12. Maddox

Chapter 12

Maddox

Bristol made good on her promise to ask Braxton to sit beside her on the flight back to Indy, and I hated him for it. It was irrational. I knew that. He had a girlfriend he loved and was simply doing her best friend a solid, helping to ease her anxiety over flying. But in my head, she was already mine, even if she hadn't accepted it yet.

What kind of sick fuck did it make me that I almost wished he hadn't been enough to keep her calm? That she needed me instead to soothe her?

I was losing my goddamn mind—a mind where Bristol sat front and center.

I needed to get a grip. My focus was required on leading the Speed as their new head coach. The final cuts to the team had been made, and it was time to get a start on the season.

First up was our home opener against the Vancouver Orcas.

The stage was set, the crowd was amped up and ready, but of course, I was being tested already.

During warmups, our star goalie, Mitch Gunn, pulled his groin and wouldn't be able to play. The temperature gauge on my trial by fire jumped up a notch as my choice of backup, Sasha Gusev, would take his place, starting in his first game as a rookie. If he buckled under the pressure, I would look like a total ass to management, and my judgment would come into question.

The sharp stab of grief lodged in my heart when I entered the locker room, where the players were preparing to take the ice for the game. I would have sold my soul for one more game—to feel the ice carving beneath the blades of my skates, to cradle the puck on my stick for just a second before shooting it toward the net or passing it to a teammate.

Hockey had been the constant my entire life.

When my parents' marriage fell apart, I had hockey.

When my grandpa passed away, I had hockey.

When I moved away to play juniors, thousands of miles from home, I had hockey.

My teammates were my family. I kept in touch with guys I'd played with at every level—from youth hockey to juniors to college to pros. We had an unbreakable bond. It didn't matter if we played together for one year or ten. We shared memories—triumphs and heartbreak—and nothing could take that away.

Maybe that's why it was so hard shifting to this new position. Because I hadn't moved on to a new team or level, gaining new teammates. This time, I was on the outside looking in.

The players started their day with a pregame practice before going home to rest and refuel. They returned a few hours before puck drop to warm up their bodies and prepare their equipment before fans were allowed entry into the arena.

Now that I was the head coach, my game day routine was different. I hadn't left the building since my arrival this morning. After practice, I'd holed up in my office, going over last-minute game film of the Orcas—from this preseason and last season.

As the home team, we had the advantage of the last change. That meant when the Orcas sent out their lines, we would have an opportunity to choose which players we wanted to put against them. There was a strategic element to hockey, and personnel choices on the ice made a huge impact. Choices like sending out your strongest line versus their weakest before an offensive zone face-off gave you a higher chance of scoring, or putting your grittiest line against their top guys in the defensive zone minimized the potential for a goal against.

This was my job now. Analyzing every tiny detail of not only our game but that of our opponents and sharing that information with my players. Would I much rather have spent my day napping and working out with the guys? Hell yeah. But that was no longer an option, and I was forced to play the hand I'd been dealt.

The players sitting at their assigned stalls were in various states of undress. Some guys liked to remove their upper gear during rest periods while others unlaced their skates. Anyone who had spent time in a youth locker room would think it was nuts that they could suit up again in less than five minutes, but it was automatic for these guys, practically muscle memory after doing it multiple times a day their entire lives.

I stepped into the center of the locker room and cleared my throat loudly to be heard over the raucous chatter between teammates. Slowly, they quieted, and I took a cleansing breath before preparing my men to go to battle for the first time this season.

With all eyes on me, I said, "Someone toss me a roll of clear tape."

"Heads up, Coach!" Jenner yelled as he chucked the tape at me .

Catching it easily before bringing the roll to my nose, I inhaled deeply. The scent of plastic and adhesive was nostalgic, reminding me of the game and all my years spent playing it.

Lowering my hand, I addressed the team. "I may not be out there with you on the ice, but I've always got your back. I'm one of you. Not only a former player but a proud member of the Indianapolis Speed." The guys all cheered. "My heart lies with this team, just as it does with each of you. You're my brothers. You always will be, even if I'm the one barking up your ass to skate harder or benching you after making one too many bad decisions. Know that it's because I care about your growth as a player and the success of the team as a whole. Hockey is the ultimate team sport, and if you don't know that by now, a coach has failed you along the way. There's no room for selfish play; we work together, or we don't win. It's as simple as that.

"Forget about the past. We can't change it, can't rewrite it. So, looking backward is pointless. Today, we start fresh with a new season where anything is possible. We get to write the narrative going forward. But nothing worth having is ever easy. It's going to take dedication every single day in practice, in the gym, and at home with your nutrition choices. I know every man in this room has what it takes to become a champion, but you don't get there by taking shortcuts. It's gonna be a grind, and the road to victory begins tonight. We take each game as it comes, put one skate in front of the other, and never lose sight of the goal."

I paused, pulling a piece of paper from the inside pocket of my suit jacket. "Here is tonight's starting lineup. At center, Braxton Slate." The boys gave their standard clap but added a little extra cheer. Braxton had worked his way from winger to center in my absence and had really grown into the role of leading a line. It didn't matter that I was pissed at him at the moment; I wouldn't let personal feelings interfere with coaching decisions. As I'd told the team, hockey had no room for selfishness, and I practiced as I preached.

"At right wing, Captain Jenner Knight." An even louder cheer split the air of the room after their synchronized clap.

"At left wing, Asher Lawson." Clap.

"At right D, Wyatt Banks." Clap.

"At left D, Saint Booker." Clap.

"In net, for his rookie debut, Sasha Gusev."

Instead of a clap for our starting goaltender, the room called out, "Gooooooooose."

I bit back a smile as the young goalie ducked his head. He was getting his chance. He'd earned it, and I only prayed he made the most of the opportunity I'd fought so hard to give him.

"Get ready for that rookie lap, Goose. The home crowd is waiting for you. Everyone else, execute your matchups, stay out of the box, and make every shift count." With that, I turned on my heel and left the room with the rest of the coaches and training staff.

Tonight's game might be the start of a new season for the boys, but for me, it marked a new chapter in my life. Like Goose, my performance would be carefully monitored under a microscope, looking for flaws, and it was up to me to keep my spot.

It was time to find out if I had what it takes.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I screamed at the closest ref to the bench .

We had taken the lead on Vancouver early, and once they were down by a few goals, they started to play dirty. Instead of playing for the puck, they were going out of their way to make hits—dangerous ones up high near my players' heads.

The first few attempts were near misses; my guys recognized what was happening and spent their focus on avoiding an injury. But eventually, Asher took a hit that knocked him down and stopped play. He skated off on his own power but was immediately sent down the tunnel, entering concussion protocol.

The Speed—not to mention the league—was very careful with head injuries. With the discovery of CTE and its debilitating effects on athletes who'd had their bell rung a few too many times, there was a hard line drawn over prioritizing players' health and safety. No victory was more valuable than a human life.

After Asher left the ice, I gave the ref an earful when there was no call for the head contact. He gave me some bullshit response about how my players needed to keep their heads up, implying that Asher could have avoided the hit if he was looking where he was going. I knew that wasn't what happened, especially when the bench had tablets to analyze the game in real time. It was dirty to anyone with eyes, but there wasn't much I could do if the ref was willing to look the other way.

It didn't matter that we had the ability to choose the matchups on the ice; they must've sent a message to the entire team to fuck shit up because every one of their players was going for the hit. I'd never seen anything like it. They didn't even give the appearance of trying to play.

So, when the next high hit took our second-line center, Eli Clifford, down so hard the training staff had to step onto the ice to check him out, I lost it.

"Hey! I'm talking to you!" I screamed, finally getting the ref to glance my way.

Rolling his eyes, he skated closer to where I stood, my blood boiling.

"I think you need to settle down, Coach."

I huffed in disbelief. "Are you serious? I need to calm down? My guys are getting killed out there, and you're standing around watching, doing nothing! What's it going to take for you to make a call? Someone to get knocked unconscious? For us to have too few players able to skate to complete the game? Tell me where you draw the line, Stripes."

The cocky motherfucker narrowed his eyes. "How about you run your bench, and I do my job officiating? Sound good?"

He was clearly on a power trip, and I wasn't having it—not when my players' safety was at risk. Some of these guys had families to go home to tonight, and it was my job to look out for them.

"Tell me, which one of the Orcas players will be sucking you off tonight?"

The ref turned an ugly shade of purple before screaming, "That's it! You're out of here!"

Mindful there were kids in the stands, I refrained from flipping him the bird on my way off the bench and through the tunnel carved beneath the arena.

Adrenaline surged in my veins as I bypassed the locker room and headed straight for my office, tugging my tie off along the way.

The feeling of helplessness churned in my gut. I could only argue a case for my players. I couldn't fight alongside them, lay a few hits and mix it up with the opposing team as a form of release for the aggression building inside me.

I was angry at everyone and everything—most of all, the things I couldn't control .

The game played on through the pane glass window of my office, but I set to work immediately. Pulling out my phone, I dialed every number I had access to of higher-level executives within the league. This certainly wasn't the first time dangerous hits had been missed by officials and needed a closer look by the league office. Players received hearings and suspensions after the fact all the time.

Finally getting someone on the line, I pleaded my case and was told they would look into any dangerous hits and take the appropriate action. It was a canned answer. They couldn't promise me anything, but it was a small comfort to know that someone had heard my concerns.

Sighing, I stood watching over my team as they continued to play without my guidance.

The sense of déjà vu was overwhelming.

I'd spent the entirety of last season high above ice level as the Speed competed in my absence. My hands were tied, and I fucking hated it. I craved action and a sense of purpose; coaching wasn't coming close to scratching that itch. It only made me miss my former life more.

Staying so close to the game was going to be harder than I thought.

"Coach! Can you tell us about the ejection tonight?"

The reporters were hard to see with the lights from the cameras present nearly blinding me during my postgame interview. All I knew was that the question had come from a man.

Sighing, I kept my professional composure. "My top priority will always be the safety of our players. When that is threatened, and appropriate action is not taken by the officials on the ice, I don't think it's unreasonable that I get a little hot under the collar. The play out there tonight by Vancouver was dangerous and has no place in our game. The league has gone to great lengths to minimize hits to the head, and it's up to the referees to enforce that stance."

"Do you expect to see suspensions for the hits to Lawson and Clifford?" another male voice asked.

I shrugged. "That's not for me to decide. I'm sure the league will look into the matter and take appropriate action if necessary."

"Do you think it's detrimental to the Speed that their head coach can't control his temper?" The female voice attached to that question had my fists clenching. Bristol was pushing my buttons. She was probably still pissed about what had happened between us in the private air terminal in Pittsburgh.

Rubbing a hand over my jaw, I replied, "I think any coach would have been upset about the lack of player safety exhibited by the officiating crew tonight."

"But you have been known to take unnecessary penalties, letting emotions rule you on the ice," she challenged.

I raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware my playing career was up for discussion tonight. If we could keep the questions aimed at tonight's game, that would be appreciated."

That shut her up quickly, and another reporter jumped in, their questions all jumbling together as I answered on autopilot.

The only bright spot of the evening was that the Speed had won the game.

It was going to be a long season, especially if a certain redhead continued to egg me on.

Lord, give me the strength.