I turned, already halfway into a rehearsed “I’m fine, totally fine, nothing to see here” smile, and found Sean’s over-six-foot frame in a calm, measured swagger, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He reached for a mug in the cabinet, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
“The schedule is tight this week,” he said, pouring his coffee. “We’ll keep the morning meeting short.”
I blinked. “Sure thing.”
Then he left. What a relief—a confusing one.
I carried that feeling into the trainers’ room, picked up the players’ progress reports, and from there the rest of the day blurred into notes, check-ins, and pregame rituals.
Tonight was Game 1 of Round Two. Home ice.
Tahoe West versus the Edmonton Oilers.
I stood in the staff section, pretending I wasn’t constantly overanalyzing every Tahoe West glance in my direction. Technically, staff dating wasn’t forbidden unless it interfered with work, but this was about optics. And mine felt really narrow, straight-up peephole narrow.
Midway through the second period, I spotted Sadie, team captain Asher’s girlfriend, whom I met at the sports bar—pretty, confident—and now she was watching me. The girl with puffy eyes and Sean Murphy’s shirt sleeve in her fist.
The memory crashed in, uninvited and biting, the way cold air slipped through a gapped window. I didn’t know what she sawthat night, or if she’d said anything, or if Asher had, or if I was just spiraling into a self-judgment vortex.
What did they think I was? A woman with a flair for drama?
And suddenly I felt how I might look: the assistant who hadn’t completed her probation period, emotionally breaking down on the coach. And we’re talking the head coach of one of the NHL’s top five teams.
When Sean walked by, I did what any mildly panicked woman would: pivoted mid-stride and fake-checked something on my DevPad. Because what better way to say “I’m not fine” than intensely staring at a blank screen.
I was pretty sure his brows drew in. I was starting to know his reactions. Cool. Now I was being awkward and avoidant.
Love that for me.
Final score: 3–1, Oilers.
We’d do this again in forty-eight hours. Same place, same matchup, then fly to Alberta Friday morning for two away games. Sean hadn’t been kidding about the schedule being brutal. Playoffs were not a place for self-conscious spirals. I just had to make it through the week without becoming a cautionary tale, or you know, a trending hashtag.
After the game, I hung back and helped double-check gear bins and report sheets—a very professional excuse to avoid the tunnel, Sean, and any player who might look at me twice.
When we wrapped, the arena noise had thinned to the soft hum of vacuum cleaners and rink staff chatters.
I was halfway past the rental counter when I saw Frank, the older guy who’d helped me when I fell. He was shuffling a small bin toward the skate area.
“Frank?” I called.
He turned, squinted, and grinned. “Hey, you’re still on your feet. How’s the ankle?”
“All good,” I said, smiling. “You remembered.”
“Hard to forget a fall like that,” he chuckled, setting the bin down.
“So...what’s your role here?” I asked, already hearing the shift in my voice. Dad, sixty-four, needing to work again.
“Bit of this, bit of that,” Frank said. “No more heavy hauling; they’re nice about it. Mostly skate support now, it keeps me moving.”
I nodded, biting the inside of my cheek. “You’ve been here a while, huh?”
“Oh, I’m part of the furniture,” he said with a wink. “But not the heavy-duty kind anymore.”
I laughed, picking up the bin without asking, and he didn’t stop me.
When we reached the skate racks, he looked at me with mock seriousness. “You know, your skating wasn’t sharp. You could use the practice.”
