years. Trust me when I tell you, if they didn’t like you, I’d know.” I raise a confused brow because not only is that absolutely inaccurate, but none of us can ever go there. Got the paperwork to prove it. But would I want to? I mean, they’re sex on fucking skates, but involving myself with anyone I work with, let alone hockey players, would be a huge mistake on all our parts.
“And how exactly would you know?” I question, not bothering to deny my intrigue.
“Easy. Holden would flirt with anything that breathed except you. Dominic would be avoiding your office like the plague. And Sasha?” she huffs out a chuckle. “Sasha would barely acknowledge you exist. That man doesn’t waste energy on things he doesn’t care about.”
“Care?” I scoff. “That is one intense Alpha. He glares at me like he’s one bad mood away from putting me through the wall.”
“Mm,” she hums thoughtfully, but when she doesn’t say anything, I narrow my gaze on her.
“Spill it.”
“It’s really not my business.”
“Then why bring it up?” Her expression changes, all signs of the jokester who walked in here disappearing as she leans forward in her chair.
“Because your father would kick my ass if I didn’t.” I blink, a little confused.
“What do you mean?”
“Your dad hired me, Lennon. He took a chance on me when no one else would,” she admits quietly. “Sixteen. Purple hair. Tattoos. No degree. Just a mouth that got me into trouble and enough stubbornness to annoy him until he eventually said yes.” She exhales slowly, her shoulders slumping as she stares into the coffee in her hands. “I owe him everything. And I guess a part of me feels like he’s still here talking to you. He was the closest thing to a Dad I’ve had and I guess, I’m just looking out for you.” Warmth blooms in my chest, chasing away some of the loneliness that seems to have become my constant companion these past few weeks. That sounded like him. It was so quintessentially him that I could practically hear his laugh. Dad had always had a knack for finding people. Not the polished versions they showed the world. The messy, broken pieces beneath. The ones everyone else overlooked. He made them feel like they were enough and gave them chances when they truly needed them most. That’s who he was. He was a coach, through and through. God, I miss him. Hearing Veronica speak about him like that eases something inside me. Because he mattered. Not just to me. My eyes sting.
“I just hope I have what it takes, you know?” Veronica smiles.
“He would’ve adored seeing you here, you know that right?”
“I wish he could.”
“Me too.” Silence settles between us, comfortable and sad all at once. Then, Veronica straightens, wiping beneath her eyes. “Right,” she declares, clearing her throat. “Enough crying. I’m wearing waterproof mascara, but I refuse to test its limits.”
“Thanks for that. I needed it.”
“Anytime. And because I’m looking out for you, we’re switching gears.” I raise an eyebrow.
“Work mode?”
“Indeed.” The softness disappears, replaced with the terrifying efficiency I’d already heard whispered about around the arena. “Now, first things first, here is a list of players who need media training. Woods is a trainwreck waiting to happen. He once told a reporter he moisturizes with motor oil. I swear he doesn’t give a fuck.”
By the time Veronica finally calls it a day and leaves my office, the arena has since been emptied. All except for me. I’m still sitting at my desk three hours later, basking in the silence. It’s peaceful. Comforting. It reminds me of all the nights I used to spend with Dad after school. He would watch game footage while I sat beside him doing homework, occasionally asking questions that he always seemed to have answers for. Back then, it wasn’t unusual for him to work long nights, and I remember thinking hockey consumed every waking part of his life. Now, I understand. Because I’m exactly like him.
With a sigh, I rewind the game footage playing on my laptop for what feels like the hundredth time. The glow from the screen is the only thing illuminating the office, the rest of the room cast in shadows.
“Come on, Toby,” I mutter, pausing the video. “You had the lane.” I scribble another note into the binder in front of me. Gap control and power play entries need work. I flip to thenext page. Defensive pairings, face-off percentages. Zone exits. Penalty kill rotations. This is the part I love. The part most people don’t see. Everyone thinks coaching is barking orders from behind the bench and yelling at referees when calls don’t go your way. But it’s this. Hours spent staring at footage. Watching the same shift twenty times until you can pinpoint exactly where things started to unravel. Finding the cracks before they become problems. Turning weaknesses into strengths. Dad used to tell me that coaches didn’t reinvent hockey. They fixed little things, and eventually those little things come together and win championships.
The team knows they’re good.
The rest of the league knows it too. But good doesn’t win.
Great does.
I flip the page, and the name Woods in bold letters greets me in the low glow of my laptop. My pen hovers over his name. Cocky. Coachable. Thrives off praise. A smile threatens because he’s so transparent. One compliment and he practically glows. One small correction and he looks as if he wants to rip my damn throat out. It’s fun. Watching him puff out his chest like an offended peacock one moment, only to beam the second I throw him a crumb of approval. The man wears his emotions on his sleeve. Which makes him easy. Easy to read. Easy to understand.
I flip to the next page. Sasha. My pen taps against the paper. Captain. Leader. Pain in my ass. There’s no denying his talent. He commands the ice with an ease that can’t be taught. The team follows him without question. Half the time, he seems to know where the puck is going before everyone else.
I wish I could figure him out, though. He’s a tough one to crack. One minute, he’s glaring at me like I’m the source of all his misery. Next, I catch him watching me when he thinks I’m not looking. I won’t lie and say I haven’t fantasized about him.
About them.
