had been beyond pathetic. Telling them they’d win next time wasn’t something she thought she could choke out. At least not sincerely. Chewing Carl Spady up one side and down the other might cheer them up for a while. Or not. Most of the players had been on the team long enough to know that their coach would react by making their next practice a revenge-fest.
Of course she could just jump in her car and drive off before she had to face them. Cowardly, yes, but it would spare them all the awkwardness of trying to be upbeat. But it would also leave the players with nothing to counter Carl’s infamously nasty potshots. Why Tom hadn’t dumped him years ago was a mystery she hadn’t been able to solve. There had been nothing in the scribbled-on napkins to give her so much as a clue.
She was wondering about the therapeutic value of a good cry when the rear door of the arena squeaked on its hinges. Putting self-indulgence on hold, she stared down at the gravel just long enough to summon a smile and then lifted her head to give it to the man coming through the doorway.
The smile evaporated the instant the shape of the dark silhouette registered in her brain. The player had changed into his street clothes; they all did before boarding the bus. Always. And they always had their gear bags over their shoulder and their sticks in their hand as they went that way. Except this time, this player. He’d left his gear behind. God, was he quitting the team? Were they all packing it up and leaving it behind?
“You can’t!” she cried, vaulting off the front of her car to stand in the path of the player made featureless by the dark. “As long as you play, there’s hope. If you quit, it’s gone.”
“Empty hope doesn’t count for much.”
She knew the voice. Her heart actually fluttered, just before it shot up into her throat and cut off her air supply. “Logan Dupree?” she croaked out, her oxygen-deprived brain suggesting that she throw herself into his arms and kiss him senseless.
“I’m surprised I’m here, too,” he drawled with a lopsided smile as he stopped in front of her.
God, even in the dark he was so damn good-looking. And so tall. So broad shouldered. Throwing herself into his arms would require a running leap. The automatic half step back sparked some common sense. Swallowing around her stupid heart, Cat leaned back against the grille of her car and asked as nonchalantly as she could, “Do you want the free story now or later?”
“Never will be fine,” he replied, settling in beside her and crossing his arms over his chest. “There isn’t enough money in the world to get me to sign on to this disaster you call a team.”
Her heart dropped like a lead weight into the pit of her stomach. He wasn’t here to be her knight in shining armor. “Please lower your voice,” she said, desperately trying to anchor herself and hoping she didn’t sound as dizzy and queasy as she felt. Thank God she hadn’t done the grateful damsel routine. “The players will be coming out and they don’t need to hear themselves being run down.”
“They’re not stupid,” he pointed out quietly. “They know they suck.”
The choice was between crying, throwing up, or going on the defensive. “Well, they don’t need to hear anyone else say it,” she countered, lifting her chin. “That would be mean. And I happen to believe—contrary to what Carl thinks—that you don’t get people to improve by focusing on the negatives.”
“If you don’t look at the negatives, there’s no way you’ll ever turn them into positives.”
“But where’s the motivation to improve if there’s never a word of praise for the things you do right and well?”
“Okay, I’ll give you that one.” The shrug that went with the concession said that he considered it a very minor one.
God, she didn’t want to ask, but she had to. Just had to. “Do they do anything right or well?”
“Well,” he said slowly enough that she knew he was searching, “they can all skate.”
“Big deal,” she grumbled.
“Actually, it is. No hockey player is ever any better at the game than he is at skating. The two go hand in hand. Your boys could stand some fine tuning, but they’re not send-’em-packing bad.”
Yes, they were her boys. And they had heart. They went out and took the beatings night after night. If they were willing to step up and keep trying, then she couldn’t do any less. Her stomach settling and her brain coming back to earth, she stared at the idling bus and asked, “So if they can skate, why don’t they win?”
“Consultants make big money, you know.”
His voice was light, his words edged with amusement. He wasn’t going to hold out on her. Cat smiled. “And the owners of struggling minor league teams don’t have big money. Could we work out a trade of some sort?”
“What are you offering?”
Her body if it were twenty years younger. “Dinner and drinks?” She sweetened the offer by adding, “At the best sports bar in town.”
He turned his head and grinned at her. “Toss in the ten dollar story and you’ve got a deal.”
“Deal,” she said, resisting the urge to stick out her hand by shoving both of them in the hip pockets of her jeans. “So tell me why they don’t win.”
“They don’t play as a team.”
She waited, watching him out the corner of her eye. He seemed fascinated by the lighting on the water tower over at the Greyhound Park. “And?”
“That’s the biggie.”
“For dinner, drinks and the story, I want the smallies, too.”
He frowned. “Are you still thinking about stepping behind the bench and coaching?”
And he’d complained about her not signaling unexpected turns? “Let’s just say that the possibility is looming large,” she replied. “You’ve seen what Carl Spady’s got going. Do you think I could do any worse?”
“Probably not,” he allowed as a smile slowly tipped up the corners of his mouth. Still studying the water tower, he said, “You’ve got two sets of problems going on out there on the ice. The first is in the technical aspects of the game. Players are often out of position, they don’t have a plan for salvaging a busted play, the lines aren’t set up to maximize skills and styles, shift changes are rough, and they’re running a playbook that was outdated ten years ago. Those are the most glaring problems, by the way, not the only ones.”
Lines. She’d read about those. Something about the five guys on the ice together. She’d look it up again and figure out how it went with what he’d told her. “What’s the second set of problems?”
“Attitudes,” he supplied, a steely edge to his voice. “You have Glory Boys, Grinders and Goons. As long as they see themselves and each other as being only one or the other, they’ll never play together as a team.”
She was trying to remember if she’d ever heard the terms before and wondering where she could get a decent definition when he added, “Hell, I actually saw Wheatley strip the puck from his own wingers three times tonight. Vanderrossen and Stover would rather take a penalty than a pass. And your third line
