“Looks solid,” Rich said, skating over. His breath fogged slightly in the chill. “We ran a full set of drills yesterday and today. No issues.”
“Good. He’s back in tonight,” I confirmed.
Tahoe West was up 2–1 in the series against Vegas, but tonight’s game could tip the momentum and reset the playing field. I was counting on the lineup to hold the defense: Paxton in goal, Sergei and Porter rotating mid-game with otherdefensemen. Losing that last game still sat in my chest, heavy like a puck that never dropped. Now we were back in our own building, and that was leverage we couldn’t afford to waste.
My eyes drifted to the bench out of habit, but Mel wasn’t there. She was off-ice this week, assigned to department rotation. Tonight she’d be in the stands instead, sitting in the family section.
That space was for relatives, but staff slipped into the back rows when seats opened. Low profile, but still enough for me to feel her presence. The anticipation tugged harder than I expected, even if we were somewhere in between fake and real.
Evie used to sit in those stands, too. She’d cheer and tease me about my scruff. That was before things shifted in our marriage. Between her career and mine, we managed a rhythm for a while. Then the distance crept in slowly, until one night she admitted to a fling. Hard stop. Since then, trust hasn’t come easy.
Tonight, it was Mel in the stands. She was here for the game and for me. Her being there might tilt the spotlight onto us, whether we wanted it or not, and that turned pre-game into tension I had no business feeling.
I snapped back to the moment, reviewed final pairings with Dane, and sent the lineup to the media.
Evening came fast. The arena lights flared, the ice gleamed under the boards. It was game time.
The second period started with a tie score, 1–1. I didn’t breathe. Every shift, every rotation had to be perfect. I stood near the board, arms folded, tapping two fingers along my bicep.
Logan shifted at the bench, rolling his shoulder in slow circles. My gut stiffened. Not another injury. He was one of our youngest, twenty-three, and sharp as a razor on and off the ice.
Brent was back in the lineup after resting his knee Friday. I’d told myself that loss wasn’t on his absence, that we had fivecapable guys to rotate into that position. But the mind doesn't do math when it’s replaying a loss.
“Columbus,” I called out.
Logan skated over. “Coach?”
“What’s up with the shoulder?”
“Nothing, just loosening it up.”
“You sure?” He nodded, but not convincingly. “Stay warm. Sit this one.”
“But Coach, it’s fine—”
“It’s a long series. I need you right until the end, not burned-out now.” My tone was flat.
He gave a tight nod, the kind that saidI hate this, but I’ll live with it, and sat, jaw locked. I turned back to the ice.
This was the part the cameras never caught. The in-between minutes where gut calls meant pulling a player early, even when the lineup was already patched together. The crowd might call it strategy, but every decision in a playoff series rode on invisible threads. You made the call alone, and when it backfired, you carried it alone. That kind of solitude came with the job. But tonight, my mind drifted to Mel, sitting somewhere up in the stands; that blurred the edges of the emptiness.
Sergei won a corner battle and sent the puck to Asher for a clean breakaway. No goal, but the transition was smooth. That gave me some relief.
My mind drifted to Mel sitting somewhere up in the stands.
No time to look. Ten minutes left.
Then Vegas scored. One minute to go. Final buzzer. 2–2 in the series.
Damn it.
I followed the guys to the locker room for a tight wrap-up before heading to the press. It was short, thankfully. I pulled my cap low and slipped through the back door, avoiding eye contactand postgame chatter. After a loss like that, I wanted to get home and prep for tomorrow.
I sat in my car, leaned back against the seat, and took a calming breath. The silence was thick. I reached for my phone and called Mel.
“Hi,” she breathed, barely lifting the word.
“Hey.”
