Page 2 of Home Ice Advantage

Every time they fought, it was a reminder that they had started dating when they were eighteen years old and had just kept going, even though it became clear, the longer things went on, that they had really different priorities.

Shannon had wanted the big house in Newfields to be close to her family. And at the time, Ryan had wanted what Shannon wanted. She’d deserved it after years of living far away from her family and friends, in the kinds of places she never would’ve chosen if she hadn’t married a hockey player.

It wasn’t until later that Ryan had realized exactly how much he hated living in New Hampshire in a house that was far too goddamn big for two people.

He called her again.

“What, Ryan?”

“Shannon. Just to be clear. You’re really divorcing me? Really, completely, seriously divorcing me?”

“Yes, Ryan.”

“But...what about all of my stuff?”

“We can figure out a time for you to come and pick it up. But I’m over this. I told you I didn’t want you to start coaching. I’ve waited years to have a life without fuckinghockey—”

“But that is my life, Shan. It’s always been my life.”

“Not like this. Not like you get. Or did you forget that I made birthday brunch reservations for today—”

“You knew I had a game!”

“You couldn’t have gotten the assistant coach to do it, Ryan? It’s yourforty-fifth birthday. It’s peewee fucking hockey! I’m sick of always being reminded where I stand in your priorities and how as long as it’s something hockey related, I’m at the bottom! And it’s clear you don’t understand this at all. We don’t have anything else to talk about right now. I’ll text you times and dates if you want to pick up your stuff.”

Ryan thought about asking her to throw down a bag of clothes to him or something, but the back of his neck felt hot and sweaty. He hadn’t fought much on the ice when he was a player, but the few times he’d gotten angry enough to do it, he’d felt like this. Like a teapot whose lid was about to explode with the force of the pressure built up under it.

Instead, he said, “Okay,” and hung up again.

He stood there in the driveway—nothisdriveway anymore—and looked at the house. It was an ugly McMansion, and he could admit that now that Shannon had kicked him out. He couldn’t quite figure out what he was feeling. It wasn’t sad and it wasn’t angry. Mayberesignedwas the closest word for it. Maybe this is what it felt like to not care about losing anymore. He’d never felt like that in his life.

Ryan walked back to the car, slung his bag of hockey gear back into it and sat down in the driver’s seat. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but it was long enough that he could see Shannon peeking out at him through the curtains, probably wondering what the hell was going on and worrying that maybe he’d try to call her again.

His phone rang, and he almost threw it across the cab.No, Shannon, you don’t have anything else you could say to me.It wasn’t Shannon’s number, though. He didn’t have it saved as a contact and didn’t recognize it at all. It was a Boston area code, though, which didn’t bode well.

“Hello?”

“Ryan Sullivan?”

“Uh, yeah? I’m Sully.”

“This is Joe Conroy, the general manager of the Boston Beacons.”

Ryan blinked.

Joe Conroy was a legend. Ryan had grown up wearing his jersey. Conroy had played for Boston for years. Had his jersey retired at the Spectrum. Had been hired after Boston’s last general manager was unceremoniously fired in the dumpster fire of the last season. Ryan knew him socially, but not enough for a phone call like this.

“Hello?” Conroy asked, and Ryan realized he had probably been silent too long.

“Sorry. Sorry, I was just—surprised.”

“Well, you’re going to be a hell of a lot more surprised than that by the time we’re done. Do you have some time to talk?”

When he looked up at the house, Shannon glared at him from the upstairs window. Ryan pressed the ignition and said, “All the time in the world.”

At six a.m. on the dot, Eric Aronson’s phone rang, the same way it did every morning.

Usually, he was awake already and just getting out of the shower of his tiny South End apartment. Today, he’d woken up even earlier than usual. It had been three days since Joe Conroy fired Harrison Leclerc, the Boston Beacons’ twenty-ninth head coach.

---