Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Callum looks at his watch. “Okay, enough chitchat. We’ve got the press waiting.”
We head to the arena’s press room, a large space filled with rows of chairs and a small dais at the front with a long table that seats up to five. The table cover has the Titans’ logo on the front, and there’s a backdrop done in dark gray and covered in a repeating pattern of the team logo. Three sets of microphones are set up on the table.
This is where I give postgame press conferences, and it’s where we’ll discuss the trade of Nolan Carrier and a second-round draft pick for Bain Hillridge. It will only be me, Callum, and Bain at the table fielding questions from sports reporters. Brienne won’t join us, which is a good thing today as I’m sure most questions lobbed to her would be about the kiss as well as this morning’s newspaper article. We’ve allotted fifteen minutes for the conference and then the team will hit the ice for practice.
♦
To the casual observer, it might look like I don’t do much but watch and scowl at our games and practices. You’ll find me behind the players’ bench with a small pad and pen in my hand, jotting down notes to discuss later with the assistant coaches.
Before games and practices, however, I meet with my assistants, and we go over everything we want to achieve. Then I let them run the show, taking my notes and offering guidance when needed.
I know that makes it sound as if I am a hands-off coach, but on the contrary. Everything that is done on and off the ice is ultimately at my direction and employing my strategies, but I delegate downward.
I’m watching Bain run hinge regrouping drills with his new first line. While I’d watched a ton of video of this guy before we decided to make an offer for him, I’m still astounded by how smooth he is on the ice—both forward and backward—given his size. My pad of paper stays firmly in my hand as I don’t see a single thing today that I need to write down to pass along to him.
It’s a good first practice, and if he plays the way he did with the Vengeance, he’ll keep the first-line position. That will pressure Camden if he wants to move up, but he first needs to figure out how to secure his second-line position. I watch him take the ice with Hendrix, and after they hinge, Camden’s pass is just a tiny bit out of reach of Hendrix, who has to make a slight lunge for it.
I pull out my pad and make a note. I’m not going to do anything with that piece of information other than memorialize it. It will be part of our after-practice debrief.
We stay on the ice only an hour as we have a game tomorrow, although many of the guys will get in a light workout. Mostly, though, my preference is for them to relax today. Well-rested players are strong players.
Baden, Gage, Maurice, and Sam meet me in my office after practice, and we roundtable everything we observed while we devour the sandwiches my assistant had delivered.
As the meeting winds down, I can’t help but ask, “Did anyone else know about Drake and Brienne?”
Maurice and Sam shake their heads, but Baden and Gage exchange a look before Baden says, “I only found out before the game yesterday. I was telling him he needed to get his head out of his ass.”
Now that makes sense. “They have some sort of falling out that made him play shitty on the road last week?”
“Yeah,” Baden says with a smirk. “Had no clue he was going to come out to the world the way he did though.”
“I knew a little longer. Apparently, Jenna knew, and Drake assumed that meant she’d told me—which she had not—and he sort of outed himself.”
“Another example of love fucking with a career,” Maurice mutters. He’s a confirmed bachelor at age fifty-six and is adamant he has no desire to get tied down. He’s crusty, grumpy, and hard to be around outside of the arena, but he’s a hell of a coach.
And he’s not wrong about love fucking with a career. Or rather, in my case, it was my career fucking with love. But it’s obviously interchangeable.
“I imagine we’ll be seeing you on the front page of the Times before too long,” Baden says with a sly grin.
“What makes you think that?” I ask with a laugh.
“Because of that lip-lock you laid on Ava last night at Mario’s. You’re totally gracing the photo gallery of many a fan phone today.”
Chuckling, I crumple the remains of my sandwich wrapper. “If that’s hot news, then people need to get a life. Besides, it’s not serious.”
I wipe at the crumbs on the table, noting the silence.