Now if only my teammates and I could get our shit together. On paper, we should be competitive, but in reality, we can’t get out of our own damn way.
It’s frustrating as hell, especially when Coach is counting on me to get this team into the playoffs. It’s the least I can do after all he’s done for me.
Coach pushes his empty plate away and leans back in his chair, his gaze swinging from me to Ava. “I just might be the luckiest son of a bitch in the NHL, getting to work with my two favorite people every day.”
Which reminds me…
“You’re a mental performance coach?” I furrow my brow, arranging my features into a mask of confusion. “Is that similar to a mental health consultant?”
If I remember correctly, that was the title she used when telling me about her job. Now the nine-month contract makes sense. Her contract ends when the season ends.
“It’s quite similar.” Her fingers tighten around the stem of her wineglass, but otherwise she appears unfazed. “My specialization just happens to be athletic performance.”
The team already has a sports psychologist on the payroll. He’s a dick, but I’m not sure admin has realized it yet. “I’ve never worked with a mental performance coach. What does your job entail?”
“I help athletes—and teams—enhance performance through mental skills training.” She taps a finger against her temple. “Most athletes focus on the physical aspects of training, but mental strength is just as vital. The mind and body have to be balanced to reach peak performance.”
I get what she’s saying. If a player can’t handle the pressure, he’s going to fall apart on the ice, but that doesn’t mean I can’t razz her a little bit.
A slow smile curves my lips and I meet her gaze head-on. “Do you think you can get me to peak performance?”
A crimson flush spreads up her neck and over her cheeks. She darts a glance at Coach, but the innuendo went right over his head.
“With enough time and training, I can get any athlete to peak performance.” She shoots me a pointed look, but her eyes dance with mischief. “But the peak is different for everyone. The goal is to unlockyourpersonal best.”
I gave the little vixen everything I had last night, but I’m all for breaking records. “I’m up to the challenge if you are.”
“That’s the spirit,” Coach says. “I want to see the same level of enthusiasm and commitment from every member of the team.”
Yeah, that’s not going to happen.
Not when it comes to Ava, anyway.
The game is a different story. I’m not the only one feeling the pressure to deliver a winning season. The Gliders gambled when they hired Adam, a former NHL player whose only coaching experience was at the collegiate level. If it doesn’t pay off, there’s a good chance this season will be his last as head coach.
I can’t allow that to happen.
“Consider the tickets punched, Coach. The guys on the team want to win as badly as you do, myself included.” My phone vibrates twice more in quick succession, blowing up in my pocket just like my life is blowing up over this dinner. I make a show of checking my watch. “I should probably head out. I don’t want to be dragging ass at practice tomorrow.”
His brows shoot up in surprise, but he doesn’t protest.
Ava and I help him clear the table in silence. When Coach starts loading the dishwasher, I pull out my phone, unable to ignore the insistent vibrations for another second.
As expected, all the notifications are for the team chat.
Forey: The fuck you say?
Hardy: ??
Right there with you, buddy. It feels like some Twilight Zone shit.
Smitty: I need details. You can’t just drop a bomb like that and run.
McGinnis: Okay, but on a scale of 1-10, how serious is he about those fingers? ??
My grip instantly tightens on the phone. I swear to god, I might break the kid’s fingers myself.
Chromiak: JFC, Ginny. Could you be a bigger asshole?