Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
I laughed ’cause he was right. It was a terrible name. “Ronnie. It’s a newish collaboration of club teams from Fallbrook, Pinecrest, and Wood Hollow. We practice Tuesdays and Thursdays and play every other weekend. Our next game is in two weeks.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah. We have a few scrimmages and a final competition weekend at the end of summer. It’s a good off-season filler for these guys. Otherwise, they wouldn’t play again till late August or September.”
Vin cocked his head thoughtfully. “I’m no genius, but it seems like you’d generate more money and give the kids more ice time, which in theory should make them better players if you organized a real camp for this age group. I’m not talking one-week deals. You need a six-week program…at least.”
“Like I said, we don’t have the resources. And until recently, we didn’t have the interest.”
He grunted in disapproval. “Christ, I wish Ronnie had said something. I’ve offered to invest and he’s always turned me down. I would have—”
“Come home sooner and played hero for a weekend?” I supplied, moving into his personal space. “Don’t go there, and don’t judge something you know nothing about. If you want to help him now, be their hero.”
I gestured toward the rowdy group of boys stealing glances our way as they ran through a passing drill.
“Fine.” He pulled away, skating backward. “Let’s see what these bad news forest rangers can do.”
5
VINNIE
Holy crap. These kids were terrible. Their stick handling was sloppy; they were slow skaters and puck hogs. The only thing truly going for any of them was their love of the game.
They recited stats and picked apart championship plays from a decade or so ago. They each had a passion for the sport, but no one seemed to have any real drive…or desire to become truly good at it. They embodied a self-fulfilling prophesy to become sofa coaches, swigging beers while yelling at the players on the television to do shit they’d never been able to do themselves.
Now, that didn’t mean they didn’t have potential.
And it didn’t mean Nolan was a bad coach. In fact, Max was a decent defender, Jason was an accurate passer, Kinney was the fastest by far, and Jenkins showed no fear in the net. Problem…Max’s aggression was a tad reckless, which was saying a lot coming from me, and my dead grandmother had skated faster than Jason. If Kinney was my teammate, I would have tackled his ass for hogging the puck, and honestly, Jenkins had to learn some self-preservation skills or he’d need a whole new set of teeth.
And those were just the kids whose names I could remember. The others were equally bad. Whatever redeeming qualities they had were offset by egregious traits that would put them in the sin bin or relegate them to the bench. Hmm. Definitely the bench.
See, this was why I’d never be a good coach. I had zero patience for mediocrity…or anything at all, really. I hadn’t always been on winning teams, and I’d known professionals who’d struggled to achieve their full potential, but they fucking tried, damn it. These kids didn’t have killer instincts or the drive to be the best.
Maybe my bar was way too high. Or maybe I just sucked at this. Don’t get me wrong. I think the kids liked me. I kept it fun, showed off a little bit, answered a bazillion NHL-type questions, and grinned through clenched teeth when their passes missed the mark time after time. But could they actually learn from me?
Meh, maybe?
Nolan, on the other hand, was a natural. He was patient, yet firm. He praised progress and offered constructive advice. He reminded me a lot of his dad—a softer-spoken version.
“All right, gang. I’ll see you next week,” Nolan said, calling an end to practice.
“Will you be here too, Coach?” someone asked.
When eleven sets of eyes darted in my direction, I realized the question was for me. “Uh…yeah. I’ll be here.”
They broke out in a chorus of “all rights” with a few whoops and a couple of “fuck yeahs” that earned the offending party a no-nonsense glare from Coach Nolan. I slapped high fives with a smile fixed on my face and made sure it stayed in place until the last teen was off the ice.
Nolan scooped up a cone. “Well? What’d you think?”
“They’re terrible. Like…really fucking awful,” I deadpanned.
He huffed indignantly. “No, they aren’t. They’re just kids.”
“So what? I’m pretty damn sure we were better at their age.”
“You were. The rest of us weren’t,” he replied cryptically, skating to the next cone.
“You were good too.”
Nolan shrugged. “I did okay in college, but I was never going to go pro.”
I watched him glide away, picking up cones and stacking them under his arm till it looked as if he were holding an orange torpedo. I followed him off the ice and into the equipment room, perching my ass on a steel bench against the wall while he hefted pucks and cones onto an open shelf.