Page 1 of The Coach

one

TANNER

The moment I walk into the bar, I see her.

A woman with long, shiny, brown hair sits at the bar, a ball cap on her head. Her feet are perched on the bottom rung of her stool, her elbows placed delicately on the bar’s top, long, bare fingers wrapped around her beer bottle.

There’s an empty stool next to her, and before I realize what I’m doing, I allow my feet to carry me to her.

The Old Mill is just how the name describes it—old. The familiar scents of fried foods, the sticky flooring covered in decades-old beer, and the sound of friends coming together for a night out for dinner bring me right back home.

I never intended to leave Colorado for so long. I had plans in college to join the NHL and play hockey for as long as I could before coming back here to make a life for myself. Have a home, a wife, a family.

But an injury I couldn’t avoid had me out of the NHL sooner than I’d wanted, and a coaching job had been the next viable answer. So, I’d spent a few years in Minnesota working.

I had learned more in the few years working with the coaches of the Blue Jays than I had in any class I’d taken in college. I was able to go work alongside a professional hockey team, quickly proving myself to the coach and getting a glowing recommendation when I was ready to move on.

Which brought me back home.

After several years away, I was now the head coach of the Northridge University hockey team.

The Vapors.

It was my home team, the one I’d played with throughout college. I knew the roster for the last fifteen years. I knew the stats, knew their chances. I also knew that they had had a chance at the finals last year.

Only problem was they didn’t have me. I know what players are good, which need more work, and which ones shouldn’t be on the front line.

I make it to the woman’s side, leaning in an inch or two so she can hear me over the cheers and chatter in the room. “Is this seat taken?”

She doesn’t look away from the TV above the bar when she says, “Knock yourself out.”

I take a seat on the rickety barstool. Its hardened wood creaks under my weight, and I wait a moment before settling, hoping that it won’t drop me to the ground in a heap.

When I feel relatively safe, I raise a hand for the bartender, and he makes his way over, taking my order before wandering off again.

I lean my forearms onto the bar top and sigh, my eyes unintentionally moving to the woman beside me before I snap my gaze to the TV above the bar, hoping to let it distract me.

It was the beginning of our season. I had only met the players on my team a few times during team meetings and practices, but it was enough for me to already start forming that bond between players and coach.

I’ve learned over the years that I can’t be friends with my players, and that’s okay. But there was a small part of me that wished I could go back.

Playing hockey at a university was like being a celebrity. The puck bunnies came out in swarms, the guys all worshipped you, your teammates became your best friends—some became your brothers.

I purse my lips and tap a finger on the bar, my attention snagging on the TV mounted on the wall. There was a Blue Jays versus Norks game on, and the Norks were having a hell of a start.

The goalie for the Blue Jays misses a save, and some people in the bar groan. A guy several bar stools down slaps the bar. “Come the fuck on, man!”

The woman next to me sighs, “You knew he wasn’t going to save that, Tom.”

He rolls his eyes at her and takes a swig of his beer. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Jameson has it this season. He’s been being groomed for this very game.”

The man—Tom—wasn’t wrong. Jack Jameson was being groomed to start this season. But sometimes even the most experienced goalies miss a puck.

“They should have put more emphasis on their defensemen,” the woman retorts, catching all of my attention. I haven’t even seen the entirety of the woman’s face, just the soft jawline, the pert nose, and olive-toned skin.

Still, I have never been more instantly attracted to a woman in my life.

My beer gets delivered as she continues, “If they had spent more time teaching Lander and Bear what defense meant, the Blue Jays wouldn’t be in this mess.”

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