Page 91 of Bagging the Blueliner
Readjusting myself in my pants, I watched her walk back to the couch and pick up her notepad once more. Resigned, I walked over, falling onto the seat next to her.
Sighing, I asked, “What are we watching?”
Clicking out of the video file of the Pythons, she selected one labeled as Comets PP. “The power play.”
I played on the power play unit, so my chest puffed out in pride. “Ooh, this should be good.”
Settling into her seat, tucking her legs beneath her, she gave me a sideways glance. “Yeah, I wouldn’t get too excited. It’s a huge fucking problem.”
Here we go.
“What’s wrong with the power play?” I challenged.
“Glad you asked. I’m happy to show you.” She clicked play on the clip. Smug, she instructed, “I want you to count how many passes the top unit makes before they execute a successful shot on goal.”
Watching the film, I silently counted in my head.
One, two, three, four, five . . . Fuck.
Cringing, I answered, “Fourteen.”
“And how much time has ticked off the clock?” Hannah’s condescending tone grated on my nerves.
She knew she had me. Damn her. “Forty-five seconds.”
“That’s right. The five of you are on that unit because you’re the best we’ve got. You give us the best chance to score when we have a man advantage. That chance is non-existent when you’re playing a very expensive game of keep away.”
Desperately trying to keep my pride intact, I countered, “Well, it’s not like we always have a clear shot.”
Hannah rolled her eyes. “Can’t score if you don’t shoot. Bottom line.” Standing, moving closer to the TV, she hit rewind on the same forty-five seconds before hitting play again. “Look. You’re running the power play as the sole man at the blue line. I get that you’ve been conditioned to create time and space, but there’s already more of that with one less man for the opposition on the ice. Instead of going with touch passes to Jaxon or Benji, who are down low by the goalie, you should be using them. They’re screening the goalie, taking away his line of sight. You’ve got power on your slap shot. Shoot the damn puck hard as hell. Trust your teammates to cash in on the rebound or even deflectyour shot into the net. It’s a far better option than what you guys are doing now. Less passing, more shooting. Keep. It. Simple.”
She was right. Closing in on the playoffs, our power play opportunities would become more crucial than ever. We needed to make each one count.
This woman never ceased to amaze me.
For years, I assumed she was only parroting her father’s words—his view of the game. Maybe I’d been purposely blind to the signs that Hannah was one of a kind, making it easier to keep her at arm’s length.
Any hockey player would be damn lucky to have her as their partner. Too bad for them—she was all mine.
Shaking my head in wonder, I mused, “It’s a shame you never played.”
Patting my cheek, Hannah smirked. “Who said I never played?”
My eyes widened in shock. “You did?”
“Come on. You’ve thrown being a daddy’s girl in my face more times than I can count. I idolized him. So, of course, I would want to do what he did.”
“How did I not know this?”
She shrugged. “It’s not a part of me that made it to Hartford.”
A corner of my lips twitched. “I bet you were out there making the other girls cry.”
“Oh, honey. You know I can’t stand most girls. I played with the boys. I was busy makingthemcry.”
“Let me guess. You were one of those girls who played rough and got away with murder on the ice.”
Motioning to herself with both thumbs, she smiled proudly. “That was me.”
