Coast to Coast Page 2

  “One week,” I announced, and both men were startled out of wherever their thoughts had taken them. “I’m giving this one week, but I have conditions.” I sat on the edge of Dad’s desk and glanced between my brothers, both of whom wore mirrored looks of bewilderment.

  “What conditions?” Cam asked and uncrossed his arms.

  “My own office, access to every scrap of financial data for the past ten years, personal meetings with every single player, links to game film, someone to explain the rules of the game, and a place for Leigh to work with us if she wants to. That’s nonnegotiable. If we want to turn this team around, then as part of this management team of three, we cut out all the deadwood: the skaters who don’t give a shit, the managers getting fat skimming from the meager income we make. And most of all, we negotiate with this new coach, whatever his name is—”

  “Rowen Carmichael.”

  “Him. We tell him to get the hell out and find a team at his level.”

  “He’s already in place at the arena, and Dad gave him a loophole-free contract,” Cam warned.

  I fronted both of them. “I don’t give a shit about a loophole-free contract.”

  “Mark—”

  I held up a hand. “No negotiation on any of this. I want a real coach, not some half-assed college wannabe. I want Rowen Carmichael gone.”

  Two

  Rowen

  Waking up in a new bed with the sun shining in my face could’ve been poetic. Maybe. If the mattress wasn’t too soft. I rolled to my side to get the desert sun out of my eyes, and my spine snapped with short, loud cracks as if someone had just fired up a popcorn popper.

  “Ouch, fuck,” I groaned. First thing on the agenda after a run was finding a new mattress. Yes, I was being ungrateful. Sue me. The team had provided a rather nice apartment with a cactus right outside on my patio and all the furnishings, and one perk that I’d requested—a big-screen TV. That was all I cared about for my downtime—a widescreen for viewing Aragorn and Bilbo, Luke and Leia, Aslan and Jadis, Jon and Tyrion. Obviously, I’d overlooked the need for an extra-firm mattress. I’d fix that today after morning skate.

  The alarm on my phone went off. I sat up, slid from under the covers, then padded to the window and let the sun warm my face. The buzzing of my phone died down. Eyes closed, I basked, my lips parted, and my throat exposed. Sure, the sun might cause a few more wrinkles. So what? I was over forty now and not looking to impress anyone. Although it would’ve been nice to have someone to share the rush of this monumental moment in my career with. Someone who didn’t think I was making the single worst decision ever. Even worse than my decision to date Carl back in college, according to my sister.

  God, Carl had been a simpleton. Spoiled, rich, hung up on the aesthetic of everything, vapid, and lost in the beauty of his own face and the faces of others. Aspiring model. Incredibly beautiful but lacking any redeemable value at all. I’d learned quickly that wealthy pretty boys were not my thing unless it was a quick hookup. Otherwise, I kept a wide berth from men who placed the value of beauty over the more important attributes such as loyalty, patience, humor, and a solid work ethic.

  My phone sounded again, ruining my morning moment in the sun. Smiling at the big green cactus with its arms raised skyward, I jogged over to where I’d left it, saw the incoming call, and rolled my eyes to the ceiling. One of the heirs. The eldest maybe? There was a slew of Westman-Reid children, at least four, which is a slew in my book. Anything over two is just showing off.

  “Morning,” I said into the phone as I rummaged around in my carry-on for a pair of shorts. My running shoes were in a box… somewhere in this new place of mine.

  “Coach Carmichael, I’m happy to finally catch up with you. Seems you made quite a splash when you arrived yesterday.”

  I dug down deep into my bag and snagged my running shorts. “Just letting the players know where I stand.” Now, where were my shoes? I turned in circles several times, looking at the boxes and bags piled up in the corners of my bedroom. I tucked the phone between my head and my shoulder and stepped into my shorts, tugging them up over a pair of black briefs.

  “It sent a message. Listen, could we have a morning meeting at my parents’ house, say nine or so?”

  “Which kid is this again?”

  “Jason. The eldest son.”

  “Ah.” He sounded as if he were proud to be the oldest, like he’d done something special to earn his birth order. Rich boys. Such jerks. “Well, Jason, I can’t do a meeting at nine. I’ll be at the barn by eight.” If I could find my fucking running shoes that was…

  “Oh, I’m sorry, but I… the barn?”

  “Yeah, the barn. The rink. The big oval place where they make ice and men with sticks skate on it in pursuit of a puck.” A long silence followed my explanation. Aha! A box marked shoes! I hurried over to it and tugged the flaps open. There lay my Nikes. “I can see you around two in the afternoon. I have some things to discuss with you about player and coaching staff changes that need to be made.”

  “I, uhm, well, isn’t it usually the owners and the general manager who—?”

  “My input is guaranteed in the contract I signed with your father. If you want to turn this sideshow you call a team around, then you need to listen to me. I know this game, and I know what it takes to win,” I said as I bounced around on one foot while pulling on a gray sneaker. “I’ll see you at two. Send me directions.”

  I hung up, found my earbuds, pulled up the Eagles’ The Long One album on my music app, used my nose spray, slid my left shoe on, and set off for a cool five-mile run to purge the whiny voice of Westman-Reid the Eldest Son out of my brain.

  I was waiting for the players when they arrived. Most gave me a meek smile as they entered the Raptors’ dressing room; some seemed wary, others cocky as if they were unimpressed with me and my stupid blue broom. They’d all be feeling the bristles of the clean sweeping that was about to commence. Each man got a small jerk of my head to indicate they were to stand along the far wall, the one with “Play Hard, Play with Passion, Play to Win” running along near the ceiling. Pretty words. Shame the team had no clue how to put any of that into practical application. All this team knew was strife and chaos. I could feel the discord in the locker room.

  When everyone had lined up, I stepped forward, wearing my new Raptors jacket and my shiny whistle dangling around my neck.

  “Morning, gentlemen, today is the first day of Raptors training camp. Today is also the first day of your time under me.” I walked back and forth in front of my men, thin tablet in hand, making eye contact with every player I passed. I could learn a lot from looking into a man’s eyes. “I’ll be running you all through conditioning sprints today, so I hope you all ate your Wheaties.”

  They all grumbled, which was nothing out of the ordinary. All the players hated the assessment drills. Speed sprints were killer; I knew that. I’d skated them fifteen years in a row during my time with Montreal. Such was life for a hockey player.

  “Before we hit the ice, I’d like all the rookies to step forward,” I said, then stood at the end of the row of beefy men. Five players broke from the ranks. Five fresh-faced young lads with the glow of youth on their smooth cheeks. They all seemed edgy as if they thought I might flog them or something. “You five will join me for dinner tonight. I’ll buy a new grill, since grilling is the only cooking I can do well. I’ll text you the place and time.” There were nervous titters from the five rookies. The vets were trying to figure out what I was all about. They’d find out given time.

  “Okay, hit the gym, then be on the ice at nine sharp.” I glanced at the big round clock over the door. The one with the fierce-looking hawk clutching a hockey stick in its talons. “And a heads-up, I loathe people being late. Being late is a sign of disrespect, and I will not be disrespected. Anyone showing up late once will find their ass taking part in a bag skate. If you show up late twice in one season, your ass will sit out a game. If you show up late three times, your
ass will be sent down to the minors.”

  Eyes flared as wide as dinner plates, rookies and vets alike. No one said a word, though they all stared and bobbed their heads. I left them there against the wall and went off in search of my new office. It was a bleak little space by the therapy room, but it had been freshly painted, which was nice. A soft tan color with a red stripe that ran around the middle of the room. I’d brought a small box of personal items in today, and so after sending out a personal message to my fellow coaches, I began placing things around on the desk or on top of a bookshelf in the corner.

  On the top of the small bookshelf, I put a picture of Anatoly Tarasov, a famous Russian bench boss with a finesse-over-force style. I arranged the image so that it faced the desk and I could see the quote attributed to him written over it when seated:

  Speed of hand, speed of foot, speed of mind.

  Train for each of these, but never forget, the most important is speed of mind.

  This was my coaching motto. Hockey was no longer a game of gorillas on skates itching for a fight. The game had evolved. Coaching had evolved with it. Some teams, it seemed, were still back in the early seventies—this one being a prime example. It was up to me and the people I had under me to drag the Raptors into this new era of speed of hand, foot, and mind. A sharp rap on the door jarred me from hockey philosophy. I called them in. Four men entered. I shook hands with them all, getting their names and positions. Video coach was Todd Walsh, defensive coach Craig Millerson, goalie coach Art Schaffer, and associate coach Pete Dunne.

  “Thanks for coming. This won’t take long.” I rested my ass on the edge of my ugly metal desk, folded my arms over my spiffy new jacket, and stared directly at Pete Dunne. “Your services to this team are no longer required,” I told Pete.

  He stared openly at me for several long minutes. The other men looked up and down, side to side, any which way they could not to make eye contact with me.

  “I have a contract,” Pete coughed out.

  “Which you will be released from.” Pete gasped like a goldfish out of its bowl. “This team is changing direction. Your coaching technique does not jibe with our modern philosophy of five-man team systems, individual player skill, puck possession, and speed of mind. You’ve become mired in the old ways and allowed this creeping sickness that is team disharmony and low standards to flourish. So, as they say on Drag Race, sashay away.”

  “I have a contract!” He blustered and bellowed all the way home or more than likely to the general manager, who would call the owners. Which was fine. I’d tell the Gucci Boys the same thing I’d just told Pete. The other coaches waited with bated breath. “You’re all safe. I’ve read over your résumés and have seen the effort you’ve been making. The old coach was a dinosaur. We’re a bit more advanced.”

  “So, we’re mammoths?” Todd, my defensive coach, tossed out, which broke the tension nicely. “My wife would agree. You should hear her bitching about the hair on my back.”

  We all had a nice chuckle over Todd’s hairy back. I was thankful for the levity Todd had brought into the room. I tended to be kind of dry, according to several past lovers and my family. Also, direct, although why being direct was a bad thing, I didn’t know. I thought being forthright was something rather admirable.

  “Let’s go run the players through their paces, shall we?” I motioned at the door Pete had left open. They all nodded, relief clear in their expressions.

  I led them to the ice and then worked my new team into sweaty, gasping blobs on wobbly skates. The rookies were whipped, the veterans half-dead, but I now had a pretty good idea of who had spent the summer training and who had spent it loafing. Tomorrow, I’d start setting up preliminary lines and begin easing this team of bullies and cheap-shot kings into the Rowen Carmichael way of playing hockey.

  After the players limped off the ice, I spent a good hour in my office, setting up my computer and touching base with the nearest Mattress Maven store in downtown Tucson. They assured me my new bed would arrive in an hour, so I went home to wait for the delivery. After it was in place and the old, soft, shitty thing hauled away, I put clean sheets on my new mattress, patted it, and grinned when it never moved. Like petting a hardwood floor. Perfect.

  My fridge was barren, so I made a mental note to stop and shop on the way back from the Westman-Reid estate. I’d need enough food and drink for hungry men. Lots of Dr Pepper—my favorite drink—and steaks, potatoes, and stuff for a big tossed salad. Maybe some bread and other staples as well. I prattled off a shopping list into my phone, then called for another ride. I’d also need a car. Something sporty maybe, since I wouldn’t need to worry about crippling snow or ice storms. I could own a car without studded tires or chains or four-wheel drive. How exciting.

  The driver, José, was a personable enough fellow, skinny with a soft Mexican accent, who whistled long and low when we were granted permission to enter the Westman-Reid grounds. Huge gates opened slowly, and José and I both gaped at the mansion rolling into view.

  “Sweet Virgin Mary,” José whispered.

  “You can say that again,” I replied, handing him his fare and a nice tip. He steered the Toyota carefully around a white Mercedes, a black BMW, a red Lamborghini, and a soft blue Porsche.

  “Ostentatious much?” I asked all the cars parked in front of the sprawling manse. It was like walking into the set of Dallas or Dynasty. “Unreal,” I mumbled, then went to knock on the ornate front door. It was pulled open by an older man in a dark suit. Obviously a butler, who bowed politely and fawned properly as he led me up a sweeping grand staircase to ”the master’s office” where I was left to dawdle in the hall like a waif.

  I tugged my suit jacket down, removed the tie I’d put on, pulled my jeans up, and walked into the office without knocking. Three men and a lovely young woman in a wheelchair all gasped when I threw the door open and strolled in.

  Two of the males were ordinary looking enough, dressed well of course, but lacking in any real appeal. The third one, seated in a wingback with one leg crossed over the other, was striking. And I mean the kind of striking that made a man pause just to admire him as one would a painting in the Louvre. He had deep brown eyes framed with thick dark lashes, a beautiful head of dark curls, and lips that were ripe and plump. His scruff was artfully done and his clothing top of the line but not screaming about how much it cost. A delicate gold watch on his slim wrist was the only accessory I noted. He was stunning. Pity he was one of the owner’s whelps.

  “Coach Carmichael, you’re early,” the big man behind the even bigger desk said as he rose to his feet. “Please come in and sit down. Can we ring the staff to bring you anything?”

  “I’m fine,” I replied, shaking the cool hand, then releasing it.

  “Very well. Let’s get to know each other. This is my brother Cameron, my sister Leigh, and my brother Mark.” I nodded at them all, then sat in a fat leather chair about ten feet from Mark Westman-Reid. I could smell his cologne. It was heady and spicy with a hint of musk and floral. Nice. “We’ve been trying to keep up with you. You’ve created quite a stir since you arrived in Tucson.”

  Jason chuckled the way powerful men do when they think they’re being funny. I arched an eyebrow. The titters died off.

  “Did you seriously fire Pete Dunne without even consulting us?” Mark went straight for the jugular. “You can’t—"

  “Mark—” Jason interrupted him.

  “—he can’t do that kind of shit,” Mark finished. He stood and moved toward me, looming over me, and I copied immediately. If there was a showdown, then I wanted to face it head on.

  “I can. And I did. The man was a boil on the backside of professional hockey.”

  Leigh giggled, then quickly covered it with a tiny hand. Mark, he of the kissable lips, stared at me as if starfish were dancing on my head.

  “You don’t have the right to hire and fire at will.” He was angry, “who do you think you are? You’re the last person my dad should have hi
red.”

  Jason, Leigh, and Cameron sat quietly on the sidelines, so I guessed it was Mark who was leading this show.

  “Please carry on.” I wanted to hear all about why I wasn’t suitable for the job I’d been hired for.

  “You coached at a college.”

  Ah. So we were going straight there.

  I held up a hand. “Irrespective of whether or not I should have been hired, my contract with your father has a proviso that gives me the right to hire and fire who I wish with regard to those serving under me.” I let that sink in. “Please feel free to read over my contract and understand that I am here to stay.”

  “We will of course,” Jason hurried to say after Mark began chewing his own tongue off in frustration. “But perhaps if you’d give us a heads-up with regards to your plans, we’d be able to—”

  “Fine, I plan on flying out to Seattle at the end of the week to speak with the person I want to hire as my assistant coach.”

  All four Westman-Reid children sat in stunned silence. Had I said a bad word? I was an old hockey player; perhaps a stray F-bomb had fallen out of my mouth. Jason blinked as if he had sand in his eyes. Cameron’s mouth fell open. Leigh sat primly in her wheelchair, bright eyes steady on me, and Mark with the huge brown eyes was so furious he couldn’t seem to find the words.

  “Did I stutter?” I asked when the silence dragged on.

  “No, no, of course not, we just weren’t…”

  “No way are you going to Seattle to hire anyone,” Mark snarled, his pretty eyes sparking with heat and passion. It was a look that did wonderful things for his already handsome features. Cameron and Jason began throwing words at Mark. Mark flung words back at his brothers. I rolled my eyes for Ms. Leigh, and she smiled sweetly at me.