The Tahoe West charter felt less like a work trip and more like a very professional, very intimidating field trip. No TSA lines, no miles-long walk to boarding. I climbed the stairs, hyperaware of the team around me and silently whispering,Don’t trip, don’t trip.
At the top, Coach Murphy gave me a brief nod, with a noncommittal facial twitch that weirdly still managed to be attractive. “Morning.”
“Morning,” I returned, probably too brightly.
He passed by without breaking stride, taking a seat a few rows ahead.
I exhaled a gust of relief. He was close, but not a seatmate.
I landed one row ahead of the equipment manager and across from Paxton, our goalie. His hoodie was up, probably hiding from the paparazzi—me. Good. No forced small talk, and more importantly, not sitting next toCoach Calm-and-Scowly.
The plane had all the hallmarks of luxury: gray leather seats, plenty of legroom, and a general air of “we’re important.” I slid into my seat, tucked my bag under, and exhaled. I had a window, a DevPad, and a buffer zone between me and potential embarrassment. Also, a direct line of vision to his shoulders, which objectively should not be allowed in that shirt.
My relief lasted maybe five seconds before it hit me: I was actually doing this. I was on a plane with a professional hockey team and in the freaking playoffs. Seventy-two hourssurrounded by NHL players, trainers, and coaches, all of whom probably knew each other’s deeper secrets, while I was still trying to remember their names. It was time I passed for someone who belonged by bluffing well.
I reached for my laptop, but my brain decidedly wasn’t built for player reports at cruising altitude, so I closed it and sent Erica a long message instead:
Me:Hey you! You were right. Sometimes life throws a puck at your face. Literally. And you hope it lands as soft as a throw pillow.
I’m on a plane with an entire hockey team right now. Yeah, seriously. Maria (the GM) is great, and the job is weirdly perfect in a way that makes me feel like I walked into someone else’s movie.
The head coach, he hasn’t smiled once. Pretty sure I radiate “malfunctioning office equipment” when I’m around him, and that’s fine by me.
Anyway, we’re headed to Denver. Remember how we used to stress eat? I wish you were here to talk me down or at least share the emergency bag of carbs I brought with me.
How are you surviving the rainy season in Thailand? Send me a picture of anything that breathes peace.
Miss you.
I closed my eyes, and soon the captain announced we were starting our descent. Two hours had flown by in a blur of illicit shoulder gazing involving one man in particular. I barely had time to take a nap or skim a single protocol sheet.
As we landed, the mood shifted. The relaxed travel mode gave way to silent pre-mission moods. Phones came out, bags slung over shoulders, and every player had their furrowed brows and game faces on. I blinked against the bright Colorado sun as I followed the group onto a private shuttle.
The hotel was what I expected—modern, polished, and intimidating. Valets waited at the front, and the glass doors gleamed in that NHL trophy-case way. Inside, it smelled of money. The concierge handed me a room key, and I gave a calm, professional nod, channeling tips from that late-night Google search onhow to not look like the new girl with a hockey team.Though honestly, I still read as a newbie.
The elevator ride to the eleventh floor was silent, filled only by the soft hum of machinery. My pulse jumped when I caught Coach Murphy’s reflection in the mirrored wall behind me. Poker-faced, hands loose at his sides, he was staring straight at me.
“Travel okay?” he asked, his question meant only for me.
I turned slightly. “Yeah, smooth enough,” I said, feigning composure, as if I hadn’t replayed our accidental bathroom collision for the entire flight.
The doors slid open, and the occupants spilled out, peeling off in different directions. I turned right, and Coach Murphy did the same. Our suitcases rolled in sync across the brown carpet, each wheel click sounding way too loud.
I stopped at my door. Two doors down, he did the same. Great. My own personal no-smile zone practically next door.
His hand hovered over the keycard, then he looked back—at me. I froze. Caught watching. Heat rushed up my neck; I fumbled with my keycard and ducked into my room, shutting the door with a quiet click. Note to self: don’t stare at the coach and get caught.
I tossed my handbag onto the bed and grabbed my phone to text Sam:
Me:Made it. We didn’t crash. Still no smile from the coach, but he nodded and said a few words, so I’m calling that progress.
She replied three minutes later:
Sam:So precious! You broke through the zero-expression fortress. You might’ve just gotten yourself an admirer.\*laughing emoji\*
I laughed and tossed my phone onto the crisp white duvet.
The room made you sit up straighter even when you were alone, whispering sweet nothings to your reflection. Eucalyptus-scented soaps sat on the sink in serenity, lined up as soldiers. The thick blackout curtains promised comforting oblivion. I pulled them open, and the Ball Arena stared back. Massive, polished, and already intimidating from across the street.
