32. Maddox

Chapter 32

Maddox

"Move your feet, Clifford!" I screamed at my second-line center.

He either didn't hear me or had run out of steam because he was unable to catch up with Brent York of the Alberta Moose on a breakaway after one of the defensemen carried the puck into our offensive zone and the other pinched below the blue line to try and beat the opponent going for the pass along the boards. The puck was chipped out of the zone behind him, and York was streaking toward Goose. A quick shift to his left had Goose biting on the forehand shot, so it was easy for York to reverse to the right and slide it in the back door.

"When Wyatt activates, you need to hang back," I told Clifford when he returned to the bench. "You've been playing long enough to know that."

"Yes, Coach." He hung his head, realizing the goal against was partially his fault.

"And you!" I yelled at Booker. "Don't fucking pinch when you don't have any support!"

Saint Booker merely rolled his eyes. He thought he knew everything and was impossible to coach. He had a hell of a slapshot and was one of the few enforcers left in the game who could lay a punishing hit. Those were the only reasons I tolerated him because, outside of that, he was a poor sport and not the most respectable guy off the ice either.

"Don't fucking roll your eyes at me, or you'll see yourself benched!" I wasn't fucking around anymore. We were in a three-goal hole with five minutes to play in the game and had lost the previous four straight.

That had Booker's head snapping up quickly, but before he could respond, I held up my hand. "I don't give a fuck how much you make. You play smart, or you don't play."

His murderous glare wouldn't work on me. I was done taking his shit.

The buzzer sounded on our fifth straight loss, and I stormed off the bench. I loved the game, but on days like today, I hated my job and the pressure bearing down on me to return this team to its former glory.

"Hey! Smith, get over here!" I called to the nearest ref after the buzzer had sounded on a goal for the Boston Barracudas.

"What can I do for you, Coach?" Veteran referee Tim Smith came to a hard stop before the bench.

"I want to challenge that goal for the play being offside."

"Sure thing." He nodded and skated to center ice, pressing the button on his microphone. Over the loudspeakers, his words echoed, "Indianapolis is challenging the call to determine if there was an offside prior to the goal."

The home crowd in Boston booed at the announcement as two refs went to the scorekeeper's box to don headphones with a direct line to the control room in Toronto as they viewed the play on tablets .

We also had tablets on the bench, and I watched the zone entry on repeat. The first man to cross the blue line had a good three inches of white between his skate blade and the blue line before the puck crossed the same barrier. This should be a no-brainer call that would have the Boston goal erased from the board.

Smith removed his headphones and returned to center ice, announcing to the arena, "After video review, it was determined that the play was onside . Therefore, we have a good goal."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I screamed as my players uttered a variety of curse words.

It was a popular joke around hockey rinks that refs were blind with missed or bad calls, but this one was clear as day. And it was a double hit because not only did the goal for Boston stand, but now we would be penalized for an unsuccessful challenge. The Barracudas would go on the power play, putting us at an additional disadvantage.

My blood was boiling as I sent out my top penalty-killing unit. Less than thirty seconds in, they gave up a goal. In the end, that bad call cost had us two.

Seven straight losses.

Tied up with the Chicago Crush on home ice, Asher was upended by the stick of Jesse Hunt of the Crush. There were only two minutes left in the third period, so going on the power play would take us to overtime if we didn't score. We needed points desperately after losing seven straight and sliding in the standings. Even the one point we would gain from an overtime loss would be welcome at this point.

Play wouldn't stop until Chicago took possession of the puck, so I screamed at Goose to rush to the bench so I could throw on an additional skater until the whistle blew. The chance of the Crush scoring on an empty net was zero because the play would stop as soon as they touched the puck. This gave us an extra-man advantage for even longer than the two-minute penalty that would be assessed, and it would carry over into overtime— where we would play four-on-three instead of the regular three-on-three—if we didn't score in regulation.

Wyatt took a hard slapshot from the point, but the puck hit the body of a Chicago defender, bouncing out of the zone. It slid all the way down behind our net, where Wyatt scooped it up as he hung back while I sent out my best forwards on a shift change. He was halfway out of the zone when he made a drop pass to an unsuspecting Eli. Caught completely off guard when the puck slid his way, Eli didn't get his stick in the proper position in time, and it continued past him and into the wide-open net that Goose had vacated only moments earlier.

It was like I was watching the disaster happen in slow motion. A total breakdown in communication that cost us the game.

While Chicago couldn't score on our net until the penalty was officially called, we sure as hell could.

An own goal felt like the dagger on an imploding season, and I hung my head in shame that I was the one orchestrating this hot mess.

The sports world would be laughing at the embarrassing show we'd put on tonight.

Eight straight losses.

My mind wouldn't shut off, no matter how hard I tried. Lying awake beside Bristol in bed, I kept recounting the game and what I could've done differently to change the outcome. The team's success might count on the talent put out on the ice, but I was the one guiding them, telling them how to play. Our recent failures rested squarely on my shoulders. And if I didn't get a handle on it soon, I could find myself out of a job.

I slid from beneath the covers, careful not to wake the sleeping woman curled against my side. Padding into the bathroom, I opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed a couple of sleeping pills left over from after my surgery. Even back then, I'd hated using them, but tonight, I was too desperate to make it all go away for a few hours.

While I waited for them to kick in, I slipped out of the bedroom and down the hall to my home office. Sinking into the leather desk chair, I turned on the monitors, their soft glow providing the only light in an otherwise dark room.

By morning, the film team would have compiled clips for me to review prior to practice, so all I had was the replay of our game on the sports streaming service I subscribed to.

Watching live from ice level, you were sure to miss things. I was busy coordinating shift changes, tracking puck placement, and the game moved so fast that sometimes, if you blinked, you missed things.

Reviewing the game from a bird's eye view through a camera lens was different. I saw the missed assignments more clearly, the selfish play stuck out like a sore thumb, and the number of times our guys couldn't clear the defensive zone was shockingly high. If we couldn't clear— getting the puck across the blue line into the neutral zone—the odds of being scored on increased significantly with each failed attempt. It built momentum for the other team, and given enough chances, they were bound to put the puck in the back of the net eventually. Every goal against tonight—minus the own goal—came down to that point.

That would have to be my focus during tomorrow's drills.

"What are you doing still awake?" Bristol's groggy voice floated from the doorway.

I pressed my fingers into my eye sockets, rubbing against the mounting pressure behind them. "Can't stop thinking about the game."

She sighed but didn't argue that I should let it go. She'd been around the game long enough to know that our emotions were on a rollercoaster and the ups and downs were closely tied to the performance on the ice.

Her bare feet were silent as she crossed the room to stand behind me. Thumbs dug into the tight muscles of my shoulders, and I groaned. When warm lips pressed against my neck, my cock twitched, but my eyelids were already growing heavy, the sleeping pills finally beginning to take effect.

"Not tonight," I murmured.

Her fingers shifted upward to tangle in my hair, working their magic on my scalp.

"You know, I was thinking about what Jack said."

"Jack?" I said the name slowly, trying to place it as my mind grew fuzzier.

"Yeah, your little buddy from Dream Day?"

"Oh yeah. What about him?"

Bristol hummed. "He made a good point about Logan Ford."

I couldn't recall the specifics of that conversation with sleep pulling at me. "And what was that?"

"That he's your best all-around defenseman. I went through some of the stats, and Jack was spot on. If you look at Ford when paired with Banks or Booker, he elevates their games. Both have better plus-minuses and more points when paired with Ford than with each other. That, and Ford has one of the best plus-minuses in the entire league. You have a tool like that, and it might be worth moving him around to find the best placement. Might just be the spark you need."

"Maybe."

I wasn't in the right mindset to debate my personnel choices on the ice. Banks and Booker had been paired together for years; they'd built a level of trust. Ford only stepped in to partner with one of them when the other was injured—or suspended, as was often the case with Booker.

"I'm tired, babe." I gripped the edge of my desk to help me stand as my limbs grew heavier with each passing minute.

"Tomorrow's a new day," she offered, looping an arm around my waist as I trudged toward the bedroom.

I could only pray it was a better one than today.