Page 35 of Her Coach

I was about to turn around and find somewhere else to be when I heard footsteps on the rubber matting behind me.

“Didn’t think anyone else would be here.”

I turned. Colton had his skates slung over one shoulder and a clipboard in his other hand, and he looked at me the way he always did, like he was running a quick calculation and had already arrived at an answer.

“Media stuff never sleeps,” I said, holding up my laptop as evidence.

He looked at the laptop. Then at the ice. Then back at me. “Right.”

He didn’t say it like he didn’t believe me. He said it like he did believe me and found it mildly entertaining.

I wanted to die a little bit.

He moved past me toward the bench where Frank was finishing up his laces. I should have gone to find somewhere else to be. I found a seat three rows up instead and opened my laptop and told myself I was working.

I watched Colton sit down next to Frank.

They didn’t say anything for a second. Frank finished his skates. Colton set his clipboard down and started lacing up his own, and the two of them just sat there in the quiet of an empty arena like it wasn’t at all weird for the head coach to show up to an optional skate with the team’s quietest defenseman.

“You’re dropping your shoulder before contact,” Colton said finally. Not looking up from his skates. “Been doing it since the first drill Monday. You do it when you’re not sure if you’re going to win the battle.”

Frank was quiet for a second. “Yeah.”

“You win more than you think you do.”

Another beat. Frank didn’t say anything.

“Doesn’t feel that way?” Colton said.

“No one ever—” Frank stopped. Started again. “Previous coach didn’t run the D much. Kind of figured out my own thing.”

Colton nodded once. “Show me your thing.”

And that was it. Frank got on the ice and Colton followed, and for the next forty minutes I watched Colton work with him, just the two of them, no whistles, no drills, just Colton moving Frank through positioning and contact angles and the kind of detailed defensive footwork I had never once seen any coach in this building care enough to teach.

Frank wasn’t a talker. Neither was Colton. They communicated in short sentences and demonstrations and the occasional nod that apparently meant something to both of them, and by the end Frank was moving differently. Not dramatically. Just less like he was waiting to lose.

My two o'clock call came in early. I ducked my head and kept my voice low, which felt absurd given that I was the only person in the stands.

"Hey Sarah, thanks for making time." I pulled up my notes on my phone. "So for the season opener coverage we're thinking a five-minute pre-game segment focused on the community skate we ran last month. I've got footage, quotes from three of the kids who came out, and I can get you a player for a quick thirty-second soundbite if you want something with more personality."

"How many kids came out?" Sarah asked.

"Forty-two. Range of ages, mix of backgrounds. The youngest was four." I paused. "She fell down eleven times and got up twelve. I have that on video if you want it."

A laugh on the other end. "Yeah, send that over. What about the player? Who are we talking?"

"Jett Calloway. He's a lot, but in a good way. Cameras love him."

"Will he actually show up?"

"I'll make sure of it personally."

"Okay." A pause. "What about the new coach? Any chance of a sit-down before opening night?"

I kept my voice easy. "I can ask. No promises on timing but I'll put it on his radar."

"That would be great. Send me the media packet by Friday?"