Page 22 of Home Ice Advantage

“Yeah,” Aronson said. “I mean, we got along just fine under Leclerc. He knew Leclerc’s system. Knew where he was supposed to be and who he was supposed to be covering. But he’s exactly what I meant when I said you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

“Conroy wanted us to highlight the veterans for trade deadline day, and to get them cooking however we could,” Ryan pointed out.

Petey, who had already done his talk on the defenseman, opened one eye. “There’s highlighting, and there’s Keen.”

“I don’t believe you can just give up onanyonelike that,” Ryan said, frowning at the whiteboard. The numbers were there, in black and white. The abysmal effect that Keen had on shot share when he was placed on the second line. His own eye test. “I just need to work with him, get it through his head what we’re actually asking and expecting.”

“Okay, sure, Pollyanna,” Aronson drawled. He was shredding a piece of paper, his long fingers twisting the pieces into little balls. It was the kind of anxious habit that was completely at odds with the way he spoke.

Petey laughed. “Wow, Roney, really showing your age with that reference.”

To Ryan’s surprise, Aronson’s ears turned red. It was...kind of cute? “You know my parents are older.”

“Well, the fact remains,” Ryan said, frowning again, “we’ve gotta get him going. It’s not like he’s going anywhere if he doesn’t start putting up points, at least, and we can’t waive him.”

“Why not?” Aronson asked, flicking a tiny ball of paper at Ryan, who brushed it off of his sleeve. “He’s not really doing anything fucking useful out there, and he’s not really lighting it on fire at practices.”

“Can you imagine how that would go over in the room? Waiving a veteran who’s been on the team this long?”

“We’ve done it before,” Petey said. “Last year, when we had to free up cap space. It’s not the best way to handle things, but if a guy’s a professional, he understands.”

“Wouldyoucall Keen a professional?” Ryan started, and both of his assistants sighed, because he was right. “Look. We don’t need to make any drastic decisions today. I’ll keep working with him at practice, and we’ll see if some time on PP2 won’t get him going a bit. I can give him a better center and see if that helps. Can always adjust midgame.”

“I just think,” Aronson said, a little singsong, “that sometimes you need to be a little nasty to get the point across.”

“That’s not the kind of environment I want to build here. I want the players to enjoy coming to the rink and I want them to trust that I’m not going to spend all of the time they’re here yelling at them for things I know they’re working on. I want to be able to meet them on their level andencouragethem to be better.”

“And that’s admirable,” Petey said, and then closed his eyes again. “But sometimes, you may wanna have a little bit of Roney’s bite.”

Ryan laughed. “Not literally, I hope.” Aronson glowered at them but didn’t say anything—he didn’t have to. Ryan already knew what it would be. He rubbed his eyes and said, “All right, good work tonight, boys. We’ll revisit in the morning.”

Even in the loss, there were a few light spots, at least. The guys were still goofing off on the ice during warm-ups. It was Afanasyev’s birthday, and Cook, Williams, and Davey had decorated his locker for the occasion: in multicolored hockey tape, the words HAPPY BDAY RODDY were clearly visible. They’d blown up the trainers’ vinyl gloves to make bizarre-looking balloon clusters. The stoic defenseman had clearly been bemused by the offerings, but accepted them anyway with a solemn handshake.

On his walk back to the hotel, Ryan thought about whether he should contact Shannon’s lawyer to see whether or not he could get some of his stuff. He was staying at a Residence Inn about a ten-minute walk from the Spectrum, but it was starting to wear on him. It was one thing to travel and stay at hotels and another entirely to come home to one every night, to the reminder that you were living out of a suitcase. At least he had a little kitchenette so he could cook, even if the utensils were completely dull metal and flimsy plastic bullshit. It was starting to become the final straw that had him searching for available apartments, although he still wasn’t sure where the hell he was going to live.

Ryan wondered what he would even end up taking from the house. Probably Shannon would want to keep all of the furniture. It wasn’t like he couldn’t afford to buy new—he had made a tidy amount of money over the course of his contracts, and he had invested it well. Even if Shannon took half, Ryan would never have to worry about money ever again. But part of him almost didn’t feel it was worth it, if he didn’t know how long he’d be here. Ryan might have been confident in his ability to develop a team, to build something solid and lasting and successful, but he didn’t know how long Conroy’s leash would be.

Walking across the causeway, he was reminded that no matter how busy he was and no matter how many people he talked to in any given day, it was a pretty fucking lonely existence. Especially compared to his playing days, when he would have Murph and his wife over for dinner or go to their house pretty much every day they were home, when he would be hanging with the boys every single night they were on the road. And he was reminded, with a sudden, stinging little shock, that he’d been pretty fucking lonely for...a really long time. Even while he was married.

Part of him wanted to text Shannon or call her and ask,Is this how you felt too? Is this why you locked me out?But she had been pretty clear about the fact that he shouldn’t do that. Instead, Ryan paused on the walk, looked out over the Charles River and the lights on the bridges, and thought about how he had kind of fucked up his life. He’d landed on his feet, sure. But there had been a lot of things he just...hadn’t thought about. Hadn’t seen.

He wondered if that was part of getting to middle age. Being able to look back on shit you’d missed out on, shit you hadn’t done, and realizing that above everything else, youregrettedit.

He wondered what Aronson was doing. Ryan knew that he lived in the South End, but beyond that, he didn’t know anything about what the guy was like outside of work, where he was mostly glowering, arguing, or snapping Ryan’s head off. Ryan wondered if Aronson liked to cook, whether his apartment was as spare and empty as Ryan’s would probably be. He had said to Petey that his parents were older—Ryan wondered how old. He wondered if Aronson was getting ready to sleep, whether he was in bed, whether he was—

But all of this was stupid. It didn’t accomplish anything. It didn’t matter what Aronson was doing or what his apartment was like: Aronson hated him, too. Ryan took a deep breath, and shrugged his shoulders like that alone could clear the weight. He walked back to his hotel room and resolved that, no matter what else happened, he was going to find a new place to live within the next two weeks.

There.

That was a goal, something solid, that he could work toward. The rest of it? That was just noise.

Eric wasn’t going soft, he told himself, it was just that if he wanted to keep his job, he couldn’t fight tooth and nail with Sullivanallof the time. He had to be professional, and he had to continue working with the forwards and coaching the power play. It didn’t help that no matter what he tried, the power play remained abysmal. To some extent, he knew that it was the lack of a good quarterback. Having a defenseman back there who could reallymove the puckcompletely opened the game up for the forwards. But what he had to work with could be considered at best “pretty grim” and at worst “pylons.”

If he wanted to keep his job, he had to stop arguing with Sullivan, and he had to get the power play cooking. He honestly wasn’t sure which one was more difficult, in the end. Part of him was beginning to enjoy the sparring, look forward to the way Sullivan’s brown eyes would flash whenever Eric challenged him. The answering thrill low in his stomach.

His mother had started asking about Sullivan in the morning, like she was actually eager for updates about all of the woo-woo bullshit he spouted after the games.

“Maman, it’s just stupid hockey clichés,” Eric insisted.

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