Chapter 6

SIX

Annie

A knock at the door of the video room has my head popping up from where I'm staring at a computer monitor. Two women about my age are standing in the open doorframe—one taller, her long brown hair rich with red highlights, her eyes a dark blue, the other with wildly wavy long brown hair and stunning light greenish-blue eyes. They're both smiling at me.

I tilt my head. "Hi."

"You're Annie Bang, right?"

"Yes, I am." I push back from my desk and smile.

"I'm Sara Heller." The one with messy golden brown hair steps forward, hand outstretched. I rise and shake it. "Josh Heller's wife."

"Ah. Of course. Nice to meet you."

"And I'm Lilly Miller, Easton's wife."

"Good to meet you, too."

"We wanted to pop by and meet you," Sara says. "You've got these guys all befuzzled."

"Befuzzled?" My eyebrows shoot up.

Sara laughs. "Yeah. Sorry. Josh always makes up new words out of two. Now I'm doing it."

"I get the meaning."

"We think it's so funny that a woman coach has caused so much mayhem for these guys." Lilly chortles. "It's hilarious. They're so confused."

"Um…okay." I bite my lip, both amused and uncertain.

"We had to meet the girl boss who's kicking their butts." Sara grins. "You're not what I expected."

"No?" I grin.

"I knew you were a figure skater, but somehow I expected someone big and tough, the way Josh talks about you."

"I am tough."

"I bet you are." Sara laughs. "Sorry, you know what I mean."

"No worries, I do."

"You're just a little thing," Lilly says. "That makes it even better."

They seem highly amused by this.

"Can we take you for coffee?" Lilly asks. "Josh and Easton are working out and we're hanging around."

Today is a day off. No game, no practice. I do have a meeting with team management later, but I came in early and used the gym to do a workout; staying in shape is important to me since I no longer skate hours a day. Now I'm watching video from last night's game. Our video coach, Cal Crider set me up here in the video room before heading out. During games he's in here watching the game on multiple screens along with assistant video coach Clay Forbes, who's in communication with assistant coach Meknikov on the bench through an earpiece. Cal is a master of the software used to edit video and has been a huge help to me.

"Sure. I could use a break." We go into the deserted players' lounge and get coffees.

"So what were you doing in there?" Lilly asks. "Tell us everything about your job. I'm so curious!"

"I was watching video from last night's game." I tell them what I'm looking for and the kinds of things I work on with the players. They have questions about my background and figure skating. And I learn more about them. Lilly runs a dog walking business that she absolutely loves after working in the hospitality industry, and it turns out I know Sara's podcast. She still uses her maiden name for her podcast and influencer work so I never made the connection.

"I'm having coffee with a celebrity," I say to her.

She laughs. "I think you have experience with celebrities, with your family. Your brothers all play hockey, right?"

"And my dad used to."

Then we get into discussion about our families. They're super easy to talk to, engaging and bright, and it's fun having girl talk with women my age.

I glance at the clock on the wall and see I need to get going. "I better go." I stand and pick up all three mugs and carry them over to the counter. "I have a meeting with the big bosses at the Apex Center."

"Oooh." Sara grins. "Is one of them my father-in-law?'

"As a matter of fact, yes." I make a face. "Wish me luck."

"I think you're doing great," she assures me. "And Tag is awesome."

"This was fun," Lilly says. "We should hang out again sometime."

"That would be great."

Josh and Easton show up then, finished with their workouts, so I head back to my office.

I'm ready for my meeting.

I've trained with everyone on the team a few times. I've gone over all my notes and video that Clay, the video assistant, did with me on the ice. I've narrowed down my list of players who need more intensive coaching.

Some of the guys are tentatively accepting of it. Others are neutral. A couple of guys are still resistant. One of them is Logan.

But his resistance is more subtle than it was at first. He's not making smartass remarks to his teammates or laughing at what I want them to do. He does what I ask him, but I still sense he doesn't want to be here. Well, I don't want anything to do with him either, but I'm swallowing my antipathy to do my job. I guess he's basically doing the same. But it's still uncomfortable.

I'm nervous that the guys who aren't particularly amenable to this whole idea may have made their feelings known to management, which could reflect badly on me.

I make my way to Coach Shipton's office. As I enter the room, I'm almost knocked backward by a wall of testosterone. I'm greeted by a whole bunch of former athletes—all men. I'm used to this, though. And I've practiced my assertive communication skills in my head in case of more manterrupting or mansplaining.

Of the Hellers, Jase is here, but not Tag. Then there's Brad, Gary, Viktor, and assistant GM Dale Townsend. I greet them all and take a seat at the table, surreptitiously wiping my palms on my black trousers.

"Thanks for meeting with us today," Brad begins. "We know it's early in the season but we wanted to check in with you and see how things are going."

"I'm happy to update you." I open my folder. Then, looking at each one of them in turn, I go through my notes on the players and my goals for each of them. "There's not much I can teach Jay Bobak. He apparently took figure skating lessons as a kid and he's got a really great foundation of skills."

"He's a great skater," Gary agrees.

"Are the guys cooperating?" Brad asks. "I've heard rumblings that some of them aren't impressed about having to ‘learn to skate.'"

"They're all cooperating. Yes, some of them are still skeptical. But I've encountered this before, and once we make some progress and they see the benefits to their game, they'll be on board."

"I've seen the change in attitude already," Gary notes. "With some of them anyway. I give you a lot of credit for knowing how to deal with the resistance. I've watched you out there and you're confident and knowledgeable. You also know how to make it fun."

"Thanks."

"We've seen the players impressed with your own skating abilities," Viktor notes. "That goes a long way to help convince them you know what you're doing."

I nod.

"We're really pleased so far," Brad adds.

Whew. I try not to show my relief. And pride. "Thank you. I'm glad. I'm enjoying it. It's very rewarding when I see the results."

"I'm glad we listened to you on Jack Wasylyk," Jase says to me. "So far he's really fitting in."

Warmth spreads through my chest. "Good."

We talk a bit more about the forward lines and defense pairings and discuss a couple of players who've been healthy scratches lately only because there haven't been injuries or other issues taking players out. "I think Adam would benefit with playing with the Corsairs." The team's AHL affiliate.

"They all would," Gary says. "Rather than riding the pine."

Okay. My comment was superfluous. My cheeks heat.

"Good reminder, though," Brad says. "When we're making roster decisions for both teams. We have to think long term as well as what's needed right now."

Okay, he got it.

We chat a bit more and then the meeting ends and I return to the video room.

Okay. That went well. Whew.

After an hour, I take a break, stand and stretch. I step out of my office to go grab a drink from the machine in the players' lounge. It's quiet here, with only a few other people around; the equipment manager is doing laundry and checking equipment; one of the trainers is working with Kevin Beaven, who strained something last night. I hear skates on the ice. Curious, I change direction and walk down the tunnel.

Not all the lights are on, which gives the ice a different feel—calmer, more laid back. There's one person on the ice, wearing hockey gear, but he's not shooting the puck or doing drills—he's skating.

Logan.

I hang back, watching him. He's clearly working on his edges, like we did the other day, but he hasn't quite got the moves down. My chest fills with a softness and I bite my lip. Should I leave?

Then he spots me. He stops.

My feet move me forward to the boards. "Hey."

"Hey." He doesn't move and even across the ice I can see his displeasure.

I've tried to ignore his rancor during our lessons, chalking it up to pride. He doesn't think he needs to improve his skating. It's not personal.

But I have to admit, sometimes it feels personal. Right now, it feels personal. And I don't know why that bugs me, because the feeling is mutual.

He glides toward me. "Look, Coach, I'm doing my homework."

"I see that. Gold star."

"What are you doing here?"

"Watching video."

His chin gives a slight dip. "You do that a lot."

"It helps me do my job."

Another small nod. "I guess." He pins me with a look. "Watching video of me?"

"Of course." I smile, but it's stiff. "Of everyone. What are you working on?" I ask the question even though I know.

"Edges."

"Want some help?" I tense as I await his response, sure he's going to say no.

After a couple of beats, he says, "Sure."

Surprise floods my veins with heat. I look down at my feet. "Let me go put on my skates."

With a nod he glides backward away from me.

I hurry to my office and grab my skates and a hoodie, then return to the ice. Sitting on the bench, I switch my trainers out for blades. Then I pull the big sweatshirt over my head and step onto the ice.

I skate over to Logan. "Start with a two-foot slalom." I do it to show him.

He follows me.

"Down on the curve…up on the straight to change edges." I nod. "Okay, now one foot slalom."

This is harder.

"Press into the ice with your knee and ankle to keep your momentum up. Bend…rise up…bend…rise up…hold on, you're swinging your free leg too much. And…" I move closer to him and put my hands on his shoulders. "Left shoulder back, right shoulder back…"

He's so big. And sweaty. For some reason, that amuses me.

"That's better. Okay, now keep your free leg back. You can't use it, you have to really work hard with this leg." Again, I show him, and we skate side by side.

"This is harder."

"Yeah, for sure." We go around the ice once, then I make him change legs.

He groans. "I hate doing it on my left leg."

I grin. "I know. Me too. We all have a dominant leg. But you have to be strong on both."

"Ugh."

"This'll get you used to really sinking down and lowering your center of gravity to the ice."

And he goes lower still.

"Rotate your shoulders and hips. Yeah…sink down in the knees. Really feel the edge, leaning into the side…"

He leans in, his blade carving into the ice.

"Hockey players often have trouble with outside edges," I say. "Inside edges are more natural for most skaters. Bring that leg all the way around and twist the outside edge every time you change feet." I demonstrate again.

We keep doing it, over and over, and even as I watch it gets easier for him. More natural.

"I know you're skeptical, but it will help," I say as we come to a stop. My heart's pumping faster from the exertion and I feel a little sweaty, too. "The deeper your edge, the sharper your turns and curves are."

He meets my eyes and I'm struck by the clearness of his eyes and the lean angles of his face that are so attractive. He's even bigger and more imposing in his gear.

"Try it," I say. "I'll play defense."

His lips twitch. "You need a stick."

"I'll go grab one."

With a borrowed stick in my hands, the shortest one I could find but still too long, I face him. He's playing with a puck on his blade and looks up and grins at me.

Oh hell. That grin is devastating.

"Don't laugh at me," I say easily. "I can play a little defense."

"Uh huh. I'd crush you in a game, Mini Bang."

"You'd have to catch me first. Come on."

He picks up the puck on his blade and skates away from me, circles, then starts back toward me, picking up speed. As he gets closer, he curls right. I move right. He goes left, curves behind me and shoots the puck in the net. He thrusts a fist in the air.

"There. Those were some sick edges. You're ready for some other drills."

His eyebrows shoot up, but he follows my lead again and I get him doing some even tougher moves, jumping from foot to foot, doing tight turns with one hand on the ice, and more.

Finally we both stop. He shakes off a glove and swipes a hand over his forehead. "You're trying to kill me, aren't you."

I tug at the neckline of my hoodie. "Nah. I may not like you much, but I don't want you dead."

He goes still, his eyes on my face. "So you admit it."

I work to keep my face expressionless. Shit . "Don't worry, I don't let it affect my work."

His eyes tighten at the corners. "It's because of what happened with Jensen, isn't it?'

I tilt my head. "What do you think?"

"You didn't hate me before that happened."

We look at each other, the air around us going electric. We're both thinking of Pyeongchang.

No. I didn't hate him then.

Propping his hands on the butt end of his stick, he lifts his chin. His mouth is beautiful, distracting me from this awkward conversation. "Will you let me buy you a coffee?"

I almost flinch at the unexpected words. "What?"

"Coffee. Let's go have a coffee."

"I…don't…"

"I want to apologize."

My eyes fly open wide. "Uh…"

He gives me another look, eyebrows raised, lips pursed, waiting. I'm picking up what he's putting down—I'd be a bitch to turn down an apology.

"Okay," I finally say, a little grudgingly. "We can grab a coffee here…"

He shakes his head. "Too many people around."

"There's no one here."

"Yeah, there is. This is between you and me."

It's my turn to push my lips out. "Okay."

"There's a little place across the street, on the corner. Betty's. I'll meet you there. I need a shower." He wrinkles his nose.

"Okay."

I could probably use a shower, too, my unexpected activity testing the performance of my Lady Speed Stick. Not as much as him, though—wow, he's drenched.

He heads to the locker room, and I return to my office, where I ditch the sweaty hoodie and spritz my favorite Ambré Vanilla from the small bottle in my purse onto my throat, brush my hair and redo the ponytail, and slap on some lip gloss.

I step outside the facility into sunshine and pleasant mid-October temperatures. The leaves of the trees in the landscaped area out front are starting to turn and even though the temperature is mild, the air holds crisp hints of autumn. I stroll across the visitor parking area. Being Sunday afternoon, there aren't many cars here.

This area is quiet, on the outside edge of town in a mostly industrial area, and it's not busy at Betty's. I request a table for two and the hostess shows me to a booth at the window from where I can see Logan approaching.

Wearing soft, worn jeans and a blue plaid shirt, his long-legged gait is recognizable, his body rangy and tightly muscled, with easy movements. His usual ball cap is on backwards and sunglasses hide his eyes.

God, he's beautiful.

I sigh. I may dislike him but I have to admit that objective fact.

He enters the diner and slides off the sunnies with a cheeky grin at the hostess, gesturing at me, then strides to the booth. He coasts into the seat, tosses his sunglasses down onto the table, and says, "Hi."

"Hi."

A waitress appears immediately. "Can I get you something to drink?"

He looks at me.

"Coffee please. With cream."

"Same," Logan adds.

With a lingering look at Logan's face, she turns away.

I'm only here because I want to hear the apology. "So…"

The corners of his mouth quirk up. "So."

My mouth twists against a smile.

He picks up a spoon and turns it in his fingers. "So. I said I want to apologize."

"Oh, right!"

His side eye look nearly makes me laugh.

"About your attitude, I assume."

After a beat, he says, "If you think my attitude stinks, you should smell my hockey bag."

An unexpected laugh bursts from my lips. "Oh, I've smelled enough hockey bags, believe me. There's nothing worse."

"I'm sorry I haven't had the best attitude about working with you."

I nod.

"I admit I'm skeptical about you making me a better skater."

"Still?" I ask quietly.

"Well." He turns the spoon again. "You do seem to know how to skate."

"Gee, thanks."

"It's just different. Figure skating."

I'm annoyed. "Our very first session, I told you to forget that. It's just skating ."

He opens his mouth. I can see he forgot that. I feel my blood pressure rising. "You must have a little bit of faith. You were practicing."

The waitress arrives with our coffee, setting the cups in front of us along with a small pitcher of cream. "Anything else I can get you?"

We haven't even glanced at the menus, but Logan looks at me and says, "I'm starving. I'm gonna get a pastrami on rye."

The waitress nods.

I'm flustered. But also hungry. I grab a menu and peer at it. "A tuna melt, please."

"You bet!" She takes the menus and disappears again.

I pour cream into my coffee, taking a breath. "Look. Neither of us is happy about this. You don't think you need to learn anything. I don't want to have anything to do with you. But I need to do my job or get fired. And I want this job."

He meets my eyes. "That."

I frown. "What?"

"You don't want anything to do with me. I know you hate me because I hurt your brother."

"You put him in the hospital. He had surgery. He was out for months."

I'm not prepared for the way his face tightens and his eyes shadow. He gives a stiff nod. "Yeah. I did. But I've said numerous times that I'm sorry that happened. It wasn't my intention to hurt him."

"You're known as an aggressive player."

His mouth tightens and he drops his gaze to the utensil in his hands again. "Yeah. But I've never intentionally hurt someone. I swear." He lifts his eyes and the misery there takes me aback. "After it happened, I said over and over again that I didn't even intend to hit him. I was trying to stop and it was more like I fell on him. It was an accident, but I take responsibility for it. I served my suspension. I took the shit from fans online for months about it. I deserved it."

"Yeah, fans can be brutal."

"It's great to be passionate about your team, but I think sometimes they forget we're all real people." He makes a face. "I got called so many names, threatened, you name it."

My stomach contracts. Oh shit. Do I actually feel sympathy for him? Forget that!

"Anyway, I apologize for that, too. I get that you'd be angry that your brother got hurt. But…" He pauses as if searching for words. "I'm not a monster."

I keep my face neutral. I feel like crying. This is fucked up. I pick up my coffee and sip it, trying to ease the tightness in my throat. Am I being a sucker, charmed by a charming charmer? Or is this for real? I don't know. I don't know him well enough. He seems sincere. "I'm sorry I acted like you were."

He nods, too. Our eyes meet. There's a shift. A connection. A sense of recognition.

Then he says, "I haven't been playing the way I want to."

Oh. I blink and wait for him to say more.

"I want to be better," he continues in a low voice. "A better player. And you're right. We need to work together on this."

My chest tightens. I want to keep hating him, but can I at least accept his apology to smooth out our working relationship? Not to make him feel better. To help me with my job.