Page 15 of The Secret Play

He wasn’t what I’d expected, either—less intimidating than I’d imagined for someone who managed a team of grown men who made their living by crashing into one another on the ice.

But there was a quiet authority in the way he carried himself, from the straight set of his shoulders to the firm grip of his handshake.

“Gemma,” he said, his voice steady but low. “Thanks for coming in.”

“Thanks for having me,” I replied, offering a smile as I sat in the chair across from him.

As I settled in, I couldn’t help noticing his outfit. Despite the chill in the room, he was wearing athletic shorts and a thin, short-sleeved polo that clung to his broad frame. He was strikingly handsome in the classical sense. He had a jaw made of granite and a body made in the gym.

He also had that silver fox thing happening—his gray hair making him look older than his listed age on the team’s website. He was only forty-eight according to it, but he must have gone prematurely gray years ago.

His team picture was from when they’d hired him, and he was gray even then. His posture was surprisingly relaxed—until I noticed the way his fingers tapped lightly against the arm of his chair.

He was nervous.

The thought made me smile. Here was a man who could yell at a room full of huge sweaty athletes without batting an eye, yet he looked like he’d rather face off against the league’s best enforcer than sit through a puff-piece interview.

It was kinda cute.

“You look comfortable,” I said, gesturing to his shorts. “Most people would’ve dressed up for this.”

He glanced down at himself and gave a half-shrug. “I don’t wear what I’d call dress-up clothes when we're training.”

I laughed, and the sound seemed to put him at ease. “Fair enough.”

This wasn’t my first interview, not by a long shot, but it felt different. The stakes were lower—or at least they should’ve been.

My job was simple. Write a feel-good story about the Atlanta Fire and their veteran center, Nico, whose career was nearing its end.

The team’s PR manager had made it clear that this wasn’t an exposé or a deep dive. It was a fluff piece, plain and simple. And I was fine with that. I didn’t have the energy for drama these days.

But as I pulled my notebook and recorder from my bag, I couldn’t shake the strange sense of familiarity that had crept in the moment I walked into his office.

There was something about Casey McConnell—his voice, the way he held himself, the sparkling blue of his eyes—that tugged at the edge of my memory.

It was odd.

I pushed the thought aside and hit record. “So, let’s start with the basics. What’s it like coaching a team like the Fire?”

His lips twitched into a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s a challenge, but a good one. We’ve got a mix of veterans and younger guys, so it’s about finding that balance and helping them grow while keeping everyone focused on the same goal.”

“And what’s that goal?”

He raised an eyebrow, as if the answer was obvious. “Winning.”

I laughed again, and this time, his smile softened. “Of course,” I said. “But it’s more than that, isn’t it? There’s a culture to build, a legacy to uphold. Do you think the younger players understand that?”

His expression shifted, his gaze thoughtful. “You’re right. It’s about more than just what happens on the ice. These guys are part of something bigger than themselves. They represent the team, the city, the fans. That comes with responsibility.”

“And you’re the one who makes sure they don’t forget it.”

“Try to,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Doesn’t always work. But they’re good guys. One of the things we focus on is community service to keep us engaged with the city and remind our neighbors we’re here for them. When Hurricane Velma came through three years ago, we took the team to the coast to help with relief efforts there and held a fundraiser. Our guys volunteer in the city, each devoting ten hours a week during the season and twenty hours a week in the off-season. The legacy of the Fire is one of service above everything else.”

I nodded, scribbling notes as I spoke. I’d forgotten about the hurricane—that was a good note to add for the story. Remind readers what their team has done for them. I shifted gears from the fluffy stuff so I could say the interview was more than just puff. “What’s the toughest part of the job?”

“Depends on the day,” he said. “Sometimes it’s managing personalities. No one gets into hockey by being a shrinking violet.”

“I imagine it’s a lot of big egos, that kind of thing?”

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