Page 46 of Power Move
I drop my hand, helplessness running through me once again. “Telling him that isn’t going to change his mind about trying to play.”
“Maybe not. But I think he needs to hear it anyway.”
Walking to the conference room with Maxim, I scan our teammates for Sage. The guys fan around the three rows of seats, drinking coffees and water, chatting about last night. Coach has the video queued up and ready to go.
Using his coffee cup, Maxim points to two seats beside Quinn. We head there, and I spy Sage, tucked along the far wall between Morgan and Remy. He has the fidget toy in his good hand and an ice pack resting on the other.
Coach dims the lights, so I have to sit. My coffee and the breakfast sandwich Maxim made me eat aren’t sitting well in my stomach.
We start with neutral zone attacks, look at situations where we lost control of the puck and should’ve kept it, then turn to our power play.
Coach pauses the video. “Obviously, what Cullen did to Rhys was way out of line. I liked the focus and determination the units maintained during the power play, in light of the emotional situation.”
Some of our teammates pat Maxim on the shoulder for getting his goal during that five minutes.
“But that being said.” Coach holds up his hand. “You know I played. So I understand what it’s like to watch someone go after one of your teammates for the sole purpose of taking them out of the game. I’m not one of those guys who says there’s no place for fighting in this sport. There is. You had to send a message that Chad’s dirty hit wasn’t okay. Sage delivered that for us. Sage, I’m sorry you got injured, but that was a hell of a fight.”
My teammates break into cheers of agreement, then chatter about how they all wanted a piece of Chad. I’m touched they’d all go to war for me. But I’m more worried about Sage’s hand than I am about further revenge on Chad should he still be playing for San Jose when we face them somewhere down the line. Though, if I get the chance to knock Chad into the boards, I’m taking it. For what he did to me, but more for the bruises he put on my man.
The room quiets down and Coach goes back to video, now of Los Angeles and what we might face in tomorrow’s game.
Video review wraps up. Some of the guys head out for yoga. I hang back, hoping to talk to Sage, but he’s in the ear of an assistant coach, and I bet he’s making his case for attempting to play.
Maxim pushes me toward the door. “Yoga now. You can apologize later.”
I join my teammates for the stretching, my range of motion limited by the pain in my upper body. After that, we board the bus to go to the arena for on-ice work. I save a spot next to me for Sage.
He climbs aboard at the last moment, with the assistant coach behind him, and they sit at the front, deep in discussion. He still has an ice pack on that hand. I know the team will use him if they can. He’s too good, and we do need him.
At the arena, we’re all together, there’s no privacy. The two of us not interacting is odd. Teammates give us sideways glances, and I wonder if more than Maxim heard us last night.
Sage is beside our backup goalie, wrapping a wad of tape around his stick. From the size, there has to be more than one roll on it. Dark shadows ring his eyes. The vulnerability in his gaze is like a sucker punch to my solar plexus. The steel underneath, stubborn determination, makes me proud. But I’m still so worried for him. I think playing is a mistake. There’s too much risk.
Though, if I were in his place, I know I’d do the same thing.
I slip in beside him, and wrap tape around my stick a few times. “We need to talk. Later.”
He nods, then turns away and adds even more tape.
Fuck. I want to pull him into my arms. I hate this tension.
We suit up in the locker room. He’s with Remy and Morgan and they help him dress. That should be me. Across the room, Pierre’s doing the same for a teammate with a cracked rib.
On the ice, we walk through some drills and how Los Angeles likes to play, and work on things that will help when we’re facing them tomorrow night. It’s an easy, light practice. Twenty minutes, and we’re done.
Coach dismisses us, and then, as my teammates and I move toward the bench, he waves for Sage to join him and the other coaches near the blue line.
He skates toward them. “Still hurts, but I can grip the stick while letting my index finger rest on it more than anything else. I think this will work.”
I stay at the bench, holding the door open for my teammates as they continue off the ice and into the hallway.
Lined up in front of the first of several pucks, Sage gets into position with his stick. “Ready.”
Coach nods. “Let’s give it a try.” Then he looks up, sees me, and says something to Coach Lindstrom, then the assistant coach skates toward me.
“Rhys,” Coach Lindstrom steps off the ice. “I need a word. Let’s talk in the hallway.”
I can’t ignore that order. Silently wishing Sage good luck, I follow the coach.
