Ash
The girls had a great practice today after handily dispatching with an outmatched Swiss team two days ago, and I was tempted to let them go early, but that’s not a good precedent to set. I do, however, let them scrimmage, since they enjoy it and, honestly, it’s fun to watch. Also, it gives the coaching staff an opportunity to look out for habits we’ve drilled in practice that players drop when it’s time for games. Happens all the damn time.
They’re doing well, though, and it’s . . . fun. Easy. They’ve worked their asses off and it shows. It’s paying off. Are they perfect? No, of course not. But they’re human, and damn close to flawless, which is about all a man can ask for. Of course, I’ll demand more on the off-chance they’ll give it, but if they can’t, I sure as hell won’t be disappointed.
My eye is drawn to a bit of a scuffle in the far corner of the rink, and I think about shouting at them to get out of the corner and knock it off, but it breaks up before I make my call. They all appear to skate off, get back in the game, but it’s getting chippy out there. Too much adrenaline, too much aggression, too much excitement for the game tomorrow.
On the one hand, it’s good for them to get some of that out here with their own team instead of earning time in the sin bin for that kind of shit tomorrow. On the other hand, I want them to keep some of that nervous energy pent up so it’ll explode when it’s needed, because we’ll need it against the Canadians tomorrow. Also, I don’t want anyone getting hurt.
It’s shitty enough getting injured in a game, but in practice it’s even worse. Ignominious, because what the hell was it even for? At least in a game it was for a cause, it was to win. But practice? Boo. Nobody wants that.
I’ll give them two more minutes to blow off some steam, and then I’ll call it. I scribble a few notes on my clipboard about the observations I made during practice, contemplate how to address issues—to the whole team, one-on-one with the player, what’s the best strategy for getting my message not only heard, but the fixes implemented. This is what I don’t think a lot of coaches spend much time thinking about: communication style matters. And while I don’t want to sound like a sexist pig, in my experience it matters more to women than to men, and—
My planning and musing is interrupted by more jostling. Apparently two minutes was too long for them to go without getting into trouble. Then I hear it. The sickening crunch and grind of a player hitting the ice hard, and a sharp cry. Not just a yelp of surprise or grunt of impact. My girls are tough. I’ve seen them played bloodied and bruised, and I’ve had to take some of them out over their protests when they were clearly hurt and could injure themselves further if I kept them on the ice. I rarely hear noises like that and when I do, it’s not good. Whatever just happened, it hurt someone.
I’m on my feet as soon as my brain can send the message to stand, and yeah there’s a twinge in my hip, but it’s not as important as what just happened on the ice. When a few bodies clear, I can tell that what just went down is Bronwyn, and that’s when my head explodes, supernova style, and everything goes black except her.
Against my better judgment, or really any judgment whatsoever, I’m over the boards and on the ice, moving as fast as I dare because if I hit the ice, it’s all over. I hate the way I can only shuffle over when what I want to do is sprint. Hate how she’s still lying on the ice, hate how she’s got an arm wrapped around her waist and is curled up around it. What did she hurt?
Broken arm? Broken wrist? Shoulder? Did she take a stick to the stomach? I didn’t hear or see her get slammed against the boards, but could be. I should’ve been paying better attention.
When I reach Bronwyn who’s still curled up like a pea in a pod on the rink, Nguyen’s standing there, no helmet on with a guilty-as-hell look on her face.
“Coach, I’m sorry. We were just getting a little rough, and then—”
I don’t wait for her explanation or her excuse or whatever is going to come out of her mouth. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
Nguyen’s eyes go wide with shock, and I can’t blame her. I don’t swear at the girls, never ever. Yes, I sometimes curse in front of them, and I don’t shy away from profanity in the locker room, but it’s never directed at one of my players. Maybe a small distinction, but an important one. I’ll deal with the self-recriminations and apologies later, but for right now, I’m all hot rage and roaring protectiveness.
“It’s all fun and games until someone gets seriously hurt. There’s a gold medal on the line tomorrow, and Bronwyn’s one of our best.” At least I manage to get those logical protests out—even if I did call her Bronwyn instead of Perry—over what’s actually shrieking through my head. Mine. My Bronwyn is hurt, in pain, her career could be over just like mine. My stomach is rioting with panic, concern, and fury, but as I kneel down, I try to tamp them all down because she must be afraid. Suffering.
My hip screams as I drop to the ice but the physical discomfort is nothing compared to the emotional distress. We’ve been sleeping together for a week, and yet it feels like we’ve been involved for far longer than that. Maybe it’s that I’ve known her for years, maybe it’s the effects of the SIG snow globe, or maybe it’s that I can see us being a thing beyond the SIGs, like far beyond, but whatever it is, my heart is juddering in my chest, threatening to bust out of my ribcage if she’s really hurt.
“Hey, B. Don’t move, just talk to me. Can you do that?”
There’s a pause and then a sad hiccup that squeezes my heart until it might burst. “Yeah.”
“What’s hurt? Is it your neck? Your back? Can we take your helmet off?”
I want to touch her, offer comfort, but all I’ll get is handfuls of plastic, foam, and fabric. Absent that, I want to see her face.
“Yeah, nothing to do with my spine.” She reaches a hand up to unclick the strap of her helmet, but I beat her to it and help her ease it off her head. Aside from the exertion flush that’s coloring her cheeks, she’s paler than normal, but she’s alert, doesn’t seem in danger of passing out at all, no tear tracks on her cheeks.
“Then what is it?”
One of the SIG medics that’s on hand has finally made I over and is kneeling herself with her kit, starting to fire questions at Bronwyn.
“What is it?” Yeah, it’s rude but I need to know.
“It’s my hip, took a helmet to it in the pile-up.”
Her words are cautious and her breathing measured, and there’s a sheen of warning in her eyes. I open my mouth, and I’m not sure what’s going to come busting out first. Yelling at Nguyen more, chastising the medic for not getting over here sooner, assuring Bronwyn she’s going to be okay even though I’m feeling sick to my stomach because there’s the definite possibility she won’t be.
Before I can let anything fly, though, Bronwyn’s voice silences me. “Coach.”
Right, yes, Coach, that’s me.
“Coach,” she repeats, and when I meet her eyes, her meaning is clear. You are Coach right now, not Ash. You are acting like Ash, and that’s not okay. Knock it off. “I’m okay. I think it’s just a bruise. The hit hurt and I got the wind knocked out of me, but I’m okay.”
She’s using her gaze to plead with me for understanding, to play this game with her, and though my heart is rebelling with every beat, my head is smarter. She’s right. I need to chill. I need to pretend this is someone else. Don’t see her dark hair splashed all over the ice like a pool of blood, don’t see the corners of her mouth tight with strain, don’t see her golden eyes wide, and her skin pale.
I get up, wincing, and force myself not to pace while the medic interrogates her, by crossing my arms and trying to breathe. After a few minutes, the medic seems to be done with her questions, and she helps Bronwyn to sit, and then stand. I get light-headed with relief when she’s on her skates, pushing the reminder of my own freakish journey from my head, because there’s no way that would happen to Bronwyn, too. No way would I be punished like that by not only bearing it myself but having to bear it happening to someone I . . .
What would Bronwyn say if I told her I loved her? Probably shake her head, blush, and tell me my brain was getting cloudy in the SIG snow globe. It happens, to be sure, but I don’t think that’s what this is.
I grit my teeth as I watch Bronwyn clench her jaw against the pain, but she’s moving without help, plus she’s shooting me eye-daggers of death again, and it’s not a good idea to mess with her when she’s doing that. I swear to god one day I’m going to get her to make actual factual laser beams. Until then, I will keep my face shut and watch her like a hawk as she skates off the ice.
“Uh, Coach?”
I turn, and the rest of my team is standing around, helmets off, staring at me.
“Coach?” Ah, French, yes. Of course she’d be the one to break the silence.
“Yeah, French?”
“Should we finish out our scrimmage? Hit the showers? Time’s up, but . . .”
Fuck, yes, right, practice. That is the thing I should have been focusing on instead of worrying single-mindedly about Bronwyn. It doesn’t help that it looks like the entire team has got some questions about why precisely I am so very concerned. Not that I’m not concerned when any one of them gets injured, because part of my job is keeping these girls healthy, but this is above and beyond my usual professional attentiveness. Shit. No wonder Bronwyn was glaring at me.
“Let’s go over notes form the scrimmage. I’ve got some, and I know Coach Wegner and Coach Jackson have some as well.”
The girls make their way in dribs and drabs over to the bench to review our observations from the last few minutes of play, while I try to use my own eye lasers to burn a hole through the walls between here and the trainers’ office where I’m sure the medic has escorted Bronwyn.