“Hi.” I offer my hand for him to shake, and he takes it. “Yes, I’m Mia. Nice to meet you.”
“You, too,” the stranger returns, tilting his head toward the thin sourpuss. “This is Jeffry, your boss.”
I smile at him, surprised he didn’t make the introduction himself. “Oh. Hi.”
“Hello,” he snips coldly.
“Buchanan said he’d give you an introduction after practice since he has a meeting this morning,” the man in the orange polo continues. “For now, record whatever you want. Everyone’s already signed a waiver, so you should be good to go. I’m Dawson, by the way,” he adds as if only now realizing he hadn’t properly introduced himself. “I’m the head coach for the Lions.”
Ah, so that’s who he is.
Subtly, I check him out, having heard a lot about him. He’s a little older than me, maybe thirty? Thirty-five? With blonde hair and kind eyes. When I told my friends I’d been hired, Colt and Theo gave me a rundown of what to anticipate. They also mentioned the head coach played hockey professionally for a few years but shattered his knee. Theo thinks Dawson has a good eye for plays, which is probably why Buchanan hired him.
Apparently, he cherry-picked his coaching staff along with the rest of the players and medical team. He’s bold, considering the fact none of us have any actual hands-on experience. But if it pays off, it’ll pay off big time, and I’m not the only one curious to see how this season plays out for the Lions.
“Nice to meet you,” I tell him.
“Nice to meet you too,” Dawson returns. “Let’s get to work.” He claps his hands loudly and addresses the rest of the players. “All right, guys, listen up.”
The locker room quiets as everyone turns to Dawson and waits.
“Most of you have already met at the banquet, but as a quick refresher, I’m Dawson, the head coach for the Lions. You can call me Coach, Coach Dawson, or Dawson. Honestly, I don’t give a shit what you call me, but I do expect you to show up, be on time, and be ready to do what I tell you. Unless the medical team says for you to take it easy, I expect you to give me a hundred and ten percent every single day. Yes, including practices. The first game is in a month, which means we have some conditioning to do. It will be brutal, and I will piss you off. But unless you’re puking or passed out on the ice, I expect you to keep pushing yourself. Any questions?”
Silence.
“Good,” Dawson decides. “Oh, and this is McCarthy and Bowers, two more coaches on staff. This is our mascot and my little brother, Mitchell.” He points to the mascot. The lion’s head twists, and he folds his arms, appearing unimpressed. Dawson clears his throat. “But he’s superstitious and considers it bad luck to show his face or step out of character whenever he’s in the arena, so please call him Leo the Lion if you ever need to address him.” The mascot instantly relaxes and gives a thumbs-up as I bite back my amusement.
Is he for real?
“And this is Mia,” Dawson continues. He hooks his thumb at me. “She’s our head of social media and works under Jeffry for now. Do what she says, or you’ll piss Buchanan off. Let’s go.”
The team heads down the tunnel toward the rink as I turn to Jeffry, waiting for instruction. Once we’re alone, he slides his tongue between his teeth and upper lip, finally gracing me with eye contact.
“I assume you’ve done this before?” he asks curtly.
I shrug one shoulder. “I’ve built a few brands independently in the past, but this is my first official experience as a social media manager for a corporation.”
“I’m the head of public relations,” he informs me.
“Awesome. I assume we’ll be working closely together?”
“Like Dawson said, I’m your boss. Don’t fuck this up.” He turns on his heel, heading in the opposite direction of the rink.
“Am I supposed to follow you?” I call.
He faces me again. His annoyance permeates the air around him as he lifts his pointy nose toward the ceiling. “Aren’t you supposed to be filming for social media?”
“Well, yeah, but––”
“I suggest you make your way to the ice.”
Without another word, he leaves.
Okay, then.
I never expected everyone to be so…friendly. Well, other than Jeffry, anyway. Thankfully, I haven’t seen him since the locker room.
Buchanan has yet to make an appearance, but Colt and Theo have officially taken me under their wings. At least as much as they can while still paying attention to the new coach’s instructions. It’s been two hours, and the players are all huffing and puffing from conditioning. They’ve clearly taken Dawson’s instructions to heart and are pushing themselves to their limits, giving him a hundred and ten percent. But if I had to guess, it’s par for the course. This is their job. Of course, they want to push themselves. To show up and try their hardest. This is what they’ve been working for, and they aren’t about to let it go, not with their NHL dreams finally in their grasp. Gotta give them credit. It’s kind of hot.
“Come on, Beck,” Coach Dawson bellows from the bench at the new goalie lagging behind the rest of the team. “Pick up the pace! These are called sprints for a reason. Now, sprint!”
The goalie grumbles but pushes himself a little harder, pumping his arms back and forth and catching up to the rest of the players. The team is drenched in sweat as they rush from one end of the rink to the other. Flurries of ice crystals float in the air while the players’ skates cut into the ice at a furious rate. I want to capture it. This moment. The adrenaline. The determination. The anticipation. Everyone’s feeling it. The players. The coaches. Even me.
Laying on the small patch of concrete separating the benches from the rink in hopes of achieving the perfect angle, I record the players sprinting from one goal to the other. Their skates. The spray of slush. The arena lights shining from above. The damp hair clinging to their foreheads. It’ll be an excellent addition to the earlier shots I’ve taken.
Seriously, this is gonna look awesome.
“Good job,” Dawson yells when the players reach the opposite side for what feels like the hundredth time. “Let’s call it a day.”
Pushing to my feet, I search the stands for Buchanan but come up empty. Dawson said he’d be here to make an official introduction or something, so where is he? When I don’t find him, I hustle to Dawson’s side and take control of the situation. “Do you mind if I ask the team to stay for a few minutes? I want to record a couple more shots if possible.”
As if only now remembering I’m here, Dawson searches the stands for Buchanan, too, but when he doesn’t find the guy, he nods at me and raises his voice again. “Mia wants to grab a few more shots before you pack it in. Do what she asks. When she says you’re done, you can shower. Good practice today. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
He turns on his heel and walks away as the rest of the team lines up in front of the bench, waiting for further instruction.
Well, alrighty then.
I clear my throat and rest the brand-new DSLR on my shoulder, debating where I should begin. This is so surreal. Having nearly two dozen brooding hockey players staring at me, waiting for me to tell them what to do.