My phone lit up on the desk.
Ben:Watched the press. Solid answers. The boys will show up. You usually bring them back. (Also, how do you manage to look perpetually as if you wrestled with a bear and won? Share your secret?)
I stared at the message a beat longer, a wry smirk tugging at my lips even as the ache of defeat settled heavy in my bones.Wrestled a bear and won?More like got taken down by my own expectations and was currently having a stress-induced eye twitch.
Ben played with me in college and pro. Now he focused on junior talent development, running drills at a high school outside Dallas. We checked in often, especially when the losses weighed heavy.
I set the phone down without replying. Better mood and better reply tomorrow.
The next morning, the plan was simple: review the films and do drills to practice. The real work.
“Let’s walk it again,” I called, standing at the corner of the ice, my stick tapping toward the neutral zone. “Colton, you’re with Asher; Porter and Sergei, hold the line in tight gaps.”
The drill began. Blades carved into the ice, lines shifted, Colton saw the break early, good. Brent baited the defenseman, then launched. The guys spotted it this time; the pass landed a clean stride.
Exactly the read we needed.
We ran it again and again. Each time sharper, tighter, like steel against whetstone, grinding into playoff-ready. By the end, I could see it in their eyes—no one wanted to be the one who broke the line. Even Logan, usually first to chirp Asher about his hair, stood silent. He knew what was at stake for Saturday night.
After practice, I hit the showers with my mind clear for the first time since the loss last night. The tension had been living between my shoulder blades, threading into my jaw, too thick to shake. But today, the boys were dialed in, and that was everything.
That night, I slept hard. A deep sleep that only came after your team answered the call, showed up, and you knew they would again.
The following night, I stood at the rink side with the press after the win. Déjà vu from two nights earlier, except this time I didn’t make it to the conference room before I was intercepted. The lights blared on me, but I didn’t mind.
“We knew we had to show up tonight,” I said into the mic, adrenaline burning under my skin. “Every guy on the rink dug deep. That’s all you can ask for.”
The crowd hadn’t cleared; the arena still pulsed with the aftershock of a playoff-clinching win. Fans were chanting, waving, banging on the glass behind the bench as if we’d hoisted the Cup.
A reporter leaned in with a grin. “Coach Murphy, people are calling this the comeback game of the season. What was the message before puck drop?”
“Simple. Earn it,” I replied.
Sometimes, simplicity is another word forI’m exhausted and have nothing clever left to give.
Before the next question, a shout rang out from the tunnel. I turned just in time to be ambushed. The team charged the ice, skates clattering, gloves slapping helmets. Asher, Colton, and Logan lead the front.
“Coach!” someone called, and then they were on me. Their arms around my thighs, gear slamming into my ribs as they lifted me in one wild, off-balance motion. I laughed, deep, cracked open, helpless. The kind of laugh that emptied your lungs and shed weeks of anxiety in a single glorious exhale, leaving you lighter.
The crowd exploded. Cameras scrambled.
The guys spun me in a circle at center ice, jerseys blurring, noise shaking the rafters. And in the middle of it, my chest felt full. Proud.
This wasn’t the end; it wasn’t even the main goal. But after standing at the edge of a cliff, elimination staring us down, then clawing our way through, the relief was immense.
The win bled into everything that night—text threads, replay clips, articles I didn’t have time to read. Felix Wilson, the team’s president, scheduled a meeting for the following week. No subject line:Monday 10:30 sharp.
That high stuck through Monday.
I jogged toward the stairs that morning, only to stop short at a sign taped to the wall: STAIRWELL CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE.
Even the building was getting a playoff-level makeover. That stop sign didn’t change my mood because getting hoisted as a freaking trophy in front of half the league was good for morale. It didn’t matter that I’d never live it down; I’d take every damn second of it.
Backtracking to the first floor, I passed the elevators and made a left toward the restroom. Figured I’d stop there before heading up for the meeting.
As I reached for the door, it swung open fast and clipped my knuckles. The air rushed out of me in a surprised whoosh as a woman barreled out.
“Sorry—oh!” She looked up and froze.
