Sean
The lights in the press room were merciless. Bright enough to bleach out the truth if you weren’t careful or expose every single one of my stress-induced gray hairs. They caught every tired blink, every clenched jaw, and highlighted desperation in high-def, especially the kind you didn’t say out loud.
“We’ll regroup,” I said into the mic, my voice steady despite the miniature aggressive Zamboni driving circles in my chest. “We’ve got one game left. One shot. And we’re going to give it everything we’ve got.”
And maybe I’ll finally sleep.
A row of reporters leaned forward with politely sharpened questions. Most of them weren’t out for blood, but that didn’t make answering easier.
“Coach Murphy,” a guy fromThe Chroniclestarted, “tonight was rough. Can you talk about what went wrong?”
Everything, I wanted to say. Every single damn thing, from the pregame meal to the fact that half of my team seemed to have left their brains in the locker room. But I didn’t, because that’s how you get fired.
“Execution,” I answered, going for the word that sounded academically correct. “We hit the third period tied, then lost our legs. That’s all it takes at this level, a mental error.”
And possibly a full moon, or a bad batch of energy drinks.
Another voice: “With one game left before playoffs, a must win, how do you keep the guys focused and not panicked?”
“We keep the vision narrow and simple. Focus is on the next shift, next play; there’s no time to spiral,” I said, though I was spiraling hard, and in my niece’s tutu, no less.
Two more questions, one about goalie rotation, then power play usage, before the PR coordinator stepped in.
“That’s all for tonight. Thanks, all,” she said with calm authority capable of shutting down a riot.
I stepped away from the mic, pulse steady but heavy. Everything tightened in these final weeks: lines changed, blocked shots. You were either hammering in nails or clawing your way out. One game left. Win, and we punch our ticket to the playoffs. Lose, and it was over.
“Sean?”
I turned. Dane, my assistant, hovered near the tunnel. He looked like he’d been run over by the same Zamboni that hit me.
“You’re good?” he asked.
“Could be better. We can’t repeat the mistakes we made tonight. Next one has to be clean.”
“I know. The team’s ready. We need to keep our heads straight,” he said.
“Let’s get some sleep. See you at the team meeting.”
I headed to the lot and sank behind the wheel, staring across the pavement at Golden State Arena. Its silhouette glowed against the night. Glass panels caught the reflection of team colors, fractures and luminous like a cathedral-stained-glass.
It should’ve felt homey, but tonight, it weighed on me.
This was the stretch I loved and hated. The final push, the rush of a playoff race buzzing through my veins in a triple-espresso energy, equally matched only by the threat of it slipping away.
That arena had seen the best and worst of me. It was a place that could fuel your confidence or rip it out from under you. Where fan chants echoed could be both applause or judgment, the same stretch of ice that held both victory laps and heartbreak. I’d watched more boys become men there than I could count, including myself.
And lately, it was also where a memory had taken up space in my head, wedged somewhere between line changes and playoff strategies. A public skate night five weeks back, a twisted ankle, glassy eyes lit from below. She’d been completely unaware that she’d managed to throw a professional hockey coach off his stride.
I didn’t mean to remember her. But sometimes, the smallest collisions leave the sharpest, unforgettable impact. After almost three years without a woman in my life—not really living, hockey day in, day out, that woman had been a jolt I hadn’t seen coming.
The streets in Wilhaggin were empty when I turned onto mine. Long driveways and landscaped pride, glowing under porch lights lined the street on each side. Everything was manicured, but nothing felt fake.
I didn’t give a damn about manicured hedges anyway.
Guess that’s what happens when forty-one starts breathing down your neck.
Priorities shift, things get blurry, and suddenly sensible shoes and early-bird specials sound like the highlight of your week.
