“STREICHER,” Ward calls as I head to the dressing room after practice. “My office when you’re done.”

My gut pitches as I give him a quick nod and head to the showers. Getting called to the coach’s office is like going to the principal’s office. In the shower, I run through my recent games and practices. If Ward’s going to bring up my weaknesses, I need to be ready.

His office door is open when I arrive, and he looks up from his computer.

“Hey.” He stands. “Let’s get some lunch.” He tilts his head to the street below his office window. “I know a place.”

A weight gathers in my gut. If it was something easy, we’d just talk in his office. Lunch means a bigger conversation, and whatever it is, I’m not excited to hear it.

Ward makes small talk as we leave the arena and walk through the streets of downtown Vancouver.

“This way,” he says, stepping down an alley.

I raise an eyebrow and glance down the narrow lane, but he’s walking with purpose and direction, so I follow him to a green door. Above it, a weathered sign reads The Filthy Flamingo. He hauls it open, and classic rock spills out at a low volume.

“After you, Streicher.”

I step inside. It’s a bar, with warm wood paneling on the walls, vintage framed concert posters, Polaroid photos behind the bar among liquor bottles, and string lights across the ceiling. People sit in the booths, eating lunch.

“You took me to a dive bar?” I ask Ward as the door closes behind us. “Hey,” a woman snaps, holding a tray of drinks behind the bar. She’s in

her late twenties, with long dark hair in a high ponytail. She’s wearing an old-looking band t-shirt and a scowl. “This isn’t a dive bar.”

“It isn’t a dive bar, Streicher,” Ward says loud enough for her to hear. The bartender glares at him before carrying the drinks to a table.

Ward leans in. “It’s a dive bar, but we don’t say that in front of Jordan.

This place is her baby.”

We take seats at the counter as I take the space in. Three lunch options are written on the chalkboard behind the bar, and I get the impression that those are my only options.

I kind of like this place. It’s weird. When traveling to Vancouver over the years, I’d either be in North Van with my mom or in a hotel room. This crappy bar feels like a small connection to the city that will hopefully be my home for a while again.

I wonder if Pippa knows about this place.

“Jordan hates hockey.” Ward’s voice is low. “So no one will bug us here.” He crooks a grin at me, and his eyes follow the prickly bartender with interest before he drags his attention back to me. “Still settling in okay? There was that hiccup with your assistant. Is that all taken care of?”

“Yes,” I say quickly. “Everything’s great. She’s a huge help.” Ward smiles, pleasantly surprised. “Glad to hear it.”

Jordan takes our orders, and when she leaves, Ward slants a curious glance at me.

“You didn’t make it to dinner the other night.”

He’s talking about the informal dinner I skipped. “I had to check on my mom.”

He nods in understanding, surveying the Polaroids behind the bar. A pause. “You don’t spend much time with the guys after games.”

On my barstool, I shift in discomfort. Some guys in the NHL make friends with their teammates, and some don’t. My New York coach didn’t have a problem with me staying focused and out of trouble. The last thing a franchise needs is their players in the media for partying. I wasn’t top goalie in the league last year because I was out drinking with my teammates.

My thoughts snag, and I picture Rory Miller and me playing hockey as teenagers. His dad, NHL Hall of Famer Rick Miller, would arrange extra ice

time for us at the local arena, and we’d spend hours practicing shootouts, laughing, and chirping at each other.

That guy was my best friend. My jaw tenses, and I fold my arms over my chest. I don’t do that kind of thing anymore.

“I focus on hockey,” I tell him, offering him a shrug. “It hasn’t been a problem until now.”

His mouth hitches up. “Streicher, your focus is second to none.” He pauses a beat. “But I want you to spend more time with the guys off the ice. Team camaraderie is just as important as training on the ice.”

My brows snap together. “I don’t have time.”

“Make time.” His smile is easy, but the determination in his eyes leaves no room for uncertainty.

My knee bounces with frustration. Keeping the coach happy is a critical part of staying on the team. I’ve seen coaches with major egos trade players for petty reasons. Pissing him off could jeopardize everything.

I meet Ward’s gaze. The guy doesn’t seem to have an ego, but I don’t want to take any chances.

“You got it,” I tell him.