Chapter 115 The New Coach

Chapter 115 The New Coach


The front office introduced Reynolds on a Tuesday morning, and I knew within the first five minutes that he was going to be a problem.

He stood at the front of the conference room, a tablet in one hand, a laser pointer in the other, his suit pressed to military precision. He was younger than Danton by at least fifteen years. Clean-shaven. Sharp-eyed. The kind of man who had never played a shift in his life but had spent the last decade studying the game from behind a screen. He had an analytics background, advanced statistics, a reputation for turning bad teams into mediocre ones and mediocre teams into playoff contenders. The front office had hired him to modernize us.

"Good morning," he said, his voice smooth and measured. "I know change isn't easy. But I'm here to help us evolve."

I watched him from my seat near the back. Cassian was beside me, arms crossed, jaw tight. He didn't like this guy, neither did I. Reynolds moved through his presentation with the confidence of someone who had already mapped out the next three years of our organization. He showed us charts and graphs. Player efficiency ratings. Zone entry success rates. Expected goals for and against. Every number told a story: our veterans were declining, our younger players were underutilized, and our cap structure was a liability.

"The game has changed," Reynolds said, clicking to a new slide. "Teams that adapt win. Teams that don't, fall behind."

He let that land.

Then he started talking about the "old guard." He didn't use those words at first. But I heard them. He spoke about players who had been with the organization for years, players whose contracts were expensive, players whose production had started to plateau. He mentioned leadership and intangibles, but he did it the way you mention a footnote. Something worth considering, but not something you built a strategy around.

"At some point," he said, "every organization has to ask itself: are we investing in the past or the future?"

Cassian shifted beside me. I felt the tension in his body, the way his shoulders had gone rigid, the way his hands were gripping his thighs. I reached over, just barely, and touched his wrist. A reminder. He didn't pull away, but he didn't relax either.

Reynolds continued his presentation without looking at us. But I knew he was aware of us. He'd done his homework. He knew who we were. He knew we were the oldest players on the roster. He knew what we were paid. He knew what we'd won. And he knew what we were worth on the open market.

"The salary cap is a reality," he said. "Every dollar we commit to one player is a dollar we can't commit to someone else. That's not personal. That's math."

Danton spoke up for the first time. He'd been silent through most of the presentation, but I'd been watching his face. He wasn't happy.

"These players have won us championships," Danton said. "They've led this team through the hardest moments this organization has ever seen. You can't put that on a spreadsheet."

Reynolds turned to him, polite but unyielding. "I'm not suggesting we ignore what they've accomplished. I'm suggesting we don't let sentiment cloud our judgment about what comes next. The numbers are what they are."

"The numbers don't win playoff series," Danton said.

"They help us understand why we lost them."

The room went quiet. It wasn't a fight. It was too polished for that. But the tension was real, the kind that settles into your bones and stays there. Danton was being challenged, and Reynolds wasn't backing down. He was respectful, professional, and utterly convinced he was right.

After the meeting, I found Cassian in the hallway. His face was red. His hands were shaking.

"Did you hear that?" he said. "He was talking about us. He was saying we're not worth what we're paid."

"I heard."

"I've given this organization everything. Every game. Every shift. Every injury." He stopped, breathing hard. "And they're bringing in some statistician to tell me I'm past my prime."

I put my hand on his shoulder. "We don't know that's what they're doing."

"Yes we do."

I didn't argue. Because he was right.

The rumors started three days later. Quiet at first. An anonymous source to a beat reporter. Then a more detailed article about the team's cap situation. Then a radio segment about "painful decisions" that might be coming.

The front office didn't confirm anything. They didn't deny anything either.

That night, Cassian and I sat in my apartment, the lights off, the city humming below us. He was pacing. I was sitting on the couch, watching him.

"We need to talk about what happens," I said.

He stopped. Looked at me. "What happens if they trade me, you mean."

"Either of us."

He shook his head. "I don't want to think about that."

"I don't either. But we have to."

He came over and sat beside me. Close. His knee pressed against mine. His hand found my hand.

"Then tell me," he said. "What happens?"

I didn't have an answer. That was the hard part. I'd spent so long controlling things, planning things, protecting our future. But this wasn't something I could control. This was the organization's decision. They could keep us. They could trade one of us. They could trade both of us. And we wouldn't know until it happened.

"I don't know," I admitted. "I don't know what happens."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he squeezed my hand.

"Whatever happens," he said, "we face it together."

"I know."

"That's all that matters."

I looked at him. In the dim light, his face was soft. Tired. But there was something else there too. Something steady.

"What if they take you away?" he asked. "What if they send you somewhere else?"

I pulled him closer. "Then I'll find a way back."

"Promise?"

I kissed his forehead. "I promise."

His phone buzzed on the table. He looked down.

"Tor."

"What?"

He picked it up. Turned the screen toward me. It was a message from the front office. A meeting request. For me. Tomorrow morning.

We looked at each other.

Neither of us knew what came next.