Power Play

Chapter 2 - Cole

Here is what Cole Ashford knew about Reese Kellan before she ever set a skate on Northbridge ice: she had achieved forty-one points in junior level while playing against boys two years older than her and she had a first pass that made scouts sit up straighter. She even declined offers from two Division III women's programs that would have guaranteed her an immediate All-American status to pursue a walk-on opportunity at an institution where she would need to compete for a roster position on a daily basis.

He held a profound respect for all of that. He wished to have it documented, as everything that transpired subsequently suggested otherwise, which was not true. He held a significant respect for it.

What he didn't respect was Coach Halloran calling him into his office in August, three weeks before camp opened, and telling him the team was adding a defenseman who just so happened to be a woman. As captain, it was his responsibility to ensure that the atmosphere in the room remained positive and cohesive.

"Make sure the room remains positive and cohesive." Cole repeated. "That's a lot to hang on to one guy, Coach."

"You're not one guy. You're the captain. That's the whole point of the job."

Cole had dedicated four years to prepare for this season. Scouts had marked his name for the June draft in a manner that prompted his father to call him twice a week to remind him not to jeopardize his prospects, as if he required such reminders, as if he did not spend many nights awake calculating the potential consequences of a serious injured ankle, a negative attitude, or an underwhelming season on his future opportunities.

At twenty-two years of age, he found himself with a singular opportunity to pursue the aspiration he had harbored since the age of six. However, Coach Halloran informed him that this opportunity now entailed an additional responsibility in team psychology, a component for which he had not originally consented.

He wasn't against her, not really, not the way it probably looked. He was against variables. He was against anything in that locker room that could go sideways and take the season with it — a hazing story, a media circus, a distraction that pulled focus from a hundred and sixty games of preparation.

He had observed similar occurrences in other programs. A storyline can consume an entire season more rapidly than a losing streak, and journalists tend to favor a compelling narrative significantly more than they appreciate witnessing twenty individuals effectively execute a neutral zone trap.

So yes. He was stringent with her during that initial practice session. He corrected her stance in front of the group, as her stance was indeed incorrect, and he needed, quite urgently, for every individual on that ice to observe him treating her as a hockey player rather than a mere mascot. This necessitated treating her in the same manner he would have addressed anyone else who misaligned their hips during a drill — that is to say, without any semblance of leniency.

He did not expect to still be thinking, four hours later, about how she hadn't gone down when he leaned into her. Most of his third-line rookies went down when he leaned into them like that. She had locked up herself like a fence post. He experienced an unwelcome sensation in his chest that was unrelated to team chemistry.

He concluded that it held no significance. He had historically demonstrated a proficiency in determining that matters were devoid of meaning.

Two days later Coach Halloran called him back into his office, and this time the news was worse.

"Petrov is being transferred." The announcement was delivered with the gravity typically reserved for a death notification, which, considering the implications for their second-line center, was quite fitting. "This transfer is effective immediately due to personal family matters in Slovakia."

"Okay," Cole said, waiting for the part where this was his problem specifically.

"Which indicates that his apartment will be returned to the housing office, which implies that the housing office has a vacancy in the athlete complex that needs to be filled by Friday, which means —" he slid a printout across his desk as if he were defusing a situation "— you will have a new roommate."

Cole looked at the printout. He looked at the name on it. He looked back up at Halloran.

"No," he said.

"It's a two-bedroom, Ashford. She needs housing, you've got a spare room, and every other apartment in the athlete complex is full. This isn't a discussion, this is a logistics problem, and you're the solution to it."

"There has to be another—"

"There is no alternative. I have verified this information. Please trust that I conducted two thorough checks, as I experienced the same reaction you are currently expressing. Subsequently, I exhausted all other options and had to consider the captain, who seemingly interprets the directive to 'ensure the room remains positive and cohesive' as not applicable to his own living space."

He slid the printout the rest of the way across the desk.

"It is a maximum of three months. The transfer of Petrov's replacement will create an opening in January, at which point she will relocate. You are expected to endure one semester of maintaining a cooperative relationship with your roommate. I believe you can manage this, considering the alternative involves your team captain facing allegations of fostering a hostile environment during a season when every scout in the league is well-acquainted with his contact information."

He had Cole there, and Cole knew it, and Cole hated him a little for knowing it.

Cole drove home that night already rehearsing the ground rules he was going to lay out.

Separate schedules. Separate grocery shelves. A door that remained closed. He had devised a comprehensive plan; that was the essential aspect. He had an entire strategy for maintaining this situation as contained, professional, and uneventful.

The plan endured precisely until her arrival at his residence on Friday, accompanied by two duffel bags, a hockey stick bag slung over one shoulder, and an expression that suggested she was preparing for the possibility of him closing the door in her face. The nuance of that expression, that brief indication of "here we go again" prior to her uttering a single word, rendered every rehearsed line he had prepared curdle in his mouth.

"Ashford." She said his last name the exact same flat way he always said hers. It is only fair, he concluded.

"Kellan." He stepped back from the door, as there was no scenario in which he would not do so. "It appears you are now my responsibility."

Something shifted behind her eyes — not pain, precisely, as she was adept at concealing that, but something akin to it — and she proceeded past him into the apartment as if traversing hostile terrain, her shoulders squared, chin held high, already surveying potential exits.

He told himself the tightness in his chest was irritation.

He was, it turned out, going to be lying to himself a great deal in the coming months.