Game plan, p.2
Game Plan, page 2
He had his job and his players and his cousins. For now, it would have to be enough.
CHAPTER TWO
With a surname like Langley-Brown, Pierce had always joked that his family sounded like they should own a sprawling ranch in Wyoming or a high-end international hotel conglomerate or maybe a small town. But they were regular people. Teachers, executive assistants, dentists, graphic designers, historians, personal trainers.
Take his sister, for example. Sabrina was as down-to-earth as they came, proving the OTT quality of their name wrong.
As Pierce stared at her phone number on his phone, his thumb hovering over the Call button, he couldn’t deny the nervousness that made his mouth dry. It would take nothing at all to call her. Just a brief dip of his finger.
And a small step past his fear.
A large step, really.
Because what if it was too late?
What if he’d alienated his sister for good?
To say he’d been uncommunicative the past two years was like saying that depression was a serious mental disorder.
Yeah, no shit. He had first-hand experience with the latter. Being diagnosed with depression in his late thirties wasn’t what he’d expected out of life, but neither had been divorce or a fractured relationship with his offspring.
When he’d moved to Quebec, Sabrina had put up with his shit for longer than most people, but eventually, she’d stopped trying too. During the hell of his divorce, the challenge of reconnecting with Jason, and learning to live with his mental illness, he’d been in too much pain to talk about what was happening. He’d ignored most of Sabrina’s phone calls, texts, and emails, generally failing to be a decent human being.
After two years, he was lucky Cameron, his childhood best friend, was still talking to him.
Pierce couldn’t say the same about anyone else.
Except for his son, but Jason had just turned twenty and still had the teenage habit of communicating through grunts and mumbles. But Pierce was grateful for any sound Jason managed to direct his way. Pierce's ex-wife had badmouthed him to Jason during their entire separation and subsequent divorce. Things had been so bad that Jason had opted to legally take his ex-wife’s maiden name.
Not that it mattered. A name was just that—a name. Jason could call himself whatever he wanted. Didn’t mean he wasn’t still Pierce’s son.
Leaning against the kitchen counter, Pierce rolled his shoulders, refusing to let the old anger get to him. It was water under the bridge. His relationship with Jason was finally back on track. Hell, even his relationship with his ex-wife wasn’t as hostile two years post-divorce, though they’d never be friends after everything she’d tried to pull. These days, they only spoke if it concerned Jason.
A text pinged his phone. Cam.
Did you talk to her yet?
“Her” being Sabrina, whom Cam knew Pierce was nervous about calling.
Just do it, came a second text when Pierce took more than twenty seconds to respond, followed by Pick up your big boy pants and make the call.
I think that’s sexist. And also patronizing, Pierce wrote back, earning himself an eye-roll emoji from his best friend.
Cam wasn’t wrong, though. Pierce stared at his phone, absently noting the sound of the shower turning on in the bathroom down the hall.
Sabrina was part of the reason he’d moved back to Vancouver. He was in a much better place when it came to his mental health, and he was going to make amends with his sister even if it took the rest of his life.
Didn’t mean he wasn’t anxious about speaking to her.
“Fuck it.” He hit Call.
It rang. Rang some more. It rang for so long that nerves tromped in his belly, and he tapped his toes against the kitchen tiles. He was convinced he was about to get bumped over to voicemail when the line finally clicked and a voice that sounded both harassed and confused said, “Hello? Pierce?”
“Hey, sis.”
Silence. Then, “Hi.”
Sabrina sounded reserved. Which, fair. The last time they’d spoken had been shortly after she’d given birth, and that had been several months ago.
“What’s wrong?” Sabrina asked. Because of course she’d think something had to be wrong for him to call.
“Nothing. I . . . Happy birthday.”
“Oh. Thank— Hey!”
He jumped at her sharp bark.
“Do not put that in your mouth, Rosa Langley-Brown-Aziz.”
“Oh man.” Pierce snorted a laugh. “Please tell me you didn’t add a third name to an already hyphenated name.”
“So what if I did? Rosa! No!”
Pierce chuckled. Jason had been the same as a baby—anything he found on the floor went into his mouth.
“So,” Sabrina said once she’d presumably wrangled her kid. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Pierce said as, down the hallway, the shower turned off. “I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday. And let you know I’m back in the city.”
“Yeah, I heard Jason got traded to the Orcas. Figured you wouldn’t be far behind. Is that what it takes for you to make an effort at a relationship, then? Physical proximity?”
Ouch.
Sucking in a sharp breath through constricting lungs, Pierce nearly dropped the phone. It was a fair question. Didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell. Didn’t mean it didn’t burn like acid in the back of his throat.
Before he could respond, she continued with, “You do know who the Orcas’ new head coach is, right?” Her teasing voice held a touch of spite he couldn’t blame her for. She was angry with his lack of communication and she had every right to be.
But Pierce couldn’t think about Matt. Not now. Not yet.
Two years ago, when things with his ex-wife had been at their worst, he’d been both emotionally and geographically estranged from Jason. He’d been living in Vancouver, and Jason and been playing for the major juniors in Quebec. Then, a week after Jason had signed a contract to play for Montreal’s AHL affiliate in Laval, Jason had been in a car accident. Pierce had dropped everything to fly to Quebec, where he’d stayed for the next two years, refusing to leave until he’d repaired their relationship. The accident had been a sign. A kick in the ass. A jumpstart from the universe.
But it meant he’d left everyone behind. His sister and her husband. Cam. Matt. With the divorce and Jason’s accident and trying to sell his store and inventory from several provinces away, and making sure he was there for Jason in a way that didn’t smother his son, and finding a new job and an apartment . . .
Mentally, he hadn’t had the capacity for anything else. Most days, it had felt like he was barely keeping himself from drowning. There’d been days—sometimes several in a row—when he hadn’t spoken a single word and others where he’d only gotten out of bed to pee.
Now, here he was, a year into therapy his best friend had forced himself into so he didn’t collapse in on himself, and he was desperate to make amends. He missed his sister. He wanted their connection back, and he wasn’t going to let the anger in her voice deter him.
He was making headway in repairing his relationship with Jason. Ergo, he could do the same with Sabrina.
Struggling for a response, he managed a croaked sound that sounded vaguely like “Yeah,” but was immediately interrupted with another “Rosa! Pierce, sorry, I have to go.”
With that, the line clicked.
Silence.
Loneliness pulled at his insides, fractured his soul, cut tiny pieces into his heart. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he carefully set the phone down, as though it was a bomb about to go off. Sucking in a breath, he rolled his shoulders back and shook off the mood before it could take him down.
Not a promising conversation. In fact, it was a total failure. But he loved his sister and he was dying to meet his niece, so he wasn’t giving up.
He found a smile as Jason’s shuffling footsteps sounded in the hallway.
“Hey, do you want me to make you break—” He got a look at Jason’s face. “Are you okay?”
Jason grunted. Not a surprise, though it told Pierce nothing. Jason’s washed-out complexion and the circles under his eyes said more.
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Fine,” Jason rasped.
He did not look fine. His dark brown hair, the same shade as Pierce’s, was still damp, and he was dressed for practice—sweatpants and a hoodie. Actually, if Pierce wasn’t mistaken, his son was wearing two hoodies. And shivering. But also sweating?
“You look like you’re about to fall over” was Pierce’s official assessment.
“I’m fine,” Jason repeated, pulling kale and berries out of the fridge. “Just need some breakfast and I’ll be good to go.”
Never mind that just saying breakfast made Jason flinch.
Pierce edged around him, aiming for the cupboard above the fridge where he kept the medical stuff to see if there were any flu meds that weren’t expired. Jason pivoted, and they bumped into each other.
Jason huffed.
Pierce huffed back, moving out of the small kitchen.
Jason liked his space. Well, so did Pierce. When Jason had been traded to the Orcas, he’d had precisely twelve hours to get himself to Vancouver for his first practice. So Pierce had called his landlord in Vancouver, asked him to hire someone to air out the apartment he’d still been paying rent on, given Jason the keys, and sent him on his way. Pierce had stayed behind to pack up Jason’s little bachelor apartment in Laval—and because he couldn’t leave his own job at the drop of a hat.
It meant that Jason had been here for almost an entire month on his own, and he didn’t appreciate his dad encroaching on his space, never mind that this was Pierce’s space, technically.
Pierce was about to comment again that Jason looked like the walking version of a skeleton when Jason glared at him and hit a button on the blender. Raising an eyebrow, Pierce crossed his arms over his chest and waited him out. He’d like to see the day his kid outmanoeuvred him.
“Call in sick,” he said as soon as the blender whirred off.
Jason transferred his smoothie into a tumbler that was as tall as his size eleven feet. “You don’t call in sick from a professional hockey team.”
“You do when you look like a brisk wind would knock you over.”
“Whatever.”
Pierce pushed two fingers into Jason’s bicep. Jason wobbled, falling hip-first into the counter.
“Daaaaaad. Why are you like this?”
“Oh, excuse me for being concerned. Sure you don’t want a third hoodie?”
“Now you’re just laughing at me.”
“Kinda.”
That lured a smile out of Jason. A tiny one, like he was fighting it, but it was there.
“I gotta go.” Jason brushed past him, smelling like soap from his shower—which, why he’d bothered to shower before practice was anyone’s guess. “Coach Shore makes us do extra practice if we’re late.”
The name swept into Pierce’s heart, broke into his lungs, stealing all his oxygen for a moment.
Coach Shore.
Matt Shore.
Pierce’s Matt.
Yes, he knew exactly who the new head coach of the Vancouver Orcas was, which was why he’d avoided Jason’s open practices in the week since he’d moved back from Laval. Jason hadn’t commented on his lack of presence at practice, thank Christ. What would Pierce say if he asked?
Once upon a time, I fucked your coach on the regular and now I’m avoiding him.
Or how about Once upon a time, I thought I’d marry your coach?
Both were true.
But he couldn’t tell Jason that. How would Jason react if he found out that his dad and his coach had a history? One that had been full of laughter and shared nights and evenings cooking dinner and mornings blearily eyeing each other over cups of coffee?
It was best if that stayed in the past where it belonged. After how Pierce had left without so much as a goodbye, there was no way Matt would want anything to do with him ever again anyway.
He was so mired in his circling thoughts that he almost missed the front door opening.
“Hey! Jase!” He popped into the entryway. “Why don’t I drop you off?”
“I’m fine.”
Pierce might’ve believed him if the weight of his equipment bag over his shoulder didn’t make him look like he was about to collapse into the floor.
“All right, just . . . call me if you need anything.”
“Okay, okay.” Tugging the door open, Jason stepped into the hall. “See you later.”
“Have a good practice. Love you.”
The door clicked closed, leaving Pierce with his worry about Jason and his lingering thoughts about Matt. Setting both aside for now, he went into his office—aka a tiny corner of his bedroom—and started his workday.
CHAPTER THREE
“What’s going on with Gauthier?” Matt leaned against the boards at the blue line and tipped his head toward the wobbly player. “Why does he look like he’s just learning his legs?”
On his left, his skills coach, former NHL player Emery Stanton, crossed his arms, biceps straining against a form-fitting, long-sleeved athletic tee. “Did you see him when he arrived? He looked like he’d spent all night on a binger, then face-planted in a ditch.”
Matt side-eyed him. “That’s quite the picture.”
“Or he’s coming down with something.”
After more than fifteen years playing professional hockey, Emery had seen it all, same as Matt. Coaches could preach all they wanted about taking care of their bodies and going to bed early, but that didn’t mean players wouldn’t party all night and arrive for practice hungover.
When he’d been a player, Matt had shown up to practice hungover more than a few times. Emery had too, although his last days as a player had been much more recent. Last year had been Emery’s final one playing for Vancouver’s NHL team, the same team where Matt had been a skills coach.
Even though Vancouver had offered to extend his contract for another couple of years, Emery had decided to retire at the end of last season because, as he’d put it, “I got way more years playing this game than I ever expected, but it’s time for something else. Also, my knees fucking hurt. Like, all the fucking time.”
Yeah. Professional hockey wasn’t easy on the body.
Now, Emery was the Orcas’ skills coach, and he had an eye for catching the subtle cues people gave off to mask exhaustion or pain, so if he said Jason Gauthier was hungover or sick, Matt was inclined to believe him.
“What about Brawsiski?” Matt asked. “Was he on time today?”
“Just made it.”
Matt grunted.
His players being sick, hungover, or on time were, arguably, things he should’ve known already as the head coach. But Matt didn’t believe in doing everything himself. He’d been a hockey player long enough to understand the value of teamwork. Matt’s team consisted of his skills coach—Emery—as well as an assistant coach, an associate coach, a video coach, a goaltending coach, a skating coach, and a strength and conditioning coach. And they all had their roles to play.
Matt had split up the team for today’s practice—half of them were practising now, and the other half would practise this afternoon. It made for a long day for the coaches but also helped them see which players worked well together and had good on-ice chemistry. This first group was a mix of older and younger players, and though a hockey team could be as cliquey as high school twelfth graders, these vets didn’t treat the younger guys as kids, but as equals, giving Matt all sorts of ideas for switching up the lines. Blair Brawsiski, in particular, was the “give a stranger the shirt off my back” type, but it didn’t make up for the fact that he was consistently late for practice.
“Do I need to talk to him?” Matt asked.
“Brawsiski?” Emery narrowed his gaze on their often-wayward player, who was currently participating in a one-on-one drill with Gauthier. “Nah. Not yet. He was technically on time today. Let’s see what the rest of the week brings.”
That was fair.
Matt had worked with Blair Brawsiski for years and knew that his tardiness wasn’t a measure of his interest in the game. It was, simply, a by-product of juggling too many balls at once. And it didn’t matter how often Matt spoke with him about his various commitments and priorities, Brawsiski refused to let any of them go, especially since most revolved around helping his parents with their food shop on Granville Island and helping his sister with her kid while her husband was away on business.
Admirable and selfless, to be sure, but Matt had seen Brawsiski look worse than Gauthier currently did due to nothing but exhaustion.
Speaking of Gauthier, the kid tripped—on his own feet? A divot in the ice?—and went sprawling. Brawsiski chuckled and said something Matt couldn’t hear—probably asking Gauthier if he was okay—then sobered and dropped to his knees when Gauthier didn’t move.
“Shit,” Matt growled. “Emery, get the—”
“Already on it,” Emery said, turning away to flag the two paramedics Matt insisted were at every practice. Team doctors attended every game, but injuries weren’t uncommon during practice.
Matt was beside Gauthier in the next second, skidding to a stop on his skates. “What happened?”
“He just . . . fell,” Brawsiski said from his knees, concern adding lines to the corners of his mouth. “And he didn’t get up.”
Matt checked Gauthier’s pulse. Fast, but steady. His skin was waxen and there was a pinch to his closed eyes. If he’d really been on a binger, perhaps he’d simply fainted from dehydration. “What happened before that?”
“Nothing. We were doing the drills. He didn’t look well, and when I asked, he said he had a bit of a stomach ache. Something he ate last night, he said.”
Sick, then. Not hungover. But Matt had never heard of anyone passing out from a bit of indigestion. This had to be something else.
The paramedics clomped over on their boots, carrying bags of medical equipment and a foldable spine board, and shooed Matt and Brawsiski out of the way.
