I nod, even though my stomach twists.
“You sit tonight,” he says. “You watch. You think. And tomorrow? You prove to me—and to yourself—that you’re worth the risk.”
The bus door opens again. Cold air rushes past us.
Coach steps aside. “Get on.”
I climb back onto the bus, my legs stiff, my head loud. I pass Rocky without looking at him and take a seat by the window, staring out at nothing.
Benched.
Friday.
I press my forehead against the glass and close my eyes.
The flight is quiet. The hotel is forgettable. Everything blends in that way away trips always do—same hallways, same carpets, same stale air.
By the time we’re in the locker room Friday night, the reality has settled in.
I’m dressed, fully geared up. The tape is tight around my wrists. Skates are sharpened. Ready.
And sitting.
I take my spot on the bench as the guys line up for warmups. The ice gleams under the lights, clean and untouched—the kind of surface you want to tear up.
Rocky skates past and taps my helmet with his stick. “Tomorrow,” he mutters.
I nod.
The puck drops, and the game starts without me.
From the bench, everything looks different. Slower. Louder. I notice every missed pass, every late change, every hesitation. My leg bounces nonstop, my hands gripping my stick like I might snap it in half.
A guy on their team cuts through our defense. I lean forward instinctively.
“Watch the slot,” I mutter under my breath.
They don’t.
The puck hits the back of the net.
The bench groans. Coach swears. I sit back, heart pounding, jaw clenched.
I could’ve stopped that.
I know I could’ve.
The game stays close, but it’s messy. Sloppier than it should be. The kind of game that makes your skin itch because you know you could change it if you were out there.
Every shift feels personal.
Every goal against feels like it’s on me.
Between periods, I sit in silence while the guys talk strategy. Coach glances at me once, then looks away.
Good.
Let him.
