Mel:Incorrect. I’m the hot older sister with a party-planning trauma, a fake boyfriend with a kiss I’m still recovering from.
Sean:Didn’t realize back-door kisses were part of the résumé. Updating now.
Mel:Add “emotionally stable under pressure.” That’s rare these days.
Sean:Might replace “can fold a fitted sheet” with that. Big sacrifice.
Mel:You fold fitted sheets?
Sean:Don’t spread it around. I have a rep to maintain.
Mel:Consider it sealed. Like your fate on Saturday if you back out.
Sean:Dagger emojis wouldn’t do it justice.
Mel:\*dagger emoji\*+\*flaming piñataemoji\*because I usually one-up you.
That made me laugh.
Wednesday night, we locked in another win.
I stood in the cold press room, bright, and packed. Same reporters, same hungry energy. We’d taken Game 2, making it two-nothing in the series. But this wasn’t the time to exhale, not when the Golden Knights were waiting on home ice.
I stepped up to the mic, ignoring flashes and scribbles.
“Coach, you’re up two games heading into Vegas. How are you feeling about the momentum shift?”
“It’s a best-of-seven. Momentum’s nice, but it doesn’t win four games. We’re heading into a tough building Friday. That home crowd will come hard, and we have to play smart.” I kept my tone even.
Another hand. “Colton ‘the rebel’ Lombardi’s line has been especially dominant. What’s clicking there?”
The room chuckled.
“They’re staying connected, reading each other well,” I said. “Colton’s got that instinct: When it’s channeled, it elevates that whole line.”
More questions rolled in about matchups, power play adjustments, injury updates (none), and recovery.
“Thanks, everyone.” The PR coordinator kept it short.
I stepped down, tugged my cap lower, and headed out the side door. The night air behind the rink was cold and sharp. I breathed it in, letting the echo of the crowd bleed out of my system.
I checked my phone. Nothing from Mel. Not that I should be expecting anything. Our texts yesterday ended with a string of dagger and flaming piñata emojis. I smiled to myself. Nothing saidwe’re finemore than miniature digital murder weapons.
Still...she’d worked courtside the last three days, and we’d barely exchanged a “hey.”
Was she avoiding me? Hard to say.
Maria was pulling her to the office most of the day tomorrow.
The following morning, Thursday, the rink smelled of liniment and coffee. I was half watching warmups, half reviewing line rotations when Rich, our head trainer, walked over with that look. The one that meant I wasn’t going to like what came next.
“Brent tweaked his knee, overextended it yesterday,” Rich said.
I exhaled through my nose. “How bad?”
“Not major, but I want him off it through the weekend. We’ll check again Sunday.”
I nodded, jaw tight. Brent wouldn’t like it, neither did I, but late season wasn’t the time to gamble, and Rich didn’t make requests lightly.
