Page 16 of The Secret Play

“It can be.”

A careful answer, sure to not irritate anyone. Was he hiding something? “Coach McConnell, what other challenges do you face with the team?’

He gave a short shrug, and if I wasn’t mistaken, there was a hint of a smirk. “Sometimes it’s dealing with the media.”

He’s not going to give me anything juicy. Which was fine. This was, after all, a puff piece. I couldn’t blame him for being guarded around me. “Touché. So, what’s the easiest part?”

“The game,” he said without hesitation. “That’s the part I love. Always have. There’s nothing like it.”

His earnestness caught me off guard, and I found myself smiling again. There was nothing phony about the coach. He wasn’t polished or rehearsed the way some people could be during interviews. I detected no media training whatsoever. He was direct, almost blunt, but there was a warmth beneath his professionalism that made me want to keep asking questions.

“Readers will want to know more about you personally. I hope that’s all right.”

“I’m an open book.”

I had interviewed hundreds of people, and of them, a few had made that same declaration. I’d never believed it until now. During my Q&A, I kept it professional, but the truth was, “readers” was me. I wanted to know more about him personally.

The longer we spoke, the more his nervousness seemed to fade, replaced by a quiet confidence that reminded me of why he’d been such a successful coach.

He was passionate about his players, fiercely protective of the team, and deeply invested in the game. And yet, there was an unguardedness about him that I hadn’t expected.

It wasn’t long before I realized I’d stopped thinking about the story altogether. The questions were flowing easily, naturally, and I wasn’t just interviewing him anymore—I was talking to him.

“So,” he said, his voice cutting through my thoughts, “what about you?”

“Me?” I asked, caught off guard.

“Yeah,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “You’re writing about us, but you don’t seem like the typical sportswriter. What’s your story?”

I hesitated, unsure how much to share. I wasn’t used to answering questions. When people got interviewed, they were usually on the defensive or just bragging.

Few ever asked me about me.

I shrugged. “Not much to tell. I grew up in Atlanta, moved to L.A. after college. I’ve been writing about sports for a few years now.”

“And you came back to Atlanta for…?”

“My daughter,” I said, the words slipping out before I could think twice. “She’s starting school soon, and I wanted to be closer to family.”

He nodded, his gaze steady. “That’s a big move.”

“It is,” I admitted. “But it’s going well so far.”

For a moment, there was silence, the kind that felt heavier than it should have. I couldn’t explain why, but something about the way he looked at me made my pulse quicken.

He wasn’t just waiting for me to stop talking so he could start talking about himself more. He was studying me, like he was trying to piece together a puzzle.

“You’re impressive,” he said suddenly, his voice quiet but firm.

The compliment caught me completely off guard. “What?”

“You’ve got this…calm about you,” he said, searching for the words. “But there’s strength under it. I can see why Nico speaks so highly of you.”

I felt my cheeks warm, and I glanced down at my notebook, trying to regain my composure. “Well, I think Nico might be a little biased.”

“Maybe. But I don’t think he’s wrong.”

The air in the room shifted then, charged with something I couldn’t pin down. This wasn’t an interview anymore. It wasn’t just two people talking about hockey.

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