Page 33 of Her Coach

“That’s it for today,” I said. “Film again Thursday. I want everyone well-rested tomorrow because morning practice is going to be harder than today was.” I looked around the room. “Any questions?”

Moose raised his hand. “Are we actually going to make the playoffs this year, Coach?”

The room went very still. I looked at him for a moment.

“That depends entirely on what you do between now and March,” I said. “But yeah. That’s the plan.”

Nobody said anything. Then Rhett started clapping, slow and deliberate, and one by one the rest of the room joined in until it was all of them, loud in that small converted storage space with the projector still humming and the screen still bouncing slightly at the bottom.

I let it go for about five seconds before I pulsed the whistle.

“Go home,” I said. “Sleep. Eat. I’ll see you at eight.”

They filed out in a wave of noise and shoulder-shoving and Jett saying something inadvisable that made two of the defensemen crack up. I stayed behind and rolled up the projector cord and folded the screen back up and stacked the chairs against the wall.

By the time I flicked off the lights and headed back down the hallway, the arena was quiet. Victoria’s office light was off. Brynn’s car was gone from the lot. I’d clocked it on the way in that morning, a ten-year-old Honda that looked like it had opinions about the Bentley parked next to it, and now the space was empty.

She’d said she was going home to bring her mother a burger.

I had no business picturing that. A woman in her mother’s kitchen with a takeout bag, still in those glasses, still with whatever expression she’d been wearing when she walked out of my office.

I walked to my car.

I had a schedule to finalize and a season to build and approximately zero business thinking about anything else.

I thought about it the whole drive home anyway.

13

BRYNN

Later that evening, I brought home a burger to mom like I promised.

Double-crisped fries, extra napkins, the works. Mom was still at the kitchen table when I got back, laptop open, reading glasses on, doing the thing she did on Monday evenings where she pretended she wasn’t lonely by staying very busy. I set the bag down in front of her and pulled out a chair.

“Tell me something good,” she said without looking up.

“Jett almost choked on a hot dog bun in the parking lot and Colton caught him.”

She smiled at her screen. “Lord.”

“He didn’t even yell. Just gave him this look.” I stole a fry from the bag before she could claim them. “He’s good with them, Mom. The team. He knows exactly how much rope to give before he reels it back.”

“Mhm.”

“He thinks like you do, mom. About the long game. About what this team could be. Not just the season in front of him.”

She glanced up at that. Mom had a specific look for when something impressed her that she didn’t want to admit impressed her. I’d grown up cataloguing it.

“What kind of ideas?” she asked.

“Partial home viewing tickets. Season passes for people who want to watch from home. He brought it up like it was obvious, like he couldn’t believe no one had done it yet.”

She was quiet for a moment, turning that over. “Smart.”

“Very.” I took another fry. “He’s also — I don’t know. He’s different than I expected. He listens. When you talk to him it’s like—” I stopped. Redirected. “I think you two would have a lot to talk about. Business-wise.”

Mom looked at me over the top of her glasses. Just looked.