Page 13 of Home Ice Advantage

Ryan tried to take mental notes for things he’d need to fix later on himself: the rhythm of the line changes was definitely something he’d have to adjust to, working in the feedback from McCaskill and Aronson another. In the peewee league, the team had him, an assistant coach, and the developmental coach, but Ryan had always been the one calling the shots alone on the bench. It was still, ultimately, his responsibility. But Aronson especially had a lot of thoughts he didn’t hesitate to offer, and Ryan had to fight back the urge to shove him away.

Aronson in particular had a way of getting up in your personal space when he was annoyed that made Ryan’s hackles go up, stomach lurch. As though it would’ve ever gotten physical in a professional setting? Ridiculous. Ryan had to get it together and talk to the team.

Afterward, Ryan gave them a few minutes, but stopped briefly in the locker room to talk to the guys. He told them the things he’d liked: their hustle, their effort, the fact that they were still skating hard even when they were down. He told them the things he’d like to work on: the neatness of the passes, or more specifically, the lack thereof, playing a bit smarter off the puck, working on positioning. Taking the best shot rather than the available shot. He didn’t focus too much on the negative: half of the guys who were playing tonight wouldn’t be on the opening-night roster.

It wasn’t any easier after the preseason got in full swing. Even though they were in the Atlantic Division, the Beacons mostly played New Jersey, Philadelphia and the New York Liberty during the preseason. Each team had their strengths and weaknesses—Aiden Campbell, the Libs’ goalie, was in his last contract year looking pretty rough, for example—but the problem that Ryan had run into was the Beacons’ roster. They had a lot of rookies on D, they had a lot of underperforming veteran wingers and their center depth outside of Williams was weak as hell.

“Conroy told me we had some leeway with the deployment of the older forwards, but he wants to showcase them as much as possible for trades,” Ryan said, as the three assistant coaches went over the tape after their last preseason loss to the Cons, who were the reigning Cup champions. “But I’m not sure about some of these guys.”

Aronson raised one eyebrow and looked Ryan up and down with a skepticism that made him want to scream. “What happened toI’m gonna work with everybody?”

Ryan exhaled and counted, internally, to ten. “We’re still going to work with them. Especially if we have to scratch them during the season, I expect both of you out on the ice with me after practice is over to get extra reps in and make them feel like we’re still taking them seriously.”

Aronson said, “Whatever you say, Coach.”

Petey leaned back in his chair, arms folded behind his head. “I’d like to keep some of the rookies up with the big club rather than send them to the minors. We can have Granlund and Johnson anchoring the first two pairs, but I think it’ll be beneficial for the boys to get the time up with us. If we can.”

“That would mean keeping Lockwood as a seventh D. He’d be sitting a lot,” Ryan said. It wasn’t a challenge so much as an observation.

“Right,” Petey agreed. “But he’s a team-first guy. If we talk to him, he’ll understand. We can rotate him in if one of the kids is having a rough game, but we’re focusing on development above everything else. He’s not going to be part of the long-term future here.”

Ryan nodded and looked up at the depth chart handwritten on the whiteboard. The neat columns and rows of forwards and defensemen arranged by position and their place in the organization, color-coded so the eye jumped easily from line to line.

“Jesus,” Ryan added, whistling. “I wonder if I can pull Conroy’s arm and convince him to trade for a veteran C.”

“He won’t want to give up the assets,” Aronson said, his eyes half-lidded, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth. “This is a rebuilding year, even if he refused to say it. Anything anyone would want isn’t something we could afford to give up.”

“We’ll see how it goes once we start hitting the midseason injury grind. There aren’t a lot of great depth options beyond Williams and Novák. I can shuffle the lines to a certain extent, but...” Ryan trailed off and rubbed his eyes. “I think I’ve narrowed down my final roster for opening night. I’d like both of you to look at it tonight and let me know if you have any differences of opinion tomorrow.”

Aronson snorted. “How much of our opinion’s actually gonna be taken into account?”

Ryan frowned. What the hell was Aronson’s problem, anyway? Ryan hadn’t been anything except polite, and Aronson hadn’t been anything except snarky and disparaging about the small-area drills, about Ryan’s more philosophical ideas regarding the way they should coach. About pretty much everything he did. Maybe it sounded worse in Aronson’s deep rumble of a voice, because of Aronson’s accent, not as thick as it had been in his youth but still tinged with French, especially on the vowels.

Ryan counted to ten again. “All of it will be taken into account.”

Aronson unfolded his lanky body from the chair. He reminded Ryan of a praying mantis constantly about to strike. Probably about to bite Ryan’s head off. But that was a bad analogy because that was only after sex. “I’ll believe it when I see it. Give me the list.”

Ryan gave him the list, and wondered if he scowled deeply enough, whether that would convey the depth of his annoyance. All it did was earn him another scowl in return, like Aronson was determined to win the battle of the glares.

Petey, whistling an off-key tune that Ryan vaguely recognized as the Doors, loped up to Ryan’s desk to take his sheet as well. He scanned it quickly and then handed it back. “No notes.”

“No notes?”

“’S what I would’ve done.”

“Traitor,” Aronson muttered.

Ryan considered whirling on him, snapping,what is your problem. Instead, he said, “Great. See you tomorrow. Lots to do.” He turned back to the whiteboard so he didn’t have to watch Aronson leaving.

They were starting off the season at home against the Arizona Scorpions, which suited Eric perfectly fine. Not only were the Scorpions perennially tanking, which meant it was a low-stress season opener for a rookie head coach and rookie half of the lineup, it gave him a little more time in the morning to get ready, to scroll through his timeline on Twitter while he was making his morning coffee. Today he frowned at some of the news, then whistled.

“Petey, did you see the Railers shit today?”

“Roney, if you think I read the news, you are sadly mistaken,” Petey replied, his face buried in his coffee mug.

“It’s a new investigative report. John Wilde.”

Petey stared at him blankly.

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