Marek (Cold Fury Hockey #11)(37)
Each of my teammates sitting in this room probably have their metaphorical tongues hanging out as Gray strides up to the podium, a combination of grace and toughness. She’s a knockout redhead with a slammin’ body, which seems even curvier since she gave birth to her first child in May. If her husband, Ryker Evans, knew what every man was thinking in this room at this moment, he’d be wanting to stomp all our asses. As it is, our esteemed goalie coach just casually watches his wife take the stage front and center, although I don’t miss his eyes dropping to her ass briefly.
Gray puts her hands on the podium and picks up a remote that turns on a projector. A pull-down screen behind her lights up and a four-digit number appears: 1983.
Jerking her thumb over her shoulder at the screen, Gray says, “Nineteen eighty-three. The last time a team has won more than two Stanley Cups in a row.”
She pauses and takes a moment to sweep her gaze slowly across the rows, taking in all of her players who are burning to get back out on the ice and get our third consecutive championship.
Gray clicks the remote control and a new image appears behind her. A low rumble of growls from the players resonate through the room as we take in a screen shot of a recent article that was published in Sports World magazine by one of their senior hockey reporters, Colin Hannity.
The headline reads, WHY THE COLD FURY WILL FAIL THIS YEAR.
Gray grimaces and nods her head. “I see you all have read this scintillating piece of sports journalism.”
More growls.
Someone in the back of the room mutters, “That reporter is a cunt.”
Gray doesn’t even blink over that crudity. She’s in a roomful of testosterone-driven men who play a violent sport. Words like cunt and fuck are dropped repeatedly, and Gray has heard it all. More important, she would never want us to change our language in deference to her being a female, since it’s been a struggle for her to overcome the prejudices she’s faced over the last two seasons since she took on this new role with the organization.
“I want to make Mr. Hannity eat his words,” Gray practically snarls.
There’s a lot of fuck yeah’s in response.
“It won’t be easy,” she continues. “The pressure will be great. The scrutiny will be jaundiced. But I know something that cunt of a reporter doesn’t know.”
Lots of snickers from the players, myself included.
“I know that every person sitting in this room—whether you’re a player, a coach, or staff member—has got a huge, fucking hard-on for that Stanley Cup, and the brass balls to go out there and get it.”
Clapping, affirmative cursing, and banging fists on the desks resound throughout the room. The prickles on my skin intensify.
Gray holds her hands up and motions for us to settle down. The room grows quiet again.
“I’m proud of you,” she says so softly that all traces of her recent vulgarity have been forgotten. She’s speaking from her heart right now. “I’m proud of your spirit. Your determination. Your sheer willingness to claw your way to the top. I’ve got the hardest working people I’ve ever known, and I’m not sure this team could be any more blessed.”
The room is silent and thick with emotion. We all want to continue to make Gray proud of us.
Without a word, Gray steps aside from the podium so Coach Pretore can talk. His speech is low on pep and high on the mechanics of how he’s going to conduct training camp. My muscles are already cramping in anticipation of how bad they’re going to be hurting by the end of the day. No matter how hard I work out in the off-season, nothing can ever keep my muscles conditioned the way they become from hours on the ice. It’s going to be a brutal few weeks coming up, but I’d have it no other way.
After Pretore moves away from the podium, Gray steps back up and asks, “Anyone got any announcements they need to make?”
The sound of someone standing up behind me has my head turning to look over my shoulder. Hawke Therrian is a defenseman and about as tough as they come. But right now he looks like a big, goofy puppy dog as he stares down at his fiancée, Vale Campbell, who happens to be one of our trainers. She’s standing in a line of coaches and trainers behind the podium. Her cheeks go pink and I turn to look back at Hawke.
He clears his throat and says, “Just wanted to let you guys know that, um…well, we found out earlier this summer that Vale is pregnant.”
There’s a rumble of congratulations, and those closest to Hawke thump him on the back.
“She’s due early next March,” Hawke continues, his voice a little thick with emotion. He coughs and then tries to bring some levity to the situation. “God help you poor bastards that get on her hormonal side when she’s working on you.”
My head swings back to Vale, and she shoots Hawke a death glare, but then she smiles in smug satisfaction as she realizes she’ll get to torture us more than she already does. My muscles contract in protest of the pain that’s sure to come at her hands, but I couldn’t be happier for her.
Hawke clears his throat again, this time to indicate he’s got more to say. The room goes quiet. “Just as important, we decided to go ahead and get married this summer. So the big, fancy wedding is off the table, but we’re going to throw a hell of a party before it gets too cold. You’re all invited, of course.”
Several of the people in the room laugh, and the overall atmosphere of happiness within the room feels damn good. It speaks to the heart of this team and how we have each other’s backs.