Also because I was coaching a disaster of a team through a shitshow of a game.
It’s your first game with them.
There’s still plenty of season left.
Just get through this game and learn from it.
The puck dropped. Nasanov, the veteran fourth line center, won the faceoff and cleared the puck with a beautiful saucer pass that was well past the neutral zone when it finally landed on the ice. The Narwhals’ power-play skaters were clearly not pleased, but they left the zone to regroup, get the puck, and re-enter.
On the way over the blue line, one of their defensemen cross-checked Nasa. Because he was pissy that Nasa had cleared the puck? Because hewantedto fight the thirty-something Russian who was built like a brick shithouse? I had no idea.
What I did know, though, was that it should’ve been a penalty.
“What the fuck?” I screamed at the refs over my seated players’ heads. “Where’s the fucking call?”
“No call,” the nearest ref said coolly.
“He cross-checked him!” I barked. “What does he have to do to get a penalty? Shank someone?”
A snicker went through the bench. The ref shot me a dirty look that told me I was going to get a bench minor if I kept it up, so I shut up. I’d made my point, though. The Grizzlies weren’t playing great tonight, but the calls had been woefully lopsided in the Narwhals’ favor. Hell, Kulie still had a tissue jammed up his nostril to stanch the bleeding after being high-sticked last period. He should’ve drawn a goddamned double minor for that, but instead,he’dgone to the box for interference because he’d crashed into someone right after being high-sticked. The officiating wasbullshittonight. I was seriously beginning to think the Narwhals could put their entire bench out on the ice and not get called for too many men.
It was what it was, though. Right now, the power play regrouped in the neutral zone, and two of their defensemen protected the puck carrier as he sped into our zone.
Lens—Kasper Lennart—was poised in front of the net, blocker and glove ready as he tried to anticipate the attackers’ next moves. I could feel his nerves from here as the three-on-one rush bore down on him. He twitched right. Then left.
The puck carrier passed. The next guy passed. They snapped the puck back and forth as they closed in on Lens’s netwhile my sparse group of skaters was miles behind them, and I didn’t think anyone was surprised when the puck was suddenly in our net.
8-1. Great.
The starter goalie, Bardil Safronov, sat at the end of the bench with a baseball cap instead of his mask. He’d been salty when I’d pulled him after he’d let in the fourth goal, and I got it; it hadn’t been his fault our defense left him out to dry, but sometimes pulling the goalie helped. Right now, he just looked relieved he hadn’t had to face a five-on-three, especially with a penalty kill that couldn’t get its shit together.
Note to self—special teams practice tomorrow.
Our power play may or may not have needed the practice—they hadn’t been tested yet tonight—but it would do them good anyway. And hopefully it would help our penalty kill.
Our penalty kill, which still had to work because while one of our players had come out of the box thanks to that goal, Devon’s penalty still had fifty-two seconds left.
I sent out the second penalty kill unit while the dejected first unit returned to the bench.
“Chin up, boys,” I called out to them. They glanced at me, looking like tired, sad puppies, before shifting their attention to the action on the ice. They were probably expecting to be reamed out in the locker room. Their previous coach—hell, most coaches I’d ever had—would be frothing at the mouth, ready to scream at them, the goalies, and everyone else over this disastrous game.
That wasn’t my style. It could be if I thought my players were dicking off or slacking, but that wasn’t what happened tonight. They were floundering and flailing, but they weren’t fucking around. They just needed leadership. Guidance. A system that actually worked.
They needed a coach who could steer them toward the potential that had gotten them signed in the first place.
Right then, the sparse hometown crowd—those who’d held out this long tonight—started booing. The goal light went on behind Lens as the few remaining spectators started filing out of the stands. My penalty killers exchanged miserable looks as the Narwhals celebrated on the ice and on their bench.
Another power play goal against.
Another Narwhal skating to the bench for fist bumps.
Devon stepped out of the box, still chewing his mouthguard but looking more defeated than angry. As if he knew to his core that there was no digging ourselves out of this 9-1 hole.
Christ. This team was a mess. And everyone was expecting me to straighten them the hell out.
No pressure.
CHAPTER 6