Page 80 of A Shot at Love
@eastcoastbestcoast!:I really want to be a Harbour fan but I saw a post that said their assistant coach is a lesbian…why isn’t she coaching women’s hockey? She’s working with the wrong gender.
Making the playoffs in your first year as a team was a rare feat but one the Halifax Harbour managed to accomplish. Performing well in the playoffs was another beast entirely, and that was proving to be more difficult.
In a best of seven games series, the first team to win four games advanced to the next round and the Harbour were on the cusp of their seasonofficially coming to an end. They were away to Ottawa and while the short travel journey was nice, they were playing a game they had to win.
And right now…things were not looking good.
“Ref!” Frankie shouted when one of their players was blatantly tripped coming out of the neutral zone without a call. “What the hell was that?”
It had been that way all night, and sure, you’re always going to think your own team deserves more calls to go your way and less to go against the other guys but it had been obvious since the game began that the officiating was swayed in one direction.
All you could do as a team, and as a coach, was keep your head up and play your game the way you liked to play it and they were trying. God, they were really fucking trying.
They were down three goals to one in the second period and the game had felt like a marathon of defence. Ottawa had made the playoffs the year before for the first time in over a decade, only to lose in the first round and it was clear they didn’t plan on having a repeat of that.
Their first power play chance of the game came when Cam got hit in the face by a high stick. He skated to the bench and spit a mouthful of blood onto the ice before one of their trainers handed him a towel and a bag of ice to hold against his freshly split lip.
Frankie took command of the bench and drew a play on a small whiteboard with a red marker. They had a TV time out so the arena ice team could skate around and collect built up ice shavings from their skates and Frankie’s players listened with intent as she drew up the play.
Tired eyes stared back at her, the sweat soaked faces of her players as their chests heaved showing just how long the season had been.
“We’ve got this,” she said a minute later when it was time for everyone to take their places back out on the ice.
She felt confident, because even if they hadn’t been playing well, you had to believe that the next goal would belong to you. Her selected lineup got into position and she crossed her arms, glancing up at the scoreboard briefly just as their two minute advantage began.
Right away they had two quick chances, with one shot bouncing off the goalie’s pad and the other ringing off the cross bar, but those were their only good looks and their advantage expired just as the second period came to a close.
“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. Cam, who hadn’t taken part on the power play attempt, pushed himself up off the bench and tossed the towel and ice to the side. He gave her a gloved pat on the back as he exited the bench and slipped into the tunnel towards the locker room.
She trailed behind the rest of the coaches a few seconds later but when she stepped into the locker room behind Neil, Cam was shouting at someone. To Frankie’s surprise, he was face to face with one of the players who had been fined for his behaviour and forced to attend training sessions with the team’s HR department.
Isaac Bolton, a five year league veteran who clearly had issues with authority of any kind, had a fistful of Cam’s jersey and his eyes were wide and filled with fury.
“You really want to go through this again, Clarke?”
“Do you?!” Cam spit back, shoving him away. “Sit the fuck down, shut up, and do your fucking job.”
“You mean like Coach Stevens?” Every pair of eyes in the room turned to Frankie and she, crossing her arms, a default to protect herself. “Does fucking your sister count as doing her job, or just doingsomething?”
In a split second, Isaac was flat on his back on the wet floor in the centre of the locker room. He clutched his face as blood spilled from his nose and ran down his mouth and chin. Frankie gasped and her hand flew up to cover her mouth in shock.
The room went dead silent as one of the other players on their team tried to pull Cam away but Cam shook himself free and stepped over Isaac. He stared down at him and shook the hand he threw the punch with in discomfort, flexing and un-flexing his fingers.
“If you so much as open your mouth again tonight,” he said, spit flying from his mouth from the force of his words, “I will break more than just your nose, you ignorant piece of shit.”
Things did not turn around after the locker room fist fight and when the game came to an end, so did the Halifax Harbour’s playoff run. Frankie’s shoulders slumped when the buzzer went off and she gave her head a shake, disappointment washing over her in waves.
She did the respectful thing and shook the hands of the home team’s coaching staff and all of their players, mumbling the standard good game and good luck in the next round pleasantries, but her words lacked the conviction she knew they should have.
When she reached the other team’s head coach, he gave her a hug, a pat on the back and a firm handshake. “Well done, young lady. That was one hell of a season. Keep giving ‘em hell.”
His weren't the first words of congratulations she’d received from staff or players as she went along the line on the ice and despite the loss and the end of their season, Frankie would be stepping off the ice that day with an overwhelming sense of pride. She’d made it through a full season and maybe things were headed in a better direction, maybe next year there would be more than two women making waves in a league that had long since needed a tsunami’s worth of change.
Before the Harbour left the ice for the last time that season, after clapping to thank their fans who had made the trip to watch the game, Cameron skated up to Frankie and held out his hand. It was the same one he’d used to punch Issac square in the face, his knuckles already purple and bruising. He would end up facing inter-team disciplinary action for punching his teammate but he didn’t seem to care.
“Incredible season, Coach,” he said, giving her a nod that conveyed the kind of respect and admiration Frankie wished every woman working in sports could be on the receiving end of one day. She was proud to coach a player like him, to know a man like him and Jules was lucky to have grown up with someone like that by her side.
“You too, Clarke.” Frankie accepted his hand and gave it a friendly shake, mindful of the injury to it. “I’m already looking forward to the next one.”
