They made space for me between them, and I slid into the seat, feeling the buzz of playoff energy even up here.
Maria gestured down to the lower rows. “Those front seats are usually for the players’ families. Staff get what’s left, if we’re lucky.”
I nodded, scanning the space. A few little kids in team hoodies were climbing over their parents. Someone handed out bright orange rally towels, and the energy in the section matched that of the arena—synchronized fan worship, with everyone waving a towel and knowing the chant, a sports version of church.
I had no idea what half of it meant, but I was officially in.
Maria leaned closer, nodding toward the rink. “That’s the second line,” she said. “Playoff rotations shift fast, so watch who’s getting minutes. And if we go into overtime, it’s a whole other animal. No shoot-outs, but sudden death.”
I blinked. “Oh. Good to know.”
She smiled. “We’ll ease you in.”
As she continued explaining things, I nodded, absorbing maybe twenty percent.
After the twisted-ankle incident, I did my homework. It was how I landed this job, and after the first interview, I dug even more into this sport.
Slap shot, puck, body check, stick—damn lingo. Sounded more sexy innuendo than sports terms, definitely not brunch convo with your mom.
The crowd was loud and electric as if everyone had been holding their breath all week for this. Orange jerseys everywhere, fans waving signs... It was chaotic, and kind of magical.
My fourth hockey game, but this was the first I actually paid attention to, and it wasn’t what I expected. It was colder, faster, bodies moving in raw choreography.
Up close, the players were almost unnerving. They were bigger and taller than I’d realized from TV clips and glossy posters:broad shoulders, thighs like tree trunks, yet moving with the kind of balance that made physics seem negotiable.
The puck darted like a mouse playing tag with a cat. Players slammed into the boards and bounced off as if it were nothing but part of the dance.
I shivered, unsure if it was the chill or the way this whole place vibrated under my skin. And then there was him.
Coach Murphy stood near the bench, arms crossed against his tall frame, encasing broad shoulders, laser-focused. He didn’t bark or pace. He commanded, pulled attention without trying. Every now and then, he leaned in to speak to a player, and whatever he said landed like gospel. Not up for debate, just accepted truth.
From this distance, I could study him unnoticed. His dark brown hair, clipped short on the side, not fussy, was a style that belonged to someone who had better things to do than check a mirror. The sharp line of his jaw looked chiseled from stubbornness, and those deep brown eyes didn’t flicker.
A silent brooding Greek statuecame to mind, and the part of me that knew better than to notice the boss was very much not shut off.
I made myself look away, back to the game.
A Tahoe West player curved around the net, faked left, shot right.Goal!The place erupted. I jumped in my seat, heart drumming, and laughed at myself as my cheeks warmed.
“Good one!” Maria shouted, grinning.
“I don’t get what I’m watching, but I see why people love it.”
“You will,” she said. “This is the first of seven games against the same opponent. It’s best of seven wins moves to the next round. By the end of the playoffs, you’ll be calling line changes with the rest of us.”
Maybe, but one thing was clear: This wasn’t just a sport. It was a heartbeat pulsing through the arena, gripping me the way the coach’s presence did, leaving me short of breath.
Tahoe West was up by one, and the last two minutes stretched for hours. When the final horn sounded, a collective inhale that didn’t release until that final signal blasted like thunder.
They won. Actually,wewon.
I rose with the rest of the arena, clapping as if I understood a thing, which, shockingly, I sort of did. Not the rules or the strategies, but the energy, the adrenaline, the sheer velocity of it all.
I was starting to get it.
Then I looked toward the bench.Coach Calm-and-Surescanned the crowd, and sure as a puck into the net, his eyes landed on me. They held, not a blink, not a flinch.
My hands slowed. The roar around me dipped to a distant hum.
