clean up. A lake that you will train on. And a lake that you will goddamn learn to treat as your ally and foe until you’re good enough to go against anything other than non-sentient beings.”
Coach’s jovial expression fell, his gray brows knitting and his lined face, hard and weathered, growing stern. Cannon knew that look far too well. It meant someone was going to get reamed with drills or made to sit out one too many games. He didn’t even need to pause to know that this time, it was going to be him, because he had more questions to ask.
“Okay. Fine. Doesn’t answer the question though. Why are we here?”
Cannon was six foot four, a mass of finely-tuned muscle and reflexes, a beast by any standard. Years of hard training, skating, and throwing down whenever he needed to had built him into the kind of player any reasonable adversary would think twice about before pounding into on the ice. But Coach didn’t bat an eye, and Cannon Wright was damn sure that if the man would have wanted to, he could have whupped Cannon’s ass up and down the ice.
Never underestimate the raw, brute power of a pissed-off hockey coach. Hell hath no fury like Coach on a rampage.
Having said that, Cannon was more than a little surprised to see a jaunty grin appear on the lips of the old man, wearing his trademark red windbreaker, his hair pepper and salt but still thick and full. There was a glint in his eye that could only be defined as mischief, and any berating Cannon had ever received at the hands of the man who had trained him for the last five years seemed far less dangerous than the sight of Coach being amused.
“We’re here because you’re my main guys. My starters, my first in line. We’re here because you’re the sorriest bunch of hockey players I’ve ever seen,” Coach growled, stepping out of the circle of shifters and coming to stare at the lake, his hands thrust into his pockets.
“Hey, wait now. I object to this characterization,” Logan snorted, backed up by his brother, Leo a moment later.
“I can name at least fifteen teams who suck far harder than we do.”
“Fifteen? Shit man, I can name about twenty-nine,” Memphis commented, smirking.
In a thirty-team league, that was as close to boasting as one could get.
“Shut up,” Coach said lightly, causing all of them to fall silent. “And listen. You can all skate. Individually, you’re some of the best players out there. Even as a team, you’re worth a hell of a lot. But if you want me to tell you that you’re great, you’re talking to the wrong man.”
Slowly, Coach turned around, and Cannon could feel his steely gaze falling immediately on Cannon himself. In response, he pushed back his shoulders, standing a little bit straighter under the scrutinizing eyes of the man who’d been like a father over the last few years. A cruel, spiteful father who made him work until he dropped, but a father nonetheless.
The only kind you should have in this business.
“You’re not great. You know why?” Coach asked, sure to get a reaction.
“Why?” Heath shot with a grin.
“Because you’re grown-ass men and you still don’t know what real teamwork, trust, and cooperation look like. Shifters, all of you, fast, strong, brutal. Yet you play more with your emotions than your instincts, more with your muscles than with your head.
“Those animals inside of you have been locked away for too long and try as I might, I won’t ever get you to release them until you learn to tap in deep. So that’s why we’re here. In Idaho. With a lake. We’re going back to the roots.”
The smile Coach gave was almost eerie as he scanned every man, shocked faces staring back at him.
“So this is where we’re locating to? A fucking forest?” Jax asked, a surly-looking blonde giant with a mop of unruly hair.
The guy could stop forwards like it was nobody’s business and had received an affectionate nickname as the “Sweeper” for how efficient he was at
Coach’s jovial expression fell, his gray brows knitting and his lined face, hard and weathered, growing stern. Cannon knew that look far too well. It meant someone was going to get reamed with drills or made to sit out one too many games. He didn’t even need to pause to know that this time, it was going to be him, because he had more questions to ask.
“Okay. Fine. Doesn’t answer the question though. Why are we here?”
Cannon was six foot four, a mass of finely-tuned muscle and reflexes, a beast by any standard. Years of hard training, skating, and throwing down whenever he needed to had built him into the kind of player any reasonable adversary would think twice about before pounding into on the ice. But Coach didn’t bat an eye, and Cannon Wright was damn sure that if the man would have wanted to, he could have whupped Cannon’s ass up and down the ice.
Never underestimate the raw, brute power of a pissed-off hockey coach. Hell hath no fury like Coach on a rampage.
Having said that, Cannon was more than a little surprised to see a jaunty grin appear on the lips of the old man, wearing his trademark red windbreaker, his hair pepper and salt but still thick and full. There was a glint in his eye that could only be defined as mischief, and any berating Cannon had ever received at the hands of the man who had trained him for the last five years seemed far less dangerous than the sight of Coach being amused.
“We’re here because you’re my main guys. My starters, my first in line. We’re here because you’re the sorriest bunch of hockey players I’ve ever seen,” Coach growled, stepping out of the circle of shifters and coming to stare at the lake, his hands thrust into his pockets.
“Hey, wait now. I object to this characterization,” Logan snorted, backed up by his brother, Leo a moment later.
“I can name at least fifteen teams who suck far harder than we do.”
“Fifteen? Shit man, I can name about twenty-nine,” Memphis commented, smirking.
In a thirty-team league, that was as close to boasting as one could get.
“Shut up,” Coach said lightly, causing all of them to fall silent. “And listen. You can all skate. Individually, you’re some of the best players out there. Even as a team, you’re worth a hell of a lot. But if you want me to tell you that you’re great, you’re talking to the wrong man.”
Slowly, Coach turned around, and Cannon could feel his steely gaze falling immediately on Cannon himself. In response, he pushed back his shoulders, standing a little bit straighter under the scrutinizing eyes of the man who’d been like a father over the last few years. A cruel, spiteful father who made him work until he dropped, but a father nonetheless.
The only kind you should have in this business.
“You’re not great. You know why?” Coach asked, sure to get a reaction.
“Why?” Heath shot with a grin.
“Because you’re grown-ass men and you still don’t know what real teamwork, trust, and cooperation look like. Shifters, all of you, fast, strong, brutal. Yet you play more with your emotions than your instincts, more with your muscles than with your head.
“Those animals inside of you have been locked away for too long and try as I might, I won’t ever get you to release them until you learn to tap in deep. So that’s why we’re here. In Idaho. With a lake. We’re going back to the roots.”
The smile Coach gave was almost eerie as he scanned every man, shocked faces staring back at him.
“So this is where we’re locating to? A fucking forest?” Jax asked, a surly-looking blonde giant with a mop of unruly hair.
The guy could stop forwards like it was nobody’s business and had received an affectionate nickname as the “Sweeper” for how efficient he was at
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