Coach's Challenge

by Avon Gale

  Shane knew he was a lot more than just a little late—shit, had he driven through another time zone and not realized it?—when he noticed there wasn’t a soul in the locker room. The pungent smell of sweat and shower soap told him there’d been people in there, and recently.

  “Coach Callahan?”

  Shane dropped his gear on the bench and made his way toward what looked like it should be an office, despite the lack of a door hanging on the hinges. He’d heard ECHL facilities weren’t quite as snazzy as the AHL, which were themselves a long way away from the luxury of the National Hockey League. But missing doors? That was a new one.

  The man behind the desk looked up and fixed Shane with a sharp, pale-blue-eyed stare. Shane had no idea how old Coach Callahan was, but he played hockey for the Rangers back in the early nineties, so he had to be on the other side of forty-five. His dark hair was touched with gray at the temples and near the top of his hairline, which was a pointed widow’s peak.

  “Mr. North.”

  “Yeah. Sorry I’m late.” Shane stood awkwardly in the doorway. He tried a polite smile because Callahan looked pretty pissed. From what Shane remembered, he always looked that way. Though he had to admit that, up close and in person, Callahan was a lot more attractive than Shane realized. He was dressed in practice clothes, which meant he was one of those coaches who shouted at you from the ice during drills, not the bench. Great. “Long trip from San Diego.”

  “Guess you should have left earlier.”

  That set Shane’s teeth on edge, but he let it go.

  Callahan’s icy eyes fixed on him. They were arresting, and Shane had to force himself not to glance away. “The end of your career is going to come a lot sooner if you can’t make it to practice on time, North.”

  Jesus, the guy was a real asshole. But he was right, and Shane knew it. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  Callahan waved that away. “Have a seat.”

  Shane sat.

  “If you’re wondering about the lack of a door, this team had a metric fuckton of problems last season, which I’m sure Bowie told you about. Gabe. Ah, I mean, Mr. Bow,” Callahan added finally, as though he couldn’t quite remember what name he was supposed to use to refer to the GM. Shane had heard they were friends. “Leaving the door off is the not-exactly-subtle way of saying there are no secrets.”

  What the actual hell was Shane supposed to say to that? He knew there’d been issues, but hadn’t yet heard the specifics. “Uh. Okay?”

  “Listen. I know this is your last season, and I admit I can’t figure out why the fuck you’re here at all. But you are, and so this is how this is gonna go. I know all about your reputation, and the last thing this team needs is someone bringing a bad attitude into the locker room. Or questionable hits on the ice. So get here on time, play your game and play it clean, and that’s all we have to say about it.”

  Goddammit, Shane was not a goon. He played a hard game, and he got penalized because of it, but they weren’t cheap shots or late hits. Shane opened his mouth to say something about half his penalties being a result of his name and reputation, but Callahan talked right over him.

  “If you’re about to tell me I’ve got you pegged all wrong, save it. If I did, you would have shown up on time and you would’ve been out there with your team instead of walking in here like you’re too good to practice.”

  What the hell? “That’s not—”

  “I said save it,” Callahan barked. His voice had the faintest hint of a New York accent, but more upstate than Brooklyn. “Show up on time tomorrow or take your sweetass time driving somewhere else and play for some other team.” He looked back down at his desk, and Shane stared hard at the top of Callahan’s head and wondered if maybe he should just forget the whole thing, give up hockey, go back to San Diego, and get on with his life. Whatever that would entail.

  “Anything else, North?” Callahan didn’t even look up.

  “No, Coach.” Shane lifted his chin. He wasn’t going to give up that easily. Whoever said spite wasn’t a powerful motivator?

  “Then I’ll see you tomorrow. In fact, why don’t you show up an hour early and we’ll go through some drills so I make sure you’re caught up.”

  Fucking sadist. “Yes, Coach.”

  Callahan did look up at that. “Just because it’s the ECHL doesn’t mean this isn’t a team you need to take seriously, so don’t take that goddamn tone with me.”

  How about I just punch you in the face. No. That would prove that all those stupid people who thought he was nothing more than an aging, glorified goon were right—especially since it seemed like Callahan was one of those people. Goddammit. Shane stood up and nodded tersely. Honestly he should have been there on time, and he knew it. But something about Callahan made Shane feel argumentative, which was going to end badly. “I’m sorry I was late. I’ll be here an hour early tomorrow.”

  “And you’ll apologize to the team for your absence today.”

  God, where was he, juniors? He hadn’t been talked to like that since—well, since his first season in the pros. When they thought he mattered enough to pay attention to. That caused some of his ire to recede slightly, but the bitterness was right there to take its place. “Yes, Coach.” If that asshole thought Shane was going to call him sir, he could think again. This wasn’t fucking juniors, and Shane didn’t matter at all. Not anymore.

  Callahan seemed to stare into his soul for a few seconds longer. “Good. See you tomorrow. Oh, go ahead and put your stuff in your locker before you head out.”

  Shane debated thanking him, decided it would just sound like he was full of shit, and went to leave. He never wanted to have a door to slam so badly in his life.

  He made up for it by slamming his locker and was both relieved and kind of mad that it didn’t break.

  Chapter Two

  TROY LEANED back against the boards and watched Shane skate the length of the rink. Not only had Shane shown up early, he was already on the ice when Troy got there. It made up for Shane’s missing practice, and Troy could admit he’d been a little hard on him. Still, he didn’t want North getting any ideas about half-assing his way through the season. From the way he responded to the drills Troy ran him through, though, that didn’t seem like it was going to be a problem.

  Shane was a strong skater and clearly in good shape, despite the months he’d spent off the ice. Apparently he liked to go surfing when he wasn’t playing hockey, which was not a mental image Troy needed to think about. Shane was a few inches shorter than Troy and muscular in a way Troy’s runner’s physique would never be. Thinking about Shane with his shirt off, skin wet from the ocean…. Yeah, no.

  Troy knew who Shane North was, of course, but Shane spent his AHL career entirely in the Western conference, so Troy only saw him play a couple of times a year. Troy knew North was a former top-round draft pick back in the early 2000s, but he had never quite lived up to his potential and spent most of his career pinballing between the NHL and the AHL. At some point he’d become a fixture in the AHL, and Troy didn’t think he’d been called up for a big-league game in quite some time. He’d been suspended more than his fair share for some questionable—though, to Shane’s credit—not late—hits, and that reputation made Troy nearly throw a fit. Okay, fine, he probably did throw a fit—when Gabe told him that he’d signed Shane.

  “You signed an aging goon to a team full of bullies?” Troy asked, dumbfounded. “Are you secretly working for the forces of fucking evil, or what?”

  Gabe smiled serenely and shook his head. Gabe was in his midfifties, and his hair was more gray than black, but he still had the same unshakeable calm he’d shown in goal, back when they were teammates on the Rangers.

  “He’s not a goon just because he throws hard checks, Cally. He’s going to be a good influence in the locker room,” Gabe insisted. Which… yeah, maybe. But if Shane wanted Troy’s opinion of him to improve, he needed to show the fuck up on time.

  Troy would normally be willing to give
someone the benefit of the doubt if Gabe vouched for them, but the situation with his team was dire. Those guys played hockey like they were scavengers starving for some roadkill. He’d seen prison documentaries with a cheerier cast than his team, and he didn’t see how North would help. Shane had a chip the size of both Carolinas on his shoulder because he wasn’t as good a player as he’d always been told he’d be.

  Speaking of North, Troy watched him come to a stop at the boards, breathing hard. He reached for his water bottle, and his eyes flickered toward Troy. “Again, Coach?”

  There was something about Shane North’s voice that made Troy want to tell him to stop being a punk and shut up. The reaction was instantaneous from the moment Troy looked up and saw Shane standing in his doorway—and it had more to do with why Troy didn’t want to think about Shane wet, half-dressed, and holding a surfboard than it did with hockey. “Nah. Go take a break until the others get here.” It wouldn’t do to have Shane winded and unable to keep up on his first day on the ice with his teammates.

  “Sure thing, Coach.”

  Shane’s voice was totally respectful—he was too much of a professional to let it sound any other way, even the day before, when Troy had admittedly been an ass to him. Shane was a solid player, and if he kept his attitude in check, he would make a good addition to the third line.

  He was also 1,000 percent Troy’s type, but even if he was in an acceptable age range, he was still Troy’s player. How frustrating that the most attractive person he’d found so far in this stupid state was the one guy he didn’t want around.

  When Troy got back to the locker room, the rest of the team filed in and, predictably, gave Shane some side-eyed looks as they went to their lockers.

  Quinn went right up to Shane and introduced himself. “Glad to see you made it in safe and sound.” He was clearly defaulting to “good cop,” which wasn’t at all a surprise. “I’m the assistant coach, Brian Quinn.”

  “Shane North. I’m really sorry about yesterday. I promise it won’t happen again.”

  Quinn laughed and clapped him on the back. “I saw Coach had you out there early today.”

  “Yeah, but it felt good to skate off that drive,” said Shane amicably enough. With that, Quinn introduced him to his new teammates.

  When they got to Xavier Matthews, Quinn pointed out that he was the captain, and Shane held his hand out. “Hey, I’m really looking forward to playing with you guys this year.”

  “You—are?” Xavier faltered, clearly unable to hide his surprise as he returned the handshake. “Like… as a coach?”

  Shane smiled but it didn’t look amused. “A player. I signed a contract just for this season. I was going to apologize for missing practice yesterday since I got in late, but I guess you weren’t expecting me.”

  “Yeah. I didn’t know you were gonna be on the team… but, hey. Good to have you here.”

  “Thanks.” Shane glanced over at Troy, clearly annoyed.

  Troy stared back and didn’t say anything. If Shane had bothered to show up on time, it wouldn’t be an issue, would it?

  “Listen up,” Troy said, and the locker room went from a dull mumble to funereal silence again. “In case you missed what just happened, this is Shane North. North played the last six years for the San Diego Gulls in the AHL, and he’s signed for his last season with the Ravens.”

  There were some mumbled, “Glad to meet you’s,” and then everyone turned toward their own lockers and fell back into uncomfortable silence.

  If anyone was curious as to why Shane was in his gear and obviously had been working out, they didn’t ask. Troy went ahead and told them anyway.

  “North got here an hour early to make up for missing practice yesterday,” Troy continued. “In case any of you were wondering and were too afraid to fucking ask me. But for future reference, that’s what happens if you miss practice and I’m in a good mood.” Before he dismissed them to the ice, he remembered to turn to Quinn. “Coach Quinn? Anything to add?”

  “Nope,” said Quinn cheerfully.

  Well, that was helpful. Troy made a note to ask Quinn if maybe he wanted to actually try coaching, as that was the point of having an assistant, but there was no way to say that without coming across as a huge dick.

  Chill out. You know St. Savoy beat the spirit out of him, just like he did the rest of the team. That fucking cheerfulness is all for show.

  Practice went well. There was talent there, no doubt about that. The Ravens lacked speed, and he identified some early offensive issues, but they had a potentially strong defense and guys who were used to playing a heavy game. North was a good fit in that sense. It was a mystery to Troy why St. Savoy didn’t just cultivate the talent he had on the ice and leave the melodrama for Netflix. There was no need for the Ravens to resort to cheap shots, bullying, and sabotage. Then again just about everything having to do with St. Savoy involved cheap shots, bullying, and sabotage, so he shouldn’t be surprised.

  That reminded Troy of his assistant coach, who stood behind the boards with a marker and a dry-erase board. There wasn’t a mark on it. Troy squelched his irritation and said, “I’m thinking North’d fit in well on the third line.”

  “Definitely,” agreed Quinn. He poised the marker above the dry-erase board as though he were going to write something, changed his mind, and capped it again. “If you think so.”

  You can’t punch him. Deep breath. “He’s got a bit of a reputation for playing a hard game, which isn’t in itself a bad thing, but you know how the league is cracking down on late and questionable hits. Been suspended more than his fair share, so we have to keep an eye on that, cultivate his strengths without him spending most of his time in the box. We’re trying to stay defensive minded without being thugs on the ice. We’re not the goddamn Flyers, here.” He paused. “Are you a Flyers fan?”

  Quinn shook his head. “Nah. Flames. I’m from Calgary.”

  “Poor bastard,” said Troy, hoping the hockey banter might get Quinn to open up, banter back, do something that amounted to engagement.

  It didn’t, so Troy went back to talking about their team. “You on board with that assessment? You were here last year. Am I missing anything?”

  Quinn’s smile faltered a bit. “Look, Coach, I know what you’re doing. You’ve probably guessed that St. Savoy didn’t like me to have opinions or do much of anything, and you’re right. So I appreciate it, but you’re the one with all the experience.”

  Was there something bitter in there? Maybe. But why shouldn’t he be bitter? Assistant coaching was a way to learn, and it was obvious the only thing Quinn learned under St. Savoy was how to be background filler and hold a dry-erase board.

  It was only the second practice, Troy reminded himself. Those things took time.

  Troy had Quinn draw out some plays, and that at least kept him involved. The time went quickly as they cycled through drills and Troy saw the bare bones of his team take shape. Every other team in the ECHL might hate the Ravens this season, but it wouldn’t be because they were a bunch of assholes on the ice. He knew that the press was convinced he was hired because he was openly gay and the team’s owner, Stuart Hargett, was trying to make up for the team’s unfortunate homophobic past. Hell, they were probably convinced Hargett had hired Gabriel in part because he was black—and they were wrong. Not that Troy wasn’t gay and Gabriel wasn’t black, but they were both good at their jobs and the Ravens were lucky to have them so intent to turn the team around.

  Maybe Troy’s investment was due in part to a personal vendetta, but Gabriel seemed dead and determined to make the Ravens respectable out of purely altruistic reasons. He loved his job and enjoyed a challenge. Not that Troy didn’t feel the same way, but yeah, sticking it to Denis St. Savoy—metaphorically, God help him—was a draw he couldn’t deny.

  “All right, that’s enough,” Troy called when he blew the whistle. “Hit the showers.”

  The team skated by him, and Troy heard a few grumbles. It wasn’t much
, but it was a start at the very least. Teams were supposed to hate their coach during practice. It was a rule.

  “Good job today,” Quinn piped up, and Troy decided to count practice as a win.

  He had a feeling they weren’t going to get very many of those.

  “I STILL think this is a terrible idea.” Troy scowled as he took a drink of his bourbon. “In case you were wondering.”

  “You like bourbon, Cally.”

  “No. Not the drink, Bowie. I meant North, and you know it.” The bourbon was excellent, and Gabe knew that too.

  “Oh, he’s going to be fine, Troy. Relax.” Gabe waved a hand. “He’ll be a good influence in the locker room.”

  “If you say that one more time, I’m going to hit you. Monica won’t mind.”

  “Probably not, but it’s the truth.” Gabe was as serene as ever as he sipped his own bourbon with obvious pleasure. “This is Weller’s. It’s the same recipe as Pappy’s, you know.”

  Gabe had picked up a fondness for Kentucky bourbon, courtesy of a stint as an assistant coach for the Lexington Thoroughblades. Troy liked liquor that got him drunk and didn’t taste like shit, so drinking at Gabe’s was always a good idea. They had a guest room and a guest bath in case he didn’t want to drive home sloshed, and Monica might pretend she thought he was a pain in the ass, but really she liked him.

  “Pappy Van Winkle,” Gabe added. “Which is a rare and delicious bourbon you have to be on a waiting list to get.”

  “We were talking about your terrible ideas for our team,” Troy reminded him, but the Weller’s was indeed delicious. He took another drink and enjoyed the smooth, sharp taste and the pleasant warmth that rushed down into his stomach. “And he’s not an influence in the locker room. No one talks to him.”

  “I thought you said no one talks to anyone in the locker room.”