Page 59 of Sexting the Coach
“Ha,” I force out, because I know he’s joking, and because Fincher’s stupid pointy nose is swiveled in our direction, and the last thing I need right now is to give him any more fuel. He’s been acting extra douchey today, pulling aside players for private chats and loudly voicing his opinions on the lines for today’s game.
“So, Fincher’s being a doll, today” Bernie says, and I can tell he’s trying to get me to smile. It occurs to me that, for the past few months, I’ve been an easier man to get along with. Maybe that has something to do with the blond who’s been in my bed.
Elsie and I started this charade back in July, just after the team bonding camp. It’s been just around four months of fake dating, and she managed to twist me into a happy man that I’m just not.
Today must feel like a rude fucking awakening for the other coaches. For the guys on the team. Because, apparently, I don’t have much to be happy about anymore.
We’ve been working on our approach to this game all week. The guys know the Rangers inside and out, which guys to watch, what most of our match-ups look like. I think we’re going to be better conditioned than them, and that’s what I’m banking on today.
Letting out a stream of air, I turn and walk into the locker room.
Inside, the guys sit in their full gear, waiting for me. Several of them have their heads bowed, their sticks held loosely between their legs. Everything is taped and ready to go.
All they’re waiting on now is a speech from their fearless leader. We’re coming into this game off a four-game winning streak. People in the league are starting to seriously talk about our shot at the Stanley Cup.
But I can’t think about that now.
I can’t think about Elsie, I can’t think about Fincher. Right now, I have to focus on these guys, get them riled up to focus on the game ahead of us.
“Listen up.” When I speak, the guys straighten up, coming to attention, their eyes flying to me. I stand still for a moment in the center of them, having a weird sense of something being wrong.
Only a few years ago, I was the guy sitting on the bench, looking to my coach for motivation. For the fire under my ass that would propel me into the game.
I’ve had coaches, throughout my hockey career who would use this time to go over our strategy. To re-hash our plans for defense and offense, which guys we should watch out for and target on the other team.
Right now, I could tell them to watch out for Sanchez and Rodgers, that those two know how to communicate. I could re-hash our strategy to rely on my assumption that we’re better conditioned than the Rangers, who have been relying on talent for a little too long.
But if they haven’t gathered all this throughout the week of practice, then it’s not worth repeating now. Instead, as the guys jostle and tip their skates nervously, staring at me, I focus on the most important stuff.
“We’ve been winning,” I say, turning and walking the length of the space between the benches. Each of the players is in the same outfit—white pants, inky blue jersey. Black helmet loose on their heads, straps dangling down. “It’s a good feeling, right?”
Nobody speaks up to answer that question.
“In fact,” I say, turning and pacing to the other side of the room. “We haven’t lost a game this season. Beat the Sharks, beat the Blue Crabs. Our toughest games, and we pulled through easy. Came in strong, held that.”
The guys start to shift like they’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. Smart.
“Well, here’s the thing about winning streaks.” I try to keep the hard edge from my voice, try not to think about the pain in my hip that’s been going away. My happiness at having Elsie in that big house of mine. Of waking up next to her and finding her ready in my arms. “The thing aboutwinning streaksis that they make you too fucking comfortable. You know the last time I had a six-game winning streak?”
Maybe they know, maybe they don’t.
“It was two years ago,” I say, voice hard when I think about that season. The season I ignored the injury in my hip to make it to the Stanley Cup, only to lose spectacularly. We came out strong that year, just like the Squids are now. We won almost all our games, all the while my hip was slowly giving up on theseason when I wasn’t ready to let go. “And I was playing forthisteam. We let that winning streak get to our heads. So, as far as you’re all concerned, this is our first game of the season. Not a single fucking win under our belts. We’ve got something toproveout there on the ice tonight!”
Bernie is grinning from the doorway, while Fincher’s face holds the same disdain that hasn’t left since the day we found out I’d be taking the coaching position.
“Stand up.”
It only takes a second, and my players are getting to their feet. Other coaches might not go this hard for a random, mid-season game. But I’m not other fucking coaches.
“Think about where you are,” I say, lowering my voice, stopping to look each of them in the eye. “Think about the kid you were fifteen, twenty years ago. Think about how fucking ecstatic he would have been going into this game. Even a boring, predictable game against one of the worst teams in the league. Would he have left a single fucking thing on the ice tonight?”
“No.”
“What? I couldn’t fucking hear you!”
“No!”
“Who are we?”
