Page 4 of Punked By the Playmaker
He’d just sent a powerful message: Do not fuck with me, or there will be consequences.
Our teenage defenseman stormed out in a fit of rage, muttering angrily under his breath in Swedish, but Davenport merely rolled his eyes at the dramatics.
“Anyone else have an opinion they’d like to voice before we proceed?” he challenged.
Several of my teammates shook their heads in response, while others uttered, “No, sir.”
“I’m going to be frank with you. Every man sitting in this room has talent. You wouldn’t be playing professionally if that weren’t the case. This isn’t the International Games where every team you face is stacked with superstars. The salary cap exists to keep a level playing field. If you pay big dollars to top talent, you have to bargain-buy to round out your roster. With the exception of our newest addition”—there was a glance in my direction—“and arguably two of the most loyal players this franchise has ever seen”—he gestured toward the Astor twins—“no one is sitting on a high seven- or even eight-figure contract. Which means we have wiggle room when renegotiating deals for those who choose to stay at the end of this season. The effort you put in will be reflected in your bank account. That I can promise you.”
I inwardly groaned. Money was a powerful motivator, but when dangled in front of younger guys, it had the potential to turn them into selfish players. And that was the last thing that would help turn this ship around.
“As I’m sure you’ve heard,” Davenport remarked wryly, “My coaching style is unorthodox. The only way this is going to work is if you trust me and do as I ask without question. If you refuse to buy into my system, you’ll find yourself like Jansson, watching the game, rather than playing in it. For those of you on entry-level or restricted contracts, that’s a lot of years to be sidelined, so I suggest you choose wisely. My job here isn’t to be your friend; it’s to save a flailing franchise on the verge of relocation. End of story.”
There were a few audible gulps, but other than that, it was crickets.
“Despite having watched countless hours of film, I plan to mostly be an observer tonight. Unless something catastrophic happens, I won’t step in. Then tomorrow, the real work will begin, where I break you of bad habits you’ve picked up along the way and force you to prioritize team hockey. From that point forward, you will win or lose as a unit. There will be no more pointing fingers, no more showboating when by some miracle one of you manages to score a goal. It’s all of us, or none of us. Now—” he buttoned his suit jacket—“have a good game, gentlemen.”
Without another word, he turned his back on us and left the room.
As we sat there stunned in his absence, there was one thing that couldn’t be denied.
The tide was turning, and only time would tell if it was for the better or for the worse.
“Timeout!” Davenport shouted at the ref while using his hands to form a T—the universal sign to ask for the stoppage in play.
This game was just as miserable as the last, and halfway through the second period, we were down six goals, so it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that our coach was ready to tear us new assholes.
Those of us on the ice skated over to the bench, while those seated there stood, everyone huddling around the man who looked like his head was about to explode.
Shaking his head in disgust, Davenport didn’t mince words. “Never in my life have I witnessed a more pathetic performance in a professional hockey game. The forwards must’ve skipped the day backchecking was covered in practice, and the defensemen might as well not even be out there with how they’re giving the Luck a straight path to Rockwell in net. Your job is to make sure the puck doesn’t get anywhere near him, but instead, you expect him to be the only line of defense against the opposing team, rather than the final one. Since you’ve chosen to hang him out to dry, I think it’s only fair that he does the same.”
Rockwell’s eyes went wide. “Huh?”
An evil smirk curved onto our coach’s lips. “Take a seat, Christian.”
The young goalie hung his head. This wasn’t the first time he’d been benched, swapped out mid-game for his backup.
But when the door opened and his replacement, Mikhail Kozlov, stepped onto the ice, Davenport barked at him, “Who told you to go in?”
Confusion settled over the team. If Rockwell was sitting out and Kozlov wasn’t taking his place, who the hell would cover the net?
Almost as if he heard my silent question, Coach explained, “If you’re not going to protect your goalie, then maybe you don’t deserve to have one.”
Was he out of his fucking mind? No goalie?
It was one thing to pull the goalie down a goal or two toward the end of the game for an extra skater, but in the middle of the second period?
He’d mentioned his methods were unorthodox, but this was straight-up insanity. We’d be scored on for sure.
Does it really matter? Not like we’re gonna dig out of a six-goal hole at this rate.
A sharp whistle sounded, indicating our time-out had come to an end.
But not a one of us made a move to line up for the face-off, still too shocked at being deprived of a goaltender for God knows how long.
Davenport was trying to teach us a lesson, and this proved to be a humiliating one. I could only imagine what the sportscasters would have to say. The replays would be showcased across the country as we once again proved that our team was a fucking joke, unfit to play in the professional league.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Coach yelled, jolting us into action.
