Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Callum would have been up in the visiting owner’s box, and I can’t imagine what he’s thinking right now.
Keller doesn’t move… just stands there breathing heavily, engaged in a stare down with Coen.
“Matt,” Baden repeats and leans in to talk in a low voice that still carries, “you need to get it under control. Callum will be here any minute, and we’ll need to talk.”
Jolting, Keller twists his neck to look at Baden. He sucks in a deep breath through his nose. “Yeah… right. Of course.”
Keller follows the other coaches out of the locker room, and it’s Hendrix Bateman who has the guts to approach Coen. He’s also one of the Lucky Three. A second-line defenseman with the original team, he wasn’t with the team on that fateful night due to an injury. He probably knows Coen better than anyone here.
He doesn’t touch Coen but moves in close. “You okay, man?”
“Fine,” Coen grits out, but I hear the stress in his voice, which I know is probably one hundred percent from Keller making an ass of himself.
“He can’t suspend you like that,” Hendrix says. “That’s not his call.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Coen replies as he pulls off his shoulder pads.
“Of course it matters,” Hendrix says encouragingly, despite the fact Coen wrecked his car not two weeks ago. “We all have your back.”
A few men echo that sentiment, but I remain silent. I don’t know if I can have his back as he’s out of control. Granted, I don’t have Keller’s back either. That guy has no business coaching.
“It doesn’t matter,” Coen repeats through clenched teeth before he lets his eyes focus on Hendrix. “Because I quit.”
“What?” Hendrix barks in surprise. “No fucking way, man. You had a shitty night—”
“I’m done,” Coen growls as he jerks a towel out of his locker and stalks off toward the showers.
Players scramble out of his way, but no one follows him.
Hendrix gapes at me. “We can’t let him quit.”
“No one is going to let him quit,” I reassure Hendrix, then turn to address the rest of the team. “That was a shit show I wish none of you had to witness. No one wants to see that happen, much less to one of our teammates.” I look at every player, noting I have their attention. “For those who weren’t on the ice and couldn’t tell what went down, McNabb taunted Coen about the crash.”
Most of the men grumble and curse under their breaths.
“I’m not saying that justifies what Coen did. Let this be a learning lesson for you that while fights are going to happen and, in fact, must happen to establish our dominance, you have to learn to manage your temper and your emotions when out on the ice. It’s our job to win games, and we can’t do that by sitting in the penalty box or getting ejected for misconduct. But in this instance, I believe, Coen’s actions are understandable. Not justified, but I certainly get his loss of control.”
“What does it matter?” This from one of the young rookies who’d only spent a year down in the minors. “Coen just said he’s quitting.”
“I choose to believe he said that out of frustration and anger. There will be plenty of people trying to talk him out of that decision.”
“But he’ll get suspended,” Camden Poe says, the final one-third of the Lucky Three. The worry on his face is etched deep.
“Without a doubt,” I reply grimly. “Which only means we have to play together stronger, and we’re going to have to pick up the slack left by Coen’s absence. We’ll have to fill that void and give more than we’ve been giving so far. I want to remind every single one of you that we’re still in the hunt for a playoff spot. We can do this.”
“You’re damn right, we can,” Stone exclaims.
And nearly everybody shouts out their agreement.
It’s a nice speech. But I’m exhausted from the effort of trying to boost morale when things seem to be spinning out of control. No matter what I said, this whole incident with Coen, particularly if he quits, will be hard to overcome.
We finish our showers and get dressed, load onto the charter bus, and head to the airport where we board the team plane to head back to Pittsburgh. Coen chooses a seat at the very front near the window and puts on his headphones, hunkering down with eyes closed. The message is clear—he doesn’t want to talk to anyone.
And that’s fine by me. It’s a bit too early to hit him up with my reasoning for him to stay. But I’m not waiting too long.
I settle into a seat next to Stone and nudge him with my elbow. “I’m heading over to Coen’s tonight when we get back. Going to try to talk some sense into him before he can proclaim publicly that he’s quitting.”