Page 11 of Home Ice Advantage

“I don’t wanna talk shit about anyone,” Cook said, when Ryan had gotten control of himself. “I really tried last year; you know? But it didn’t—I just didn’t know what he wanted from me.”

“I’ve been there. Sometimes you just don’t see eye to eye with a coach. I don’t expect you to always see eye to eye with me. But I just want to make clear from the beginning, that if you have an issue with your usage—or with anything, really—you can feel free to come and talk to us about it.”

“Really?” Cook asked, doubtful.

“Really. Like I said. I’m learning, too. And if things aren’t working for the individual players, they’re not going to work for the team. And I won’t always know if they aren’t working if you don’t tell us. I mean, if we’re getting blown out every game, I’ll know. The analytics I’ll know. But the more subtle things, I won’t.”

Cook laughed again. “Man, Coach. It sounds kinda too good to be true.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“Uh, forgive me for saying so, but I’ve been disappointed before. I’m gonna withhold judgment.”

The kid had balls; Ryan had to give him that much. Again, Ryan was reminded of himself at twenty, still stuck in Division 1 hockey and bitter as hell about it, determined to prove everyone wrong. If he had anything to say about it, Cook wouldn’t have the same experience. “That’s absolutely fair. Just give me a chance, and be honest with the staff, is all I’m asking.”

Cook surveyed him, eyebrows raised. “I can do that.”

Ryan held out his hand and Cook shook it. It was a firm handshake, nothing to prove. Ryan only wished he felt the same about training camp.

Chapter Three

October

Eric somehow managed to get through training camp, even if he wanted toscream. If playing against Sullivan was annoying, coaching with him was infinitely worse. There was, after all, a limit to how many times Eric could say to him, “Look, I know you coached peewee for a while, but this isn’t peewee anymore. This isthebig show.”

There were only so many times Sullivan could stare back at him and say, “There are translatable skills. I’m not trying to teach them how to do a perfect face-off in conditions that aren’t replicable in a game, Aronson. We’re trying to teach them how to trust their own judgment and make snap decisions in an actual game.”

On the ice, too, Eric was constantly aware of Sullivan’s presence. Even though he was small enough that he’d get constantly lost in a crowd of giant hockey players, Eric could practically sense him anyway, see his crooked smile and intense expression. The stupid little repetitive habits he had that were so annoying: a hand constantly running through his hair, his teeth digging into his lower lip. Sullivan was so enthusiastic when he talked that he practically vibrated with it, and everything about him made Eric want to grab him and shove him down on the ice. Just to get him to shut up.

Not for any other reason.

Really the worst part about all of it was that the players were already responding. It was a novel approach, Eric had to give Sullivan that much. It was different from any training camp Eric had ever been in before, either as a player or a coach. He couldn’t say for sure if it was better. They didn’t have a regular-season record to base it on. But the players from Cook to Sinclair to Rodion Afanasyev, a defenseman who was pushing forty but stubbornly hanging on for the last few years of his contract, seemed engaged, having fun.

It wasn’t that Eric was bitter that they hadn’t seemed to be having fun inhispractices. Again, this was training camp. It was about preparing for the season, not about having fun.

Eric actually looked forward to the beginning of the preseason games, mostly because whatever high-and-mighty ideals Sullivan might have had about the practices, they would have to translate on the bench.

The thing about coaching in the major leagues was that it was complete chaos. You were both a general keeping an eye on things from afar and an NCO right in the thick of it.

It was your responsibility to make sure that the lines were called and changed appropriately, that no one was stuck out on too-long shifts. You had to make sure you were telling the boys to switch up the tactics if they were getting jammed in the neutral zone and the passes weren’t getting through. You had to keep an eye on things to be able to make the appropriate coach’s challenges—whether for offsides or goaltender interference—and you had to judge whether it was worth risking a power play if you got it wrong. You had to keep an eye on the pulse of the team in case they needed the time-out, in case things were collapsing quickly.

Basically, things were always moving. It was like watching a car’s engine churning, but more chaotic. Things didn’t run in their neat, expected paths, on carefully defined grids. You had to be ready for anything.

“Have you ever done this before?” Sullivan asked, as they sat in his office before the game. Petey sat slumped in one of the chairs nearby, catching his usual pregame nap anywhere and everywhere he could.

Eric looked away from Petey, who clearly wasn’t going to answer. “Coach a pro game? Or run a major league bench?”

“Both.”

Eric narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out Sullivan’s angle. His face was as open and pleasant as ever, his light brown eyes focused and interested. Eric wanted to punch him. “Never headed the bench myself. I was down in Providence with Leclerc, and I came up to Boston with him. But Petey’s got seniority, and the few games Leclerc missed with an illness, he was the one who got to step up.”

“They didn’t offer him the job?”

“I think he made it clear that even if they were considering it, he didn’t want it. And besides, we aren’t the direction the management wanted to go in,” Eric said. It came out belligerent, like a challenge. He had his arms crossed over his chest, equally aware of the defensive posture.

Sullivan didn’t take the bait. Just looked at Eric again. It was really fucking unfair that he looked the way he did, the laugh lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes and mouth, the way his lip curved in a half smile. Eric had to get over it: it didn’t matter that Sullivan was attractive when—

Sullivan said, “I’ve never done this, either. I mean, a hockey game’s a hockey game. I had my peewee team, and I did a bit of unofficial coaching myself in the late years of my career. But it was different doing it from the ice and in the room.”

---