My mind wouldn’t shut off, no matter how hard I tried. Lying awake beside Bristol in bed, I kept recounting the game and what I could’ve done differently to change the outcome. The team’s success might count on the talent put out on the ice, but I was the one guiding them, telling them how to play. Our recent failures rested squarely on my shoulders. And if I didn’t get a handle on it soon, I could find myself out of a job.
I slid from beneath the covers, careful not to wake the sleeping woman curled against my side. Padding into the bathroom, I opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed a couple of sleeping pills left over from after my surgery. Even back then, I’d hated using them, but tonight, I was too desperate to make it all go away for a few hours.
While I waited for them to kick in, I slipped out of the bedroom and down the hall to my home office. Sinking into the leather desk chair, I turned on the monitors, their soft glow providing the only light in an otherwise dark room.
By morning, the film team would have compiled clips for me to review prior to practice, so all I had was the replay of our game on the sports streaming service I subscribed to.
Watching live from ice level, you were sure to miss things. I was busy coordinating shift changes, tracking puck placement, and the game moved so fast that sometimes, if you blinked, you missed things.
Reviewing the game from a bird’s eye view through a camera lens was different. I saw the missed assignments more clearly, the selfish play stuck out like a sore thumb, and the number of times our guys couldn’t clear the defensive zone was shockingly high. If we couldn’t clear—getting the puck across the blue line into the neutral zone—the odds of being scored on increased significantly with each failed attempt. It built momentum for the other team, and given enough chances, they were bound to put the puck in the back of the net eventually. Every goal against tonight—minus the own goal—came down to that point.
That would have to be my focus during tomorrow’s drills.
“What are you doing still awake?” Bristol’s groggy voice floated from the doorway.
I pressed my fingers into my eye sockets, rubbing against the mounting pressure behind them. “Can’t stop thinking about the game.”
She sighed but didn’t argue that I should let it go. She’d been around the game long enough to know that our emotions were on a rollercoaster and the ups and downs were closely tied to the performance on the ice.
Her bare feet were silent as she crossed the room to stand behind me. Thumbs dug into the tight muscles of my shoulders, and I groaned. When warm lips pressed against my neck, my cock twitched, but my eyelids were already growing heavy, the sleeping pills finally beginning to take effect.
“Not tonight,” I murmured.
Her fingers shifted upward to tangle in my hair, working their magic on my scalp.
“You know, I was thinking about what Jack said.”
“Jack?” I said the name slowly, trying to place it as my mind grew fuzzier.
“Yeah, your little buddy from Dream Day?”
“Oh yeah. What about him?”
Bristol hummed. “He made a good point about Logan Ford.”
I couldn’t recall the specifics of that conversation with sleep pulling at me. “And what was that?”
“That he’s your best all-around defenseman. I went through some of the stats, and Jack was spot on. If you look at Ford when paired with Banks orBooker, he elevates their games. Both have better plus-minuses and more points when paired with Ford than with each other. That, and Ford has one of the best plus-minuses in the entire league. You have a tool like that, and it might be worth moving him around to find the best placement. Might just be the spark you need.”
“Maybe.”
I wasn’t in the right mindset to debate my personnel choices on the ice. Banks and Booker had been paired together for years; they’d built a level of trust. Ford only stepped in to partner with one of them when the other was injured—or suspended, as was often the case with Booker.
“I’m tired, babe.” I gripped the edge of my desk to help me stand as my limbs grew heavier with each passing minute.
“Tomorrow’s a new day,” she offered, looping an arm around my waist as I trudged toward the bedroom.
I could only pray it was a better one than today.
Chapter 33
Bristol
The press watched thegame from high above ice level, and in most arenas, that was even higher than the highest seats. I swear, sometimes the players looked as tiny as ants from this distance. The puck was a black speck, difficult to track. Thankfully, there were TV monitors inside the tight space that we could use to get a better view when necessary.
Tension was at an all-time high with the Speed on a ten-game losing streak. Interviews were given through gritted teeth by players and staff alike. No one wanted to discuss the skid in the standings, putting the team just outside of the playoff picture with two months left in the regular season. But that was our job, and we couldn’t not ask the questions or write the articles that focused on the current position of the team. Knowing we had an excuse didn’t make it any more palatable when, every game, we were forced to lance open the wound and make them bleed.
I felt terrible for them. They looked like a bunch of lost boys. Maddox was hardly sleeping, as evidenced by the dark circles under his eyes. And when I’d offered help, it didn’t seem like he wanted to take it.
