Page 36 of Sexting the Coach
“Great,” I breathe, nodding and turning before I can see his expression after the kiss. “I’m counting on it.”
Chapter 14
Weston
The Sharks win the face-off, but we rally quick, our defense coming out hard and not letting the Sharks even get one chance on the net before taking it back down the other side.
We come out aggressive, playing hard, just like we planned during practice.
After last night, I told myself I was going to avoid Elsie completely. Then, of course, she showed up at the game, and I felt her presence just a few rows up from me. I also couldn’t ignore Hanley staring at her from the ice, something about his stupid, smug face making me want to take him out right there.
I’d played against guys like that before. Boys who grew up being told they were special so much and so often that they believed it, lived it, walked around like they were God’s gift to the earth.
But Hanley isn’t a well of talent. Not like he thinks he is. Hanley is one of the milk-fed, dimpled boys who makes it into the NHL because their daddies make sure to get them into camp after camp when they’re babies. The guys that network their way into contracts, sweet talk and show off in college.
It’s nothing to do with talent, and everything to do with money and opportunity. Maybe even some hard work, but not quite enough. Hanley lacks thepassionthat makes you into a monster on the ice.
The problem with being well-fed is that you’re never really hungry. A content guy can make a good hockey player. But to be great, to be legendary, you have to be ravenous. A black hole. That inversion of energy, like a power vacuum, turning you to a heat-seeking machine on the ice.
Hanley wasn’t difficult to figure out. Whatwasdifficult to figure out was what the hell Montgomery had ever seen in an asshole like that.
When I caught her by the arm, and our eyes met, I knew we were both thinking about the same thing. What happened in the elevator last night. The smell of her heavy around me, my fingers inside her, her body moving against mine, my head buzzing with the pleasure of making her feel good.
And I’d give anything to do it again. To have another moment frozen in time, the dark like a shield from the fact that I really, really shouldn’t have been touching her like that.
“Take out O’Connell,” Fincher says, appearing in my ear so suddenly that I jump. “He’s dogging.”
“It’s been forty seconds,” I growl, even though what I really want to say isget the fuck out of my ear. I spy two journalists up behind our bench, close enough to hear what’s going on, and I’m not eager for them to catch onto the tension between coaches.
Even though a couple of outlets have already touched on the potential—the fact that the Squids picked me setting up the perfect situation for Fincher to be bitter. Too bad he’s actually following through with it.
I think about the email I received this morning—an invitation to the NHL Hall of Fame induction. The ceremony istypically held in November, but will be held later this year, due to scheduling conflicts.
They nominated me for a spot last year, and somehow, I’m in. I’ll be inducted with some of the other greats of the game. There’s no way Fincher knows about it, because if he did, he’d be spitting mad. The guy has at least ten years on me, and no nomination. I imagine he’ll never get one—his hockey career was average at best.
The refs call a penalty and send one of the Sharks to the box, but it’s not Hanley. I make adjustments, calling out to the guys, and try to force myself to focus, to stop thinking about Fincher. But instead, my mind wanders back to last night.
After the elevator doors shut, and I’d cursed under my breath, finding the restroom in the lobby to wash my hands. Climbing into my car.
As though the night hadn’t already gone awry, when I pulled up to my house, I found the familiar presence of paparazzi around the place. I thought that the divorce would keep the press from caring about me.
For the most part, after the divorce, they did.
And yet, when I got home, I had to honk at the few photographers sitting around my gate, glaring at them as I went inside.
Now, I shake my head to clear it, pace away from Fincher, not wanting him messing with my focus, my coaching.
I focus my attention on the ice, watching as Atkinson transfers, and Newton emerges from a little knot with the puck, heading for the Sharks’ net down center ice. Sure, O’Connell is hanging back just a bit, but he’s being aggressive with his body, playing hard against the wall.
The refs call a penalty, and we go into a face-off. I pace down to the other side of the bench, then turn, “Send in the next line.”
In an instant, the guys are listening, jumping over the wall, vaulting out onto the ice, and switching out with them. Fincher stares at me—he clearly wanted me to take out just O’Connell, instead of switching out the line, but I want to keep the guys together.
We train with these lines. It’s a fucking no-brainer to keep them together on the ice.
Our new line fans out, and Daugherty sets up for the face-off. A moment later, the puck is flying toward Cortez, who takes it and flies down the ice, right down the middle, dodging a couple of d-men.
He’s taking it all the way—I can see it now, before he even gets close to the goal.
