Page 42 of Mile High Coach
Instead, I force myself to face forward, finish out the interview.
“No secret,” I go on, grinning into the camera lens. When I glance back at Constance, her eyes are shining with interest and intensity. “Just hard work. The guys are in the rink every day, working on their skills and cohesion.”
She raises an eyebrow, “Do you think hard work and cohesion are going to be enough against the Kraken?”
Nobody expected the Kraken to come out like they have this season, winning game after game and upsetting even the toughest teams on their schedule. Home or away, it hasn’tmattered—they push every play harder, throw their bodies into the game, bring a whole new energy to the ice.
“All we can do is our best,” I say, instead of the truth, which is that our practices have been a little lackluster this week, and I’m worried about this game. I’m worried that the guys aren’t in the right headspace to carry this through.
Everyone on the team—coaches and administration—has had endless PR training, but I’ve never needed it. You’re never supposed to really answer these questions. You just give them baseless platitudes they can cross stitch on a pillow. “And I’m confident our guys will do that.”
“Thanks, Coach Clark.”
This time, when I glance up into the stands, I spot Lovie scooting down the row with a girl I recognize from the PR department, but she doesn’t look over at me. Disappointment sinks in my stomach when I realize she’s not wearing the jersey I gave her, but a standard, blank Blue Crabs sweatshirt, the little crab on the front folding as she sits down.
Clearing my throat, I turn back to the ice before she can catch me looking and find Samir and Deacon talking under their breath, head bowed.
“What’s going on here?”
“Greenhill isn’t playing,” Deacon says immediately, in a low, conspiratorial voice. His pale cheeks are flushed red—in fact, every inch of his skin is blotchy and ruddy, like he’s covered in a rash.
“What the hell are you talking about?” My eyes go to the ice, skipping through players and digesting numbers. A moment later, I realize Greenhill isn’t out there with the other guys, warming up.
“Just had his manager send us a text,” Samir says, flashing his phone at me. “Fucker didn’t have the guts to tell us himself.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I repeat it again, but I don’t know what else to say. Greenhill was in warm-ups this morning, so it doesn’t make any sense that he would have left now. Mind clearing a bit, I add, “Is he hurt? Why isn’t he playing?”
Deacon and Samir glance at one another, then back at me. Their voices lower again, and they move closer, tightening our circle. I glance up and spot Constance at the edge of the rink, her perceptive eyes on us. The last thing I need is for her to start piecing things together and go digging into this before we even know what’s going on.
Samir says, “You know those rumors about him having a lot of gambling debt?”
“Sure, “I say, tucking my clipboard under my arm so I can rub my hands together. I just need to work some warmth back into them. Cold doesn’t get to you when you’re playing, but it can be a bitch when you’re on the sidelines.
“Well, we think it might be true,” Deacon says, his voice lowering, eyes darting over to the reporter on the sidelines. “They’re saying he’s not even in Baltimore—that he’s on the run or something.”
I suck in a breath, blow it out slowly, then nod and bring my clipboard back out.
Since his first day on the team, it was pretty obvious that he might eventually flake on us. “We’ll have to rework the lines. When we bring the guys together, Greenhill is sick, got it? Not a word about this stuff. We don’t need it clouding their heads.”
“Got it,” Deacon says, then mumbles something under his breath that sounds like, “Flaky motherfucker.”
The next thirty minutes before the game only gets worse. Apparently the news about Greenhill starts to spread, because a second reporter tries to approach me. I know better now, and betConstance is kicking herself for not having the scoop before she talked to me.
Nick Telley is dealing with a twinging wrist. Our goalie suddenly can’t see past his mask. All at once, it’s like last season’s problems are hurtling back over us.
At the end of the second period, I’m working hard not to lose my shit. We adjust the lines again to work around Telley, and I’m telling the guys to tighten the fuck up when I turn and see her in the stands.
Lovie is looking right at me, a strange expression on her face. It’s stupid, but the sight of her mutes my anger, and I even manage to quirk my lips in her direction. The last thing I want is for any of this anger to head her way.
Then she does something I’m not expecting.
She stands up, turns around, and lifts the bottom of her sweatshirt only partially, so I can see the numbers there on the back. It’s only the bottom half, but I know that jersey anyway. I have one hanging in my living room back home.
Number fifty-five.
My jersey. Even though her sweatshirt still covers it, I can practically see Clark written over her back as she drops the bottom of the sweatshirt, turns around, and gives me a shit-eating grin.
Probably because she knows what the sight of her in that jersey does to me. Somehow, like she always does, Lovie cuts through the noise and takes first place over hockey in my head. Even right here, in the middle of coaching a game.
