"Yeah. You did." Coach's jaw worked his gum. "And next season, you'll try again. That's what this team does. We don't fold. We don't disappear. We come back."
The words didn't rub salt into our wounds.
"Local ownership confirmed funding for next year," Coach said. "Full roster. Same contracts. The Storm's not going anywhere. Neither am I. So you've got all summer to get your heads out of your asses and come back ready to win this thing."
Evan's pen started moving across his notebook. He was already planning.
Coach turned to leave, then stopped. "One more thing."
We all looked up.
"I'm proud of you too. Don't forget that."
Then he was gone, door swinging shut behind him.
For a moment, nobody moved. Pickle was the first to make a sound—half-laugh and half-sob.
"Did Coach just... say he was proud? Out loud? With words?"
"I think I'm having an out-of-body experience," Jake said.
The tension broke like ice cracking in spring. Someone laughed—Desrosiers, maybe.
"We all playing next year?" he asked.
"Damn right we are," I said.
Pickle straightened, wiping his face with his jersey. "And I'm scoring that sock trick. Five goals. Whatever it takes."
I stood and slung an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a headlock that was more hug than anything. "We all ugly cry in our first playoffs. It's tradition."
"I'm not crying."
"Your face is wet."
"That's—it's just—shut up, Hog." He grinned at me.
I was the last one out of the shower, shoulder still throbbing, when my phone buzzed in my jacket pocket.
Rhett:Proud of you. All of you. Meet you at The Drop?
Hog:Yeah. Twenty minutes
Rhett:Take your time. I'm not going anywhere.
Neither was I.
The Drop was already packed when I pushed through the door—teammates, locals, and kids in Storm jerseys who should've been in bed an hour ago. The jukebox played something with too much bass, and someone had strung up a banner that said SECOND PLACE IS FIRST LOSER in what looked like marker drawn on a bedsheet.
There, at our usual booth, was Rhett.
He'd saved me a seat and had a beer waiting. When I dropped onto the bench beside him, he didn't ask if I was okay or offer condolences about the loss. He squeezed my knee once under the table and said, "You played smart."
"We lost."
"You played smart," he repeated. "I watched you choose not to fight. I watched you set picks, protect Pickle, and make the playsthat mattered, even when nobody was looking. That matters more than a scoreboard."
Before I could figure out how to respond, Pickle commandeered the karaoke mic.
