She flicked a hand through her short, blond hair—a habit all her life, even though her hair had enough body to perpetually hold its shape. She stared at a spot on the wall behind the reporters as Hockey Canada’s president, Dan Smolenski, praised her and the team. When her turn to speak came, she kept it short. She wasn’t the expansive type anyway, but what was there to say? She didn’t know the team, hadn’t yet met with the players, although she’d begun to do her homework on each of them. She didn’t know what to expect come February, what their chances were of earning gold. It was all brand new to her, and besides, everybody knew she’d been parachuted in after the sudden and unexpected firing of Coach Rogers. What she would do, she told the reporters, was nothing short of her best for the team and for the country.
Silence, followed by audible grumbling, told her what the reporters thought of her vague platitudes. It took only seconds before they turned their single-minded attention to Smolenksi. Why had the previous coach been fired? Why make a change five months before the Games? How would it impact the players, their strategies, their preparation?
Niki caught a smile of encouragement from Lynn, who sat at the other end of the long table. An array of microphones sat before them. The lights from the cameras were hot and blinding and relentless. You wanted this, she reminded herself. You knew what it would be like. But it wasn’t enough to make her feel better, and again she wondered what the hell she was doing.
She thought about Rory, and her heart cracked. The little girl had been so brave in urging her to take the job, so mature beyond her (barely) ten years. She wasn’t old enough to know Niki as anything other than a mom, as a teacher to big kids at the university and as a recreational hockey player who was so much better on the ice than the other women she played with one night a week at the neighborhood arena. But she wanted Niki to be famous, to go to the Olympics, to win a medal, to teach those girl hockey players how to be awesome! Rory wouldn’t take no for an answer, and to see her daughter’s eyes shine with brand-new admiration and pride for her gave Niki the sudden desire to do whatever she could to please her. She never wanted to see those big brown eyes full of tears again, never wanted to see them so laden with that wrenchingly awful sadness that, for a long time, had paralyzed them both. And so she did what Rory asked.
The family conspiracy didn’t stop with Rory. Jenny—Shannon’s sister—had urged her to take the job as well, confiding in her how Shannon felt guilty that her illness had stolen her away from coaching. She never wanted you to leave hockey, Jenny told her. The clincher was when she said she and Tim would be happy to take Rory into their home as one of their own for the next six months.
Days of soul-searching followed, of carefully talking to Rory to make absolutely certain the kid knew what it would all mean and of asking herself if she could handle being away from Rory for weeks, months, at a time. They’d see each other over Christmas, and Rory would spend the Olympic Games in Vancouver with her, but that might be all. She might not even make it back for Halloween, which coincided with what would have been Shannon’s fortieth birthday.
A reporter’s question, asked with calumnious impatience, propelled Niki back to the present. Why was she chosen as head coach? Hockey Canada’s president smiled like he had all day and answered that Niki had been the team’s assistant coach at the last Olympics, a proven coach at the university level and an elite player herself, probably even a future Hockey Hall of Famer. But why, the reporter continued, choose someone who’d been away from the game for more than three years and had never been a head coach internationally? Surely, he suggested in a tone bursting with judgment, there were other more qualified candidates.
Smolenksi again recited Niki’s qualifications, effusively stating his confidence in her, and Niki had to force herself to sit stone-like, to school her expression into one of bored disinterest. But inside, her thoughts warred with each other—outrage that they could dissect her like she wasn’t even there and ultimately resignation that such an inquisition was deserved, coming with the territory as it did. It was natural that her appointment would be criticized and questioned by the media. She’d been away from the game for a long time, especially at this level, and a ton of work lay ahead of her. Of course people were going to be skeptical about her abilities, as they would be about almost anyone plugged into this role so late in the game. But like she’d always told her players, believe in yourself first and forget what anybody else says. The locker room chalkboard was a jungle of smeary inspirational quotations. Things like “Negativity breeds failure,” “Hard work beats talent every time,” “If you fail to prepare, you’re prepared to fail” and “Sports do not build character, they reveal it.” As a coach, Niki had to walk the talk, and so she raised her chin and hardened her stare.
When she was asked what would be her first priority as coach, she elected for something vague enough to still be the truth. “To start preparing my team to win the gold medal in Vancouver.”
“Want to tell us how?”
“No.”
“Will you win the gold medal, Coach?” another reporter asked.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think so. I have every intention of winning gold on our home turf. Nothing less will do.”
“Jesus,” she said to Lynn minutes later as they took refuge in Niki’s office. It was a cinder block room with red wall-to-wall carpet, as big as the locker room, at the Olympic Oval arena at the University of Calgary’s campus. The conference table was a large, round monstrosity that sat ten. There was a flat-screen TV on the wall nearest the table, a wooden desk in the corner with two chairs facing it. Behind the desk were a couple of wooden puck racks mounted on the wall, where pucks autographed by the world’s best women hockey players perched. Niki had only moved in a day ago and had not yet unpacked her framed picture of Rory and another of herself, Rory and Shannon posing in front of Niagara Falls the year before Shannon died.
“You haven’t had to do a presser in a while, eh?” Lynn said, taking a seat at the conference table.
With the back of her hand, Niki wiped away the slick film of sweat from her forehead. “Remind me next time to only invite the nice reporters.”
“Ha, nobody would show up if that was the case.”
Niki hadn’t had to deal with too many sports reporters over the years. At least not the cantankerous know-it-alls that had, moments ago, put her through the meat grinder. As a player, the reporters had mostly gone easy on her, acting more like fans than interrogators. Coaching at the university, she’d mostly dealt with student reporters and the occasional reporter from the local paper. In Turin, she’d been the national team’s assistant coach and, as such, wasn’t required to be a talking head.
“Well, it is our national religion after all. And the first time we’ve hosted the Winter Games since 1988. And the first chance to win women’s gold in hockey on home soil.” It was a big deal and they both knew it. Niki sat down opposite Lynn and watched as her assistant coach slid a binder as thick as a Bible in front of them. “Guess I can’t blame them for being a little intense.”
Lynn’s eyes were twin laser beams. “If they’re that intense now, wait until the Games actually begin. You sure you’re up to all this pressure? It’s a lot more than the usual, and the media—hell, the country—won’t settle for less than perfection.”
It was true. There was everything to lose, with expectations that were enormous and unforgiving. She knew, with a profundity that came from having lost her wife, that she never again wanted to revisit the desolation that came from wanting something so bad, of trying so hard to change what was predestined and, ultimately, not achieving it. “I’m not doing this to win silver. And neither is anyone connected with this team. That,” Niki said in a voice as chilled as the snow-capped mountains in the distance, “is all that matters.”
Lynn nodded, her eyes trying to calculate something unstated. “Then let’s get to work, shall we?” She flipped open the binder. It was the complete roster of Team US
A, players and staff. It contained everything Lynn and Hockey Canada knew about their number one adversary. It was the book on Team USA, as prepared by Hockey Canada’s staff of scouts, analysts and managers.
“Biggest weakness?” Niki shot a glance at the binder.
“Youth and inexperience.”
“Biggest strength?”
“Youth and inexperience.” Lynn’s smile was her exclamation point, and Niki knew exactly what she meant. The young players would have infinite energy, would be highly motivated, and their inexperience meant no preconceptions, no sense that there was anything to lose. But their lack of experience meant emotion often filled the gap, and with fervent emotions came mistakes.
“Their biggest unknown quantity?”
“That’s easy,” Lynn said, flipping to another page in the binder. “Eva Caruso.”
Niki swallowed. “How so?” She had her own opinions but wanted to hear Lynn’s.
“Great player, great leader, but her body’s giving out. Potential is there to lead this team on the ice and off, to cushion the team’s transition to a younger crop of players. Knows what it takes to win, but if she’s not healthy and can’t be a leader on the ice, her leadership abilities will likely be neutralized.”
Succinct but accurate, Niki thought, finally letting her gaze drop to the eight-by-ten portrait shot of Eva. She was stunning, even more so as a woman in her mid-thirties. The shoulder-length black wavy hair, the olive Italian complexion and big brown eyes gave her an exotic, Mediterranean look that, Niki knew from experience could and did turn women (and men) into stuttering fools. She had the killer body too. Tall, muscular, as fit as a marathoner. But none of those things was enough to make Niki forgive her, and they certainly weren’t enough to draw her interest beyond the clinical appraisal by a coach of a rival player. No. Any emotional link to Eva was in the past—exactly where it should be. There was only the business of hockey between them now.
“So if she can’t lead this team on the ice, you think it will directly affect the Americans’ chances?”
“Absolutely. Like I said, find a way to neutralize her, and the kids will be running amok out there on the ice.”
There was something about Lynn’s tone Niki didn’t like. “You know I will never condone ‘neutralizing’ another team’s player. Are we clear on that?”
She’d seen it happen before, though never on her watch, where an opponent was intentionally injured. If you had to resort to such unprincipled antics, you didn’t deserve to win, Niki firmly believed and had said many times.
“Of course.”
“And that’s both on the record and off the record. I’m not going to say one thing and mean another.”
Lynn shrugged. “Can I ask you something? Between me, you and the walls?”
Niki nodded.
“How are you going to feel when you see her face-to-face? When she’s out there playing against us?”
“Are you asking me if I’m going to lose my ability to coach my team? Become some kind of blubbering, sentimental fool?”
Lynn spread her hands out on the table but didn’t say anything.
“Come on. You know me better than that.” She didn’t need to spend any more time talking about Eva. She knew the way she played—hard. Knew she took no prisoners on the ice. She reached across and flipped to another page in the binder. “Let’s talk about Coach Hiller.”
Lynn rolled her eyes. “Still a first-class bitch.”
“How badly does she want this?”
“Like a starving cat chasing a mouse. We’ve embarrassed them for two straight Olympics now, and Hiller wants to avenge their gold medal loss in Salt Lake more than she wants to breathe. We beat them on their home turf, now she wants to beat us on ours.”
Niki settled back in her chair. So Alison and Eva would be their biggest threats, but for different reasons. Niki knew both women all too well. “I want you to keep an eye on Alison. Keep track of any news about her you can find. Media interviews, anything anyone is saying about her. I want to know what she’s up to. I’ll do the same with Eva.”
A skeptical eyebrow rose from Lynn at the mention of Eva.
“Yes, you heard right. I’ll keep an eye on Eva’s progress, and yes, I’m up to it. That ship has sailed.” Eva would not be a conflict of interest that would trip her up. They were both professionals, or at least Niki was. “I just want to know what they’re up to, how they’re handling things, how they’re doing, what their next moves are. Keep notes, report back.”
“Does that mean the occasional road trip for us?”
“Absolutely. We’ll catch a few of their exhibition games, and as soon as possible.” Niki liked to rely on herself as the team’s best scout. “I have some catching up to do.”
Lynn nodded. “I’ll see that everything’s booked.”
Yes, Niki thought with a finality that gave her comfort. It’ll be all business between Eva and me, with absolutely no room for emotion or nostalgia or anything else. Eva was just another rival hockey player. Nothing more, nothing less.
Chapter Four
Line Change
It took several moments of the alarm clock jackhammering into her dreams before Eva gained enough consciousness to smack the damned thing off. She loved game days but hated that they had her getting up at seven in the morning. First it was to get something in her stomach, then to give it a couple of hours to settle before reporting to the rink for the hour-long on-ice practice that started at eleven sharp. Which really meant getting to the rink no later than ten so she could stretch and warm up. After practice, there was another half hour of warming down, followed by a massage or an ice bath or whatever mending her body needed, a quick meeting, lunch, then a short nap. She’d start the routine of eating, stretching and warming up all over again well before tonight’s seven o’clock start. And while game days were far more gratifying than practice days, what she really wanted to do was go another round in the sack with Kathleen Benson, maybe a few more minutes of sleep after that and a lazy shower.
Kathleen groaned beside her, slowly rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Shit. Guess that’s me too.”
Another orgasm was fast becoming more fantasy than reality. “You better get back to your room before the Wicked Witch discovers you’ve spent the night here,” Eva quipped.
Kathleen was the team’s athletic therapist. It hadn’t taken more than a few days at training camp before she and Eva decided to hook up for a no-strings relationship that wouldn’t stray beyond the physical. It was going to be a long few months ahead of them, a few months in which outside relationships were not encouraged and, frankly, not wanted. Eva had witnessed many romantic liaisons succumb to the pressures of the Olympic Games, including hers and Niki’s all those years ago. She’d never be that stupid again. Nor would she ever lose her focus again when so much was on the line.
Eva pinched Kathleen’s ass as she rose, naked, from the bed that was too small for the two of them. “Same time, same place, tomorrow tonight?” Tonight’s exhibition game against the University of Minnesota women’s team, the Golden Gophers, meant there’d be no time, or energy, for sex afterward.
Kathleen yawned as she pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt. She was a couple of years younger than Eva, as tall but slimmer, less muscular. Kath wasn’t an athlete, but she was one hell of a good trainer. Her skills at taping, massaging, mending would be indispensable in keeping Eva in one piece until all of this was over and the gold medal was hanging around her neck. Kathleen gave her a wink, said she’d see her at the rink later.
The morning skate was less demanding than an off-day practice, with the idea of the players saving their legs for the game. The stripped-down practice was more about sharpening their hand-eye coordination with passing and shooting drills, loosening up, maybe getting a feel for line chemistry, drilling down to any last-minute details they would need to incorporate into tonight’s game. In the locker room, Eva slipped on her red practice jersey, noting immediately who else
was wearing red. Linemates, or lineys, for the immediate game tended to wear the same colored jerseys in practice. Sometimes it was the only way to know for sure who you were skating with that night.
Eva’s first clue that changes were afoot was the red jersey being pulled over Dani Compton’s head. Dani, like Eva, was a center. And two centers never played on the same line unless it was for a power play or killing a penalty, in case the first center was kicked out of the faceoff circle.
Her first act on the ice was to skate over to Alison to ask her what was up in a tone that left no doubt about her displeasure. Eva had always been a top line center, since back before high school. She could understand being dropped to the number two line because of her creaky knees, but if she wasn’t going to be a center at all, then she—or the coach—was far more deluded than she had allowed for.
“You’re taking left wing,” Alison said, turning away abruptly so as not to entertain any other questions—or complaints—from Eva.
Eva was too much an old pro to let her simmering anger infect her attitude on the ice. She carried out the drills with her usual attention to detail, her customary missile-locked intensity. She watched in judgmental silence, however, as Dani lost more than half her faceoff draws. Dani was a young player who might have a future at the national level, but she wasn’t there yet. She certainly had no business taking Eva’s job at center, nor playing in the top six.
In the locker room after practice, slipping off a jersey that now smelled like a horse barn, Eva eagerly glanced at the large chalkboard near the door. The lines for tonight’s game were scratched out, and sure enough, there was Eva’s number seventeen on left wing, with Dani at center. On the second line. Okay, calm down. It’s not quite October yet. These meaningless exhibition games were simply a chance to get the younger players more ice time and to let Eva get back to her old self as a number one center.
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