Meet Me at the Graveyard

Mediocre

MILA'S POINT OF VIEW

The head coach, Jason, a kind man in his late forties or early fifties, chatted with me as we drove toward the New York Rangers indoor ice rink, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to change everything.

He filled me in on the team's situation, and despite my own research, I absorbed every word.

The team was hemorrhaging talent. Their star players had retired, leaving behind a roster of untested rookies and a handful of veterans counting down their final seasons. This exodus had forced the club's hand, they needed a new coach who could bridge the generational gap. Someone young enough to understand the players' world, hungry enough to rebuild from the ashes.

What they didn't tell me was that I'd be their last gamble before the franchise collapsed entirely.

I didn't understand the logic, but apparently they thought it beneficial when the team could socialize freely with their coach. Jason confided that he wasn't connecting with the players anymore. He was too old for them, he said, and most of the athletes he'd trained, the ones they actually respected, had retired. A knot tightened in my stomach. Something about this team felt wrong.

All my life, I believed a coach existed for one purpose: to drive a team toward victory, not to laugh or socialize. A coach's job was to extract every ounce of potential, to apply relentless pressure until results materialized. Connection with players? Unnecessary. Emotion? A distraction. That's what I thought, until everything I knew shattered right this moment when I heard about this new team.

Or maybe I had it all wrong. Either way, this team was coddled, too comfortable, too privileged. Time to dismantle that system. These were grown men, professional hockey players who knew exactly what was expected of them. Hand-holding wasn't part of the job description. Neither was playing therapist.

I needed to observe the team carefully under Jason's coaching before making any judgments. Perhaps I was being too hasty. The pressure was getting to everyone, myself included.

I took a deep breath as we approached the ice rink. Managing a bunch of men, that terrified me. Being a team captain had never prepared me for this. Coaching men, coaching anyone really, was entirely different territory.

Jason opened the doors to the indoor ice rink arena and gestured for me to enter first. I stepped inside and froze. The vast space stretched before me, smaller than Moscow's legendary rink, but impressive nonetheless. Every detail spoke of careful planning: polished boards, gleaming surfaces, professional equipment positioned just so. Yet something felt off, a tension hanging in the cold air that made my pulse quicken.

"You like it?" Jason stood beside me, his gaze sweeping across the rink.

"Yeah, I mean, ice rinks arenas are pretty much the same everywhere." I shrugged, watching the players clustered at center ice. They weren't training. Just lounging around, wasting time. Something felt off about that. "I've seen dozens of rinks like this, all over the world. Good enough for hockey, I guess."

But even as I said it, my eyes locked onto the players below. Why weren't they practicing?

I scrunched my nose in displeasure. With each step toward the team meeting, my apprehension grew. How difficult would they prove to be? Their first impression had already unsettled me, and now dread coiled tight in my chest.

"Let's meet the team, Mila," Jason said, his tone teasing. "I'm sure they'll like you right away, considering you are a lady." I bit back a retort and followed him, though every instinct screamed that something about this place felt wrong.

My heels creaked against the floor, and every player on the ice turned to stare. My heart hammered against my ribs. Meeting new people always rattled me, but coaching them? That was something else entirely.

We reached the ice and I forced confidence into my posture, standing beside Jason with a carefully blank expression. No emotions, not now, not ever. I wasn't here to feel; I was here to coach, even if doubt gnawed at my certainty that I could handle the job.

"Everybody, gather around. I have someone I want to introduce to you," Jason called.

They moved toward us, their indifference palpable. No smiles. No curiosity. Just cold, unwelcoming stares that made my skin prickle. Whatever Jason had told them about me, it hadn't worked. They'd already decided, I didn't belong here.

Despite everything, they gathered before us. Though feigning indifference, every single one of them stared. Their eyes bore into me, making my skin prickle with self-consciousness, but I refused to show weakness. Did they recognize me? Once, I'd been famous, but after the fall, everything had changed. Fame was a word I could no longer claim. These men couldn't possibly know who I used to be.

"Everyone, this woman right here, her name is Mila Novikava," Jason announced. "If you follow women's hockey, you know exactly who she is." Silence fell over the room. They stared at me, their expressions cold and unwelcoming, as if I'd just walked into enemy territory.

"Starting today, she'll be this team's assistant coach," Jason announced, his tone sharpening as he scanned the room. "Show her respect. Show her love. Make her feel welcome." He emphasized those final words deliberately, he'd clearly noticed the stares boring into me from every direction. The weight of their scrutiny pressed down on me like a physical force.

"Why is she here?" a voice cut through the room, and my heart lurched. I fought to keep my expression neutral, to hide the sting of those words. I couldn't afford to show weakness.

"Leon, I just told you," Jason said, his voice tight with tension. "She's our new assistant coach."

"Does she really deserve to coach us? I've seen the news. I recognize her, she's the woman from two months ago, right?" another guy asked his teammates, and they all nodded in agreement.

They knew me. Worse, they knew about that game, the one loss I'd spent weeks trying to bury beneath a mountain of victories. Now they were going to use my past mistake to deny me this chance, to keep me from coaching them. One defeat. One single failure, and suddenly all those wins meant nothing. Life really did suck.

"I don't think she's good enough to coach us. How did the board think she was a good idea?" another guy said, shaking his head.

"Why couldn't they find a male coach? I don't feel like taking orders from a woman," someone else muttered, and damn, that was blatantly misogynistic.

"Me neither," the rest agreed, their voices forming a chorus of resistance that sent ice through my veins.

I released a loud sigh, just enough to capture their attention. For the past five minutes, their whispers had been drilling into my skull like shards of glass.

"To make it worse, she's a failure," another guy muttered, contempt dripping from every word. "What can a coach like that possibly do for us? They've assigned us someone utterly irresponsible."

They had no idea who I really was. But they knew I could hear every word, in fact, they wanted me to. Each cruel syllable was deliberate, calculated to wound. What they didn't know was that failures like me had nothing left to lose.

"Do you have something to say?" Leon asked, the first guy, the one the coach had addressed.

I stared at him, then smirked. "All of you are so boring." My gaze swept across their faces. Surprise flickered in their eyes. Even Jason blinked. Did these men really think they could intimidate me by dredging up my past mistakes?

I hadn't signed the contract yet, and I refused to endure their ridicule any longer. I'd already tolerated more than enough. Hearing the same condescending remarks day after day had worn me down. These grown adults lacked common decency, so why should I hold back? I was simply matching their energy. If this was the team I'd be working with, losing the job didn't concern me. This disappointing group was supposed to be my ticket back to the rink? I had no hopes for them. They were too hopeless they made me hopeless.

I refused to work with mediocre players. That's what they were, every single one of them. Sure, I'd lost that one time, but nobody could strip away what I'd accomplished, what I'd been. A damn good hockey player. These guys should have understood. They were players too, weren't they? They knew how my story happened and how one game could change your reputation. Yet here they stood, ridiculing me like everyone else. The exhaustion settled deep in my bones. I could spot mediocrity from a mile away, years as a fan of hockey in general had taught me a lot about hockey teams and players and this team reeked of mediocrity.

"Did you just call us boring?" Leon narrowed his eyes, attempting to intimidate me.

I held his wannabe threatening gaze. "I forgot to mention mediocre," I said, and they gasped in protest.

"Such an accusation from someone who knows nothing about the team," another guy said. "You just arrived, and you're already calling us mediocre. That sounds unprofessional."

"I'm telling the truth. If you don't want to be called mediocre, then work on not being mediocre. And yes, I've just met you, and all I can think about is how utterly average you all are." I clicked my tongue, my expression now bored. "It's pretty disappointing, really. I had high hopes."

The words hung in the air like a challenge. I'd been desperate to return to the ice, clawing, fighting for this chance, and now I was ready to throw it away. Why? Because watching this team was like watching opportunity wasted in real time.

"You can leave. Nobody wanted you here anyway," another guy snapped.

I turned to face him. "I've lost my will to stay. You have yourselves to thank for that." My voice stayed level despite the anger building in my chest. "Your refusal to work with me doesn't matter if you're all this disappointing. What's sad is watching you waste this opportunity, an opportunity someone else would kill for. Someone better."

I shook my head, disbelief washing over me. Ridiculous didn't even begin to cover it.

Maybe walking away was the right choice. At least I hadn't signed the contract yet. I was desperate, sure, but not desperate enough to work with people who treated hockey like a joke. I loved this game, and I'd be damned if I let a bunch of amateurs taint that passion.

The real question was: could I afford to leave?

"Is it professional for a coach to give up on the team that easily?" The voice cut through the silence like a blade. It came from somewhere distant, forcing me to spin around, and everyone else followed suit.

My eyes widened as the figure approached us. No. It couldn't be. Not him. Not here. My vision blurred, and I blinked hard. Perhaps exhaustion was playing tricks on me. Perhaps this was just someone who bore an uncanny resemblance. That explanation made sense, far more sense than the alternative. Because that person had no business being here, skating across this ice, stick in hand.