"Game On: Battle of Hearts and Desires with the New Boss"

A. Jonathan I tried to duck, but it was already too late. The puck had been shot squarely at my head and had hit the front of my facemask on the way back to the shooter. I lost my footing but was able to regain it by digging my skate blades deeper into the ice. "Who in the f**k did that?" I demanded while directing an angry look towards the other members of the Golden Knights team. Nobody spoke, but I noticed that two of the guys in queue took a brief look at the third person standing there without saying a word. This is Frank. His backside was mine to kick. "Who the f*** do you think you are, big shot?" I approached him while he was attempting to escape on skates, but he couldn't outrun me. I surprised him by jumping on him, which caused him to fall to the ice, and I made sure he felt every one of my two hundred pounds of enraged fury. I was on top of him in a split second and landed my first punch to the stomach area of his opponent. He let out a grunt. The high-pitched whistling of the coach's whistle brought us both to a halt. The voice of our team's coach, Bart Wingels, could be heard yelling, "Get up, ladies!" "We'll figure it out as we go." I pushed myself off of Frank's chest and stood up. He then slowly and stealthily raised himself to his feet while maintaining his venomous look towards me. "Everybody on the queue," Bart yelled. There was a grumble from everyone in the room. Skate a bag. The game we played last night ended with a score of 5–1, which meant that we would have to put in a lot of work in practise today. It would begin with suicides, which is a form of intense figure skating that involves going back and forth between the rink lines. It was something that our previous coach never in a million years would have dared to ask us to do. In all honesty, I hadn't done any of them since I was in college. The three-man lines skated back and forth between the blue lines on the rink, and after only a few minutes, the majority of the men were out of breath and cursing under their breath. My winger Jordan yelled, "My fuckin' thighs are on fire," while he was in pain. "Once again, we are being forced to pay the price for the dead weight." Williams, the other one of my wingers, mumbled something to the effect of "Enough of this shite." I was still too preoccupied with thinking about the kick in the balls I owed Frank. This bag skate would definitely put out part of the heat that is raging inside of me if the scumbag was fortunate. Ten minutes later, our punishment came to an end, and with a self-satisfied grin plastered on his face, the coach moved us on to running plays. You won't believe it, but we weren't able to get that right either. It seemed impossible, yet our performance in the game was even worse than it had been the night before. After a string of events in which one of the players lost control of the puck in fast succession, Bart remained mute for a few seconds. I was aware of the significance of his silence despite the fact that he had been our coach for only a few short weeks. He had previously played in the National Hockey League. There was going to be an explosion soon. "Boys, if you can't get this sh*t done in practise, think about what we're going to look like in our next game. Think about it. I have a feeling that I'm going to have to drag some of you over to the f*****g peewee practise so that you can figure out how to move the goddamn puck. When he did that, there was no mistaking what he thought of any of us since he was staring each of us in the eye. "Okay, let's try it once more, but this time move it." That look of annoyance was becoming very familiar to me at that point. When we first met him two weeks ago, he was calm and collected, but after observing this messed up squad in action, his fuse quickly shortened and he became more agitated. There was nothing wrong with our queue. As members of the first line, Williams, Jordan, and I knew what we were doing and communicated effectively with one another. However, a single line couldn't carry a whole squad by itself. It was common knowledge that the other lines were the source of the issue. They never failed to put us in an embarrassing position. When it was our team's turn to carry out the practise play, I ran down the ice, and I didn't even have to look at Jordan to know that the puck that I had handed to him was in his possession. After Williams successfully slid the puck into the net to end the play, the rest of us retook our positions in line. Because we had performed the play so flawlessly, Bart did not comment. Despite this, Bob Passmore and his line were having a difficult time making progress. It was a close call, but he didn't pass. "Passmore, you live to f**k with me, don't you?" he yelled. Bart let out a yell. "I need everyone's attention over here so that I can review this play once more." We all made our way over on our skates and surrounded Bart as he drew on his dry erase board while we watched. I was in the back, but I pretended not to be there. This f*****g play was just as well known to me as any of the others, yet this was just as dull as shite. The thought of the dark-haired barman who worked at the establishment where I frequently hung out came into my head. She was significantly more intriguing. Sharon was only five feet tall, but she had wonderful, full t**s. Last night, in order to show me her new tattoo, which was some type of flower design placed directly above her bikini line, she had slid down the waistband of her pants. When she asked me if I could remain until the store closed tonight, it was a clear indication that she desired to accompany me home after she finished her shift. To heck with it, absolutely, I'd remain until the store closed. There was nothing that could have topped my experience of having my first f**k with a woman. However, there were just a few people who have made it to the second round. When I realised that the coach had moved on to another topic in his teaching lesson, my attention was abruptly brought back to the here and now. Bart gave us the evil look as he revealed that the new owner was upstairs watching practise. "The new owner's upstairs watching practise," Bart said. We all turned our heads upward in the general direction of the owner's box, but I couldn't make out anyone inside of it. "Maxwell, did we not have a meeting with the new owner before practise this morning?" Bart turned to ask the assistant coach for the Knights, and his voice was loud enough that no one could miss what he was saying. Maxwell indicated his assent with a nod. "Maxwell, please confirm that my recollection of this is correct." Bart proceeded further. "Did she warn us that this team will be going through some significant transitions? That we'll be making reductions in staff and recruiting new employees?" Maxwell responded in a calm and collected manner, "That's right, Coach." I could tell everyone around me was anxious by the sighs and shuffling they were doing. I had absolutely nothing to be concerned about. I was the team captain and probably the best player here, although Williams was a very close second. However, Williams was a very close second. But the suggestion of getting rid of unnecessary baggage piqued my interest. I shared Bart's dissatisfaction at the performance of our squad and its record. It was a complete and utter embarrassment. He had been brought in by the new ownership with the intention of turning things around, and it appeared as though that goal was going to be accomplished.