CHAPTER ONE
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a female sportswriter in possession of a press pass must be in want of a man to explain the offside rule to her.
At least, that seemed to be the prevailing theory in the Springfield Arena press box.
Libby Bennet-Cross knew that the Springfield Falcons' playoff hopes had died somewhere around minute fourteen of the second period, but nobody else in the room seemed to have noticed.
She frowned at her notes, black ink sprawling across the page in the shorthand her grandmother had taught her. The pattern was clear as day. Coach Sullivan kept running the same failed power play setup—a predictable drop pass that the Utica defenders had read like a children's book since game two. Four games into the series, and he still hadn't adjusted.
"Hey, Libby, what'd you think of Kowalski's goal?" Derek from the Springfield Courier called across the cramped press box, not bothering to look up from his phone.
"Lucky bounce off Lindqvist's skate," she replied, still scribbling. "But I'm more concerned with their zone entries. They're telegraphing every?—"
"Cool, cool," Derek interrupted, clearly not listening. "Think they can pull off the comeback?"
Libby suppressed an eye-roll. "About as likely as you actually reading my column tomorrow."
That earned a dutiful chuckle from the three other reporters in the press box—the sum total of media coverage for Springfield's middling minor league team. She turned back to her laptop, fingers flying across the keys as she tried to explain, for the eighth time this season, why Sullivan’s system was fundamentally broken.
The press box television flickered in the corner, sound muted but closed captioning scrolling across the bottom. ESPN was showing highlights from the Boston Steel playoff game. Liam D'Arcy, the Steel's star center and heir to the franchise, deked past two defenders before sliding the puck between the goalie's pads.
"Speaking of lucky," muttered Andy from the local radio station, nodding toward the screen. "Drafted first overall in the genetic lottery."
Libby glanced up just in time to see D'Arcy's celebration—a simple raised stick, no dramatic knee-slides or glass-pounding. The camera lingered as he pulled off his helmet, dark hair damp with sweat, jaw sharp enough to cut glass. His teammates mobbed him while he remained stoic, already focused on the next play.
"I don't know," she said thoughtfully. "That goal was all skill. The way he used the defenseman as a screen?—"
"Please," Derek snorted. "Like Daddy's precious boy would be anywhere near the NHL if his family didn't own the team."
Libby bit her tongue. She'd learned the hard way that hockey analysis fell on deaf ears in this press box. Instead, she refocused on the Falcons game below, where the home team was limping toward another predictable playoff exit.
Three hours later, she was still at the rink, laptop balanced on her knees in the empty stands while the cleaning crew worked around her. The Falcons had lost 4-2, ending their season with a whimper rather than a roar. The other reporters had filed their generic game recaps and disappeared to the nearest bar, but Libby remained, combing through her notes to find something—anything—that readers might actually care about.
Her gaze drifted to center ice, where a solitary maintenance worker was removing the playoff decal. Springfield's twelfth consecutive year without advancing past the first round.
Her phone buzzed with a text from her father.
Dad
How’s the Rise and Fall of Minor League Hockey coming along?
She smiled despite her fatigue.
Libby
Someone has to document the historic collapse.
Dad
Sullivan still running that awful drop pass?
Libby
All night. Zone entries like they were blindfolded.
Dad
At least you noticed. Come by for breakfast tomorrow? Mom's making those cinnamon things.
