Page 70 of Home Ice Advantage
February
The weekend in Montreal had flown by faster than Ryan had even thought might be possible, and it had been even better than he’d thought possible. Rosa Aronson was as different from his father as you could imagine, and Eric had been so visibly happy to be at home with her again that Ryan still got a little reflective glow of it in his chest whenever he thought about it.
That had been the strangest thing to realize about Eric: that under the fighting and the sarcasm and the abrupt rudeness, he was really just a guy who loved his parents more than anything and lived for hockey and was game for whatever stupid ideas Ryan came up with in bed. That he had the same little unhealed wound of regret when it came to his father that Ryan had about his own mother. That they had nothing in common at all in many ways but also everything in common in the ways that really mattered.
It was almost a shock going back to work and dealing with the realities of being the head coach of a major league hockey team. Part of Ryan’s brain was still in Montreal, waking up next to Eric in the bed that was technically too small, or walking in Mont Royal, or helping Rosa wash the dishes. Instead of any of that, Ryan was right back in the swing of leading practices, handling the media afterward, planning strategies and managing the lineup.
The first practice after the break proved to be kind of a mess. It was clear that Cook and Williams were exhausted, and also that several of the other members of the team had been using the time off from work to party it up. Keen and Martel both showed up at the practice facility with dark bags under their eyes, looking a little green around the gills, and Ryan bit back a frustrated sigh when he noticed.
Before he could say anything, though, Ryan chanced to look up at the yellow bleachers that stretched along the inner wall of the practice facility and froze in place. The practices were open to the public, and there were usually fans lining the stands to watch the team working through the drills. Usually, it wasn’t a problem; everyone knew the rules, and no one interrupted or distracted the players.
The person who had caught Ryan’s notice wasn’t doing anything either, not really. But it was just like his father to show up where he wasn’t wanted, to make a point that your own wishes didn’t mean shit when compared to what Mark Sullivan wanted. You could establish as many boundaries as you wanted, and it didn’t matter if you couldn’t actually get away from him.
Dad noticed that Ryan had seen him, and although Ryan couldn’t make out the details of his face this far away, he did cross his arms over his chest, which was the kind of self-satisfied gesture that Ryan knew was probably reflected in a smirk.
Petey noticed something was wrong first. “What’re you looking at, Coach?”
“Unwanted visitor,” Ryan said grimly, as he waited at the red line to start the latest drill.
Petey’s gaze traveled up to the stands, but obviously he didn’t recognize Ryan’s dad. “Oh yeah?”
“I guess I never told him hecouldn’tcome, but I’d hoped the fact I wouldn’t get him free tickets was enough of a goddamn clue for him to know he wasn’t welcome.”
He never knew what to expect when his father showed up to things like this. When Ryan was younger, it had usually meant being loudly heckled if he wasn’t playing up to his father’s standards or screamed at in the car if they had lost the game. Things had changed a little bit now that Ryan was an adult—his father never yelled at him the same way—but there was a part of Ryan that always curled up in an instinctive recoil when his dad turned the force of his disapproval on him. It was unfuckingcanny, really. Thirty years later and it still made Ryan feel like a kid again.
Ryan contemplated skating off the ice and stomping up the bleachers, skates and all. Telling his dad to get the hell out, what kind of a stunt did he think he was pulling. But that was unnecessary conflict. His dad wasn’tdoinganything, except sitting there, knowing that his presence would be bothering Ryan.
Ryan swallowed hard and turned back to the practice at hand. “All right, boys. We’re going to be working on special teams today. Black team’s on penalty kill first; gold team’s power play. We’ll do each drill from both sides. I especially want to see attention to detail—once again, we’re working on making the right pass, not too many, not too few. You’re going to need to make these reads in a split second, same as you would in the games.”
“Yes, Coach,” the team chorused, although he could see Keen in the back rolling his eyes.
The practice went on: Eric was using a tablet to video the players so he could immediately show them what they were doing, good or bad; it was a funny little extension of his penchant for taking pictures. It was a fast-paced practice and Ryan should have been satisfied with it, but he couldn’t relax enough to pay attention.
Maybe it was his father’s presence that made him feel so unsettled, maybe it was just the sour notes ruining what had been one of the best weekends of his recent memory, but Ryan had a brief moment of rage that shivered through him. As a player he’d always been a tenacious, gritty competitor, but it was fueled by his love of the game, not his fury. This was different. For a second, he felt like his skin was too tight for his body, like he might explode. He took a deep breath and counted to ten. He exhaled on another count.
“Keen, is there anything you’d like to share with the class?” Ryan said. It wasn’t the tone of voice he liked to take with the boys: even with the healthy scratches, he usually strove for patience. This clipped snap wasn’t anything close.
“Just that we’ve been doing these drills for fucking ever and the power play still sucks. Like, no offense, Coach. But it does.”
Ryan thought about the way Eric always pinched his nose when he was trying not to say something he’d regret, and wondered whether that would help. He turned a flat stare on Keen. “While some of that is strategy, Keen, it’s also on execution. Which is why we have returned, once again, to doing the drills. It’s not your concern, particularly, as you are not going to be on either power play unit this game.”
Keen’s chin lifted and his eyes were briefly mutinous. Ryan could feel the tension of the moment in the silence on the ice. He had the room and had had it since the beginning of the year when he had come in and given them his pitch. That hadn’t changed, even though they’d gone through a roller coaster of a season with a few hot streaks here and there followed by abject blowouts, a season marred by injuries and roster shuffling. He had the room, but that didn’t mean the boys weren’t waiting to see how he would deal with something like this.
Keen stared back at him, but eventually, looked away first. As soon as he broke eye contact, some of the tension broke too, and everyone moved into position to start running through the drills.
Ryan always did the drills with the team, and he usually liked skating hard through them, whistle clenched between his teeth, stick in his hands as he passed and shot with the rest of them. Sometimes, the coaches would have their own little side-game going, who could get the most shots on net, who could skate the drill the cleanest among all of the suited-up players on the ice. It made thingsfun.
Today wasn’t like that, though. It didn’t matter what he did, he was constantly aware of his father at the corner of his peripheral vision, watching. Probably judging. Since Ryan had become the head coach of the Beacons, his father had often offered unsolicited advice in voice mails and text messages that Ryan tried to ignore. Ryan was well aware of what Mark Sullivan thought about his coaching style, and it wasn’t positive. Having him there felt like an itch between his shoulder blades, just out of reach, building and building until it was almost painful.
“Ryan?” Eric said, during a lull in the activity. “You okay?”
“My dad,” Ryan said, jerking his chin up in the direction of the stands.
Eric looked up, a slow, level look. Ryan didn’t have to say anything more; Eric immediately understood the situation. “Ah.”
The drill was a good one, even if Ryan was working distracted and out of sorts. He wondered whether anyone could tell by his face. The boys were skating hard, and each time he blew the whistle short and sharp to bring new players out into the drill area, it all went smoothly. When he blew three blasts of the whistle to indicate that the black and gold teams were to switch their positions, he realized that Eric wasn’t on the ice anymore. For a second, Ryan stopped skating himself, wondering whether he’d hurt himself somehow.
It took a minute before he could see Eric’s gangly frame, still in skates, stomping his way up the stairs of the bleachers. Which was—whatthe fuck. He was going to ruin his blades.