Page 2 of Coaching Prince Charming

“Coach?” Harvey whispered.

I didn’t realize my ears had been ringing until Harvey’s voice reached me, and the buzzing faded. I cleared my throat and inspected the line again. Beckett wore a smirk I knew well. A few of the boys looked at me like soldiers looked at their general, and the last few were as wide-eyed as if Elvis had entered the building.

“I didn’t expect such a warm welcome,” I said, pitching my voice a little higher. “Ah…I’m Nate Partridge. Coach Partridge, I suppose.” Or just Nate, I thought wistfully. Partridge was someone the world recognized, and that was no longer me.

“Hear, hear,” Beckett called, and the rest cheered. He beamed with pride that made my stomach feel hollow. I could have strangled that boy.

I bared my teeth by instinct, forcing a polite smile on my face. “Thank you.” Licking my lips, I turned to Harvey. “The drills?”

Harvey murmured a few sentences to remind me of today’s agenda. I knew it. I’d devised it. And yet, my mind was coming up blank until Harvey whispered it to me.

I nodded my gratitude and looked at the boys again. Finding some sense of determination in myself, I steeled my voice and put my hands on my hips. “Alright, guys. I know you all had a long summer of growing soft around the edges. It’s time to hammer you back to the boys who’d won two Frozen Fours in two years. And in order to do that, I need to assess each and every one of you. Consider this week your second trial. Show me what you’re good at, but don’t shy away from revealing what you’re terrible at. I want to see where the flaws are.” You’re doing fine, I told myself as a shudder passed through my chest. Briefly, I outlined the drills I wanted to see today. Simple offensive and defensive moves all of them had to perform.

When I was done, I crossed my arms over my broad chest and watched the boys scatter around. All but two had gone through these drills as a team before, at least once, so I could trust them to know what to do. Even so, when my nephew began dictating the opening positions just as Harvey was starting to speak, I needed to get involved.

“Partridge,” I called. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but you will allow Coach Harvey to lead the way for now.”

Beckett frowned at me with clear surprise on his face, his lips pursing into something dangerously close to a pout. “But this is how we always…”

“I don’t want to hear it,” I growled. “You’ll let us do our jobs, or you’ll watch the drills from here.”

Beckett hesitated, almost as if he was stunned. “Yes, sir,” he said carefully, possibly after seeing the cold look of determination in my eyes.

That boy had pulled me from the brink of collapse this summer. I had been flirting with the idea of rushing into obscurity and drinking myself into numbness. Had it not been for him and Caden Jones, I would have been drunk already, I feared. But that was personal. Here, Coach Partridge and Captain Partridge were just that — the coach and the captain.

Harvey took over while I observed, and the drills kicked off. Beckett was a fine player if a little rash, and his boyfriend’s smooth style on the ice complemented him very well. The two had already formed a way of cooperating that almost included a language only they spoke. Assisted by a quick, fierce young man, the trio was as close to a dream team as they could get.

“Avery Collins,” said Margot, the second assistant coach on my team. “He’s been on the rise for some time.”

I nodded. I had noticed Collins out there when I had last watched the Titans play. That night still lived in my memory so vividly. In the closing minutes of the game, the Titans had scored their winning point and erupted in such celebratory cheers that we all nearly missed the moment when Beckett skated across the rink and kissed Caden publicly for the very first time. It was the night he came out to me, fearing that I would think less of him because… I didn’t know why. If anything, I admired him more for his bravery.

My throat tightened, but I narrowed my eyes and appeared absorbed in the drills.

Their goalie, Sawyer Price, was surprisingly small compared to some of his teammates, but he was quick and tricky, seemingly popping up wherever he was needed.

The big guy, Jordan Mitchell, was someone I knew from Beckett’s childhood. The two boys had grown up as close friends, and in the days I spent around Beckett, I had noticed the steady and calm presence that Jordan had radiated even in his boyhood. When it was Jordan’s turn, I realized that the steadiness had never left him. He was a tanklike force on the ice, but with precision and the sort of determination ocean waves had when chiseling the cliffs.

Ron Rigby came in to swap with Sawyer Price as the goalie. He was bigger despite being three years younger, but he was also more predictable. I saw room for improvement, especially if paired with Beckett’s trio. The kid would have to keep losing in the drills until he recognized his weaknesses and worked out a way to predict the opponents’ next moves.

Then came Carter Prince. The boy was built like a hockey player, thanks to the years of practice and conditioning that came with being the son of hockey royalty. In full gear, he was a formidable force. There were bigger guys around him, of course, but Prince appeared ready to face any of them. Playing defense, he showed a great deal of potential. I often wondered if something like that was hereditary or if the kids had a choice.

I made notes for the players as they swapped through various combinations. The things that had been established with my predecessor were working well even today, but I wondered if a year of these tactics was long enough for their opponents to regroup and band against. You could only bait-and-switch so many times on the ice.

Two hours later, I thanked the Titans for their dedication and reminded them that in order to have a shot at greatness, their training didn’t stop once they left the rink. Every ounce of alcohol they drank gave their rivals a razor’s width of advantage; every gym session they missed pulled them further back. Privately, I reminded myself that these were college students who couldn’t — and shouldn’t; life was short enough already — be stopped or even persuaded that I was telling the truth. But a firm hand was necessary to keep them in line. A few of them might even outshine their coaches and fathers and such.

It wasn’t until I was done debriefing with the assistant coaches that I sank into my worn-out chair and felt the tension leave my muscles. The door of my office was left open, and small groups of guys passed by on their way out. They all paused long enough to greet me or tell me they had long been my fans. It wasn’t rational, but anger rarely was, to feel this annoyance with them for reminding me of the person I no longer was.

I wasn’t sure who I was now. Who I was becoming. But that hockey star with hordes of fans had died on the ice the night I was slammed against the boards.

Absently, I rubbed the place where my collarbone had been broken. The memory of the sharp pain was vivid enough to put me back into the hospital bed.

The young man with honey-brown hair and warm brown eyes that seemed to always hold a spark of mischief paused at my door, murmuring something to his friend, who proceeded to leave. The smile that stretched across his face punched dimples on each side of his youthful face. “Coach Partridge?” he called, lifting one arm above his head and leaning against the doorframe. He had his duffel hanging from the other shoulder. The late-August weather was so warm that I couldn’t blame the kid for wearing a sleeveless T-shirt with long cutouts for shoulders and arms, baring the sides of his rib cage, and knee-length cargo shorts with flappy pockets. The summer tan on his face, arms, and legs was from the month spent in the Dominican Republic, which was my old friend’s favorite kind of vacation. Dana Prince didn’t go for new adventures once he found a thing he liked.

“Carter,” I said.

The young man lifted his eyebrows playfully. “I was wondering if you’d recognize me.”

I clicked around the screen for a moment, then turned it around. “I do have your file here.”

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