After a fucktastic morning, making love to Maggie then sharing a post-nookie breakfast together, Spencer sent her off to school. He wanted to get her a lunchbox so he could gift her with treats and notes, like she was a little kid. He thought she might find it romantic and thoughtful. Romantic and thoughtful meant racking up sex points and he wanted a lot of sex with Maggie.
Not that he thought he needed to replenish his points. Last night, she’d drifted off to sleep a thoroughly satisfied woman, which meant he went to bed in a similar state. As a result, the quality of shut-eye he got was Grade-A. In fact, it was so good that he woke up earlier than usual on a game day, and had energy enough for wake-up sex. But mindful that they were playing Pittsburgh tonight, he didn’t overdo it.
Shortly before he left for the DISC, Stacy came over.
“Morning,” she said, somewhat less chipper than usual. “Trip good?” she asked.
“Yeah. Thanks for the food. You’re the best.”
She shrugged and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I, ah, couldn’t help noticing that you and Maggie seem to be…”
He flicked his gaze to her and she looked vulnerable and sad. Fuck.
“I mean I saw her catch an Uber this morning.”
“Yeah. We, ah…well, we’re together now.” He gave a half laugh. “Never thought I’d end up dating a teacher. I hated school.”
She nodded so dejectedly, he reached out and took her hand.
“Hey,” he said, “I’m sorry if I ever led you to believe that you and I—”
She jerked her hand away. “What? No.” Her laugh sounded like an engine with a dying battery. “You think I had a crush on you? Please. We were always just…friends, you silly man.” A vestige of her old spunky good humor flashed.
And even though they both knew she was lying to save face, he went along with it.
“Good friends,” he said, meaning it.
“So, anyway, I brought you your key.”
He shook his head. “No, you keep it. You never know. I may lock myself out of the house one day.”
Their gazes met briefly before she lifted her chin, nodded and went back to her house.
One of the trainers poked his head into the locker room shortly after the morning skate.
“Joubert wants to see everyone in the lounge in twenty. Mandatory.”
Guys glanced around at each other. It had to be something big if the general manager called a meeting.
“What do you think that’s about?” Ian asked, ripping off his shoulder pads.
No one had any idea.
Spencer looked at Paul who was studiously avoiding eye contact. Interesting. Likely he knew something but wasn’t at liberty to share.
After showering, Spencer headed for the lounge and spotted Head Coach Vardis heading toward the exit, which was odd, considering the time of day. He and the rest of the coaching staff usually stuck around for a while.
Exactly twenty minutes after the announcement, the team was seated in the area off the players’ lounge that had a white board and big screen TV. Stadium style seating for thirty.
Spencer appreciated the punctuality expected of the Dragons. He’d been on teams where tardiness of a few minutes here and there was expected and tolerated. Often because some of the prima donna players thought it was their due to passive-aggressively control shit. But Spencer preferred everyone being held to the same standard and respecting that they all had lives.
Joubert cleared his throat. “So, I’ll get right to the point. Head Coach Vardis and Assistant Coach Levosky have been released from their duties as of today.”
A wave of surprise rippled through the rows. Guys sat up straighter and exchanged glances.
“Who’s taking over?” someone asked.
No one asked why. They all knew why. Despite the fact that they’d won the past three out of five games, they were far from comfortably making it into the playoffs in April. They had the talent, but there had been a general lack of energy, of buzz in the room and on the ice. Paul had been doing his best. Hell, they had all at one point or another given pre-game pep talks, but frustration had taken root. Determination was slowly turning to resignation. Unfortunately, in the world of professional sports, the simplest and sometimes most effective sea-change a team could make was to replace the coach.
“Simon Bertsoulakis will be head coach. Ulysses Dorsett is now assistant. We feel both of those men have the know-how to lead this team into the playoffs. In addition, Dallas Wingate has gone to St. Louis in exchange for Donovan Hooper.”
This time he heard a gasp or two of shock. Spencer did a mental jig. Suddenly, his entire outlook for the next few months took a decided upswing. No Wingate meant the fucking shackles were off. Hopefully, with a new coach at the helm, they’d all be able to play with a little more creativity and freedom. And Donovan Hooper was a solid guy. Skilled hands, quick thinker, and faster than his size suggested.
“Simon,” Joubert said with a sweeping gesture, “I’ll let you take it from here.”
Simon Bertsoulakis was a tall, gray-haired man in his late fifties. He had a goatee that wouldn’t have looked out of place on an eighteenth century English gentleman, and he seemed to be in good physical shape.
“Thanks for that introduction, Marty. I just want to say that I’m eager to get started. I would have been here yesterday, but…shit happens. If you know anything about me, you’ll know I’m a player’s coach. What I want to do this afternoon is meet with each of you individually before we play tonight.”
More exchanged glances. A little throat clearing.
“I know you might have had plans, and I appreciate you’re sacrificing those. I wouldn’t ask it of you if I didn’t think it was important. That’s another thing you’ll learn about me. I hate wasting time, yours or mine, on trivial shit. As per my request, lunch is already being set up so you’re not just sitting with your thumbs up your asses while you’re waiting. There’s…let’s see here…” He consulted his clipboard. “Grilled teriyaki salmon and chicken, rice, stir fried vegetables, and some noodles I’m told are good luck.” He looked up at them. “You guys do things differently here in San Francisco.”
There was some low laughter.
“They are good luck,” Ian muttered. He was a true believer since a couple of years ago when he’d eaten a pile of the noodles for lunch one day before scoring a buzzer beater later that night against Winnipeg.
“To make it fair, we’ll go in numerical order. I want the next guy on deck outside my office for efficiency. I’m going to ask each of you what you think your role on the team is and what you’d like to see us do, moving forward. Thanks again for this. See you in a few.”
The two guys with the lowest jersey numbers followed Bertsoulakis out of the room and the rest of them headed for the chafing dishes on the other side of the room. Spencer got himself a plate and sat next to Gideon.
Gideon Aguilar was “the new guy,” but already seemed like he’d been with the team for years. The guy was smart and funny and was hooked on Spider Solitaire just like Spencer was. On plane trips, they’d race each other—first one to win a certain number of games, depending on how long the flight was. Sometimes there was money involved.
“Well, no one expects the Spanish Inquisition,” Gideon said, quoting Monty Python.
“Shit, Aggie, he’s not torturing people in there.”
Laughter broke the tense mood. Everyone started talking at once.
“Talk about a bomb dropping.”
“Did you see his boarding pass sticking out of his pocket? I think he came straight from the airport.”
“Talk about jumping right in.”
“Anyone coached by him?”
No one spoke up.
“So, mystery meat,” Ian said.
Not exactly. Bertsoulakis’ outstanding record in the NHL was public knowledge.
When it was Spencer’s turn, the meeting only lasted a couple of minutes.
“Great to meet you, Corbett.”
They shook hands.
“Define your role on the team and feel free to tell me if you’d like this role to change.”
Spencer had been thinking about it off and on during his time eating.
“For the most part, I’m satisfied with my role. I can locate first and second options quickly so the puck moves up the ice faster. I’m good in the corners and in the room, but if given the chance, I could play more offensively, especially on special teams.”
“Noted.” Bertsoulakis wrote on a legal pad that already had half a page of scribbles. “What do you think the team needs right now?”
“I think it’s obvious. A real focus on offense, on speed. Power play goals. Face-offs.”
Bertsoulakis nodded. “Is that it?”
“No. Now that Wingate is gone, if we rolled four lines more consistently it might allow our best players to worry less about keeping energy in reserve. The other guys would then be pressured to step up and not rely on the big guns to do all the work.”
Bertsoulakis nodded as he finished writing.
“Thanks, Corbett. Appreciate the honesty.” After they shook hands, he referred to a printed sheet. “Tell Stone he’s on deck.”
Spencer dutifully passed on the message to Max then left the building.
On the drive home, he revisited his conversation. Had he sounded like a complainer? Had his comment sounded like he was really more concerned for himself rather than for the team’s performance as a whole? Because he certainly wanted more ice time. Everyone wanted ice time. One hundred percent, if they all had the energy, they’d all play sixty minutes, given the chance. But he’d said it and he couldn’t take it back. Hell, the guy asked.
He wondered what his teammates’ answers had been and if anyone had echoed what he’d said. Of course, now, he was thinking of other shit that needed changing that he could have mentioned.
He told himself to stop second-guessing pretty much every word he’d said. That shit was out there. Hell, it was written down. No sense in beating himself up over it.
Better he think about Maggie.
“Hey, Siri, text Maggie ‘We got a new coach today. I told him what you said about style over substance.’”
The text was sent. He grinned, thinking about her reaction when she—
Maggie: YOU WHAT?
—got the message.
Spencer: Just kidding. I didn’t tell him you said that, but I do happen to agree with you. #wisewoman
An emoji with sweat appeared on his screen.
Maggie: Thanks for the mini heart attack. In the middle of something. Talk later.
He chuckled, mood lifted. He might have interpreted her text as annoyed, but he knew she wasn’t.
She just didn’t have that kind of personality, something he valued. He’d been with women whose hobby seemed to be finding things to be annoyed with—usually something he did or said. He supposed it was a good thing they were so vocal about it. Saved him time in figuring out they weren’t a good fit. Better they find someone with a similar knack for finding fault.
He turned this thoughts toward the surprise he wanted to plant for Maggie to find when she got to his house later this afternoon. Chocolate was a safe bet. Flowers too, but…he wanted to go the extra mile. He might have asked Jade for ideas if he’d wanted to expose himself to a tsunami of excitement on behalf of her best friend, but he didn’t have her number. In the end, he got the bright idea of looking at her social media for clues. If only he knew what social media she was on. His own accounts were under account names known only to his family and trusted friends. He made a note to add her to that list.
It wasn’t until he got home that he had the time to find her on Facebook and Instagram then stalk her a little.
Amazing what a person could find out from social media. He now knew about restaurants she frequented, food and drinks she tended to order, places she liked to spend her free time. She liked Justin Timberlake, Idris Elba, Taylor Swift and Café Vanilla Frappuccinos. And pugs. Obviously. When he finally emerged from his social media deep-dive, he realized he’d been at this for over an hour.
Fuck. He was out of time and left with two options, neither of which he liked.