After Asher left the ice, I gave the ref an earful when there was no call for the head contact. He gave me some bullshit response about how my players needed to keep their heads up, implying that Asher could have avoided the hit if he was looking where he was going. I knew that wasn’t what happened, especially when the bench had tablets to analyze the game in real time. It was dirty to anyone with eyes, but there wasn’t much I could do if the ref was willing to look the other way.
It didn’t matter that we had the ability to choose the matchups on the ice; they must’ve sent a message to the entire team to fuck shit up because every one of their players was going for the hit. I’d never seen anything like it. They didn’t even give the appearance of trying to play.
So, when the next high hit took our second-line center, Eli Clifford, down so hard the training staff had to step onto the ice tocheck him out, I lost it.
“Hey! I’m talking to you!” I screamed, finally getting the ref to glance my way.
Rolling his eyes, he skated closer to where I stood, my blood boiling.
“I think you need to settle down, Coach.”
I huffed in disbelief. “Are you serious?Ineed to calm down? My guys are getting killed out there, and you’re standing around watching, doing nothing! What’s it going to take for you to make a call? Someone to get knocked unconscious? For us to have too few players able to skate to complete the game? Tell me where you draw the line, Stripes.”
The cocky motherfucker narrowed his eyes. “How about you run your bench, and I do my job officiating? Sound good?”
He was clearly on a power trip, and I wasn’t having it—not when my players’ safety was at risk. Some of these guys had families to go home to tonight, and it was my job to look out for them.
“Tell me, which one of the Orcas players will be sucking you off tonight?”
The ref turned an ugly shade of purple before screaming, “That’s it! You’re out of here!”
Mindful there were kids in the stands, I refrained from flipping him the bird on my way off the bench and through the tunnel carved beneath the arena.
Adrenaline surged in my veins as I bypassed the locker room and headed straight for my office, tugging my tie off along the way.
The feeling of helplessness churned in my gut. I could only argue a case for my players. I couldn’t fight alongside them, lay a few hits and mix it up with the opposing team as a form of release for the aggression building inside me.
I was angry at everyone and everything—most of all, the things I couldn’t control.
The game played on through the pane glass window of my office, but I set to work immediately. Pulling out my phone, I dialed every number I had access to of higher-level executives within the league. This certainly wasn’t the first time dangerous hits had been missed by officials and needed a closer look by the league office. Players received hearings and suspensions after the fact all the time.
Finally getting someone on the line, I pleaded my case and was told they would look into any dangerous hits and take the appropriate action. It was a canned answer. They couldn’t promise me anything, but it was a small comfort to know that someone had heard my concerns.
Sighing, I stood watching over my team as they continued to play without my guidance.
The sense of déjà vu was overwhelming.
I’d spent the entirety of last season high above ice level as the Speed competed in my absence. My hands were tied, and I fucking hated it. I craved action and a sense of purpose; coaching wasn’t coming close to scratching that itch. It only made me miss my former life more.
Staying so close to the game was going to be harder than I thought.
“Coach! Can you tell us about the ejection tonight?”
The reporters were hard to see with the lights from the cameras present nearly blinding me during my postgame interview. All I knew was that the question had come from a man.
Sighing, I kept my professional composure. “My top priority will always be the safety of our players. When that is threatened, and appropriateaction is not taken by the officials on the ice, I don’t think it’s unreasonable that I get a little hot under the collar. The play out there tonight by Vancouver was dangerous and has no place in our game. The league has gone to great lengths to minimize hits to the head, and it’s up to the referees to enforce that stance.”
“Do you expect to see suspensions for the hits to Lawson and Clifford?” another male voice asked.
I shrugged. “That’s not for me to decide. I’m sure the league will look into the matter and take appropriate action if necessary.”
“Do you think it’s detrimental to the Speed that their head coach can’t control his temper?” The female voice attached to that question had my fists clenching. Bristol was pushing my buttons. She was probably still pissed about what had happened between us in the private air terminal in Pittsburgh.
Rubbing a hand over my jaw, I replied, “I think any coach would have been upset about the lack of player safety exhibited by the officiating crew tonight.”
“But you have been known to take unnecessary penalties, letting emotions rule you on the ice,” she challenged.
I raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware my playing career was up for discussion tonight. If we could keep the questions aimed at tonight’s game, that would be appreciated.”
