Page 54 of Unmanageable

“Better!” Herb barks, though he doesn’t dare clap. “Now do it fifty more times exactly like that. I want your legs to feel like overcooked diner spaghetti by the time we’re done!”

I can’t help it. A slow, genuine grin spreads across my face, breaking through the professional facade I’ve worn like armor all week. That’s my goalie.

Herb turns and skates over to the boards, spraying a fine, biting mist of shaved ice against the plexiglass right in front of my face. He pulls the silver whistle from his mouth and looks up at me with those watery, incredibly shrewd eyes.

“You,” Herb grunts. “Agent Lady.”

“That’s me, Herb. Just here to gently remind you that you’re currently ten minutes over our paid ice time.”

“Ice time is a suggestion.” He wipes his nose with the back of his glove. “He’s coming around. The kid’s got real heart, I’ll give him that much. But he watches you more than he watches the puck. Why is that?”

“Because I’m the one who handles the money, Herb. And because historically, I’m always right.”

Herb chuckles. “You’re a terrifying woman, Scottie. Truly. If I were forty years younger, I’d either try to marry you or hide under my bed.”

“Most choose the bed,” I say dryly, tapping the glass screen of my tablet. “How is the shoulder looking?”

“It’s holding up under the impact. He’s stopped cheating the drop.” Herb looks back over his shoulder at Cash, who has draped his massive frame over the crossbar of the net, desperately trying to find his lungs. “But tomorrow… tomorrow is a problem.”

“What kind of problem? I already cleared the morning with the arena manager.”

“Not the ice. The coach.” Herb sighs. “My Martha called the rink office. She says if I spend one more afternoon here playing hockey instead of helping her clear out the rafters in the attic, she’s going to change the deadbolts on the front door.”

“Herb, come on. We absolutely need the final session.”

“You’ve got the technical drills written down. You’ve got the college shooter. You’ve got the eyes.” Herb reaches out, pointing a gnarled, crooked finger directly at my chest. “You’ve watched him for years. You run the final day. I’ve taught you more than enough over the last forty-eight hours to be dangerous.”

“Me?” I blink. “I don’t blow whistles or run crease drills.”

“You do tomorrow morning. Consider it a professional development opportunity.”

He pushes off the wooden boards, his skates biting into the ice as he shouts over his shoulder without looking back. “O’Connell! Wrap it up! My wife is baking a brisket and I’m not missing the first cut for the sake of your glove hand!”

Cash skids to a halt near the blue line, his skates throwing up a massive cloud of white snow. He looks entirely confused, blinking behind the cage.

“Wait, what? We’re done?”

“Herb’s being held hostage by domestic chores,” I explain, raising my voice as he glides toward the bench and pulls his mask off.

Cash looks at the retreating form of the old coach, then shifts his gaze to me, a slow, incredibly sweaty smirk spreading across his reddened face.

“Does this mean I get the afternoon off? Can we actually go find that county-fair diner with the deep-fried butter you were mocking yesterday?”

“Absolutely not,” I say. “It means I’m running the morning skate tomorrow at 5:00 AM. So you better get back to the room and get some actual sleep, O’Connell. I am significantly less patient than Herb.”

“You’re running the skate?” Cash’s eyebrows shoot straight up into his hairline. “Oh, this is going to be a disaster. I can’t wait.”

***

By the time we get back to the motel, the adrenaline has faded into a pleasant, humming exhaustion. We’ve moved to a slightly better place—a Holiday Inn that actually has two separate rooms and a distinct lack of cows.

We’re sitting in our vintage van, the rear engine ticking as it cools.

“You’re really going to whistle at me tomorrow morning, aren’t you?”

“I bought a metal whistle at CVS while you were taking that twenty-minute nap in the passenger seat,” I say. “I’ve already been practicing my ‘highly disappointed coach’ face in the mirror.”

“You’ve had that exact face since the day I signed with the agency.”