Major winter storm system approaching Chicago. Expected arrival: 8 PM tonight. Duration: through tomorrow afternoon. Projected snowfall: 18-24 inches. Blizzard conditions. Wind gusts up to 50 mph. Residents advised to stay indoors.
The words blur together as my brain tries to process what this means.
Tomorrow. Game day.
"So..." Becker tries for his usual humor but it falls flat. "We'll just...shovel?"
Nobody laughs.
The locker room door opens and Devon appears, and I know immediately from his face that it's bad. His skin is pale, eyes wide, and he's gripping his phone so hard I'm surprised it's still in one piece.
"The mayor just declared a weather emergency," he says, voice tight. "They're shutting down the the south side of city."
Chaos erupts. Everyone talking at once, voices overlapping, panic rising.
"Can we postpone?"
"Move it elsewhere?"
"What about next week?"
"After Christmas?"
Washington's already on his phone, fingers flying. "Every indoor venue in Chicago is either booked or closed for the holidays. I'm checking—yeah. Nothing. Not a single rink available."
Mama Paws appears in the doorway behind Devon. She's smiling, but it's fragile, and her eyes are shining with unshed tears. "It's okay, boys," she says, and her voice only wavers slightly. "We tried. That's what’s important."
The weight of those words settles over the room like a physical thing.
All of it. Every late night, every fundraiser, every bar shift, every hour of planning. The roof repairs, the fencing, the medical room upgrades. The adoption applications, the donations, the hope.
Gone.
I feel Devon tense beside me, his whole body going rigid, and I reach for his hand without thinking.
But instead of deflating, he straightens his spine and squares his shoulders, and I watch his expression transform from despair to determination in real-time.
"No," he says. "Nope. Not accepting this."
He starts pacing, moving back and forth in the small space, talking rapidly. "We can't control the weather. But we can control how we respond to it. There has to be a way. There's always a way. We just need to think—"
"Devon." Coach Martin's voice is gentle. "Half the city's shutting down. Even if we held the game, no one would be able to get there.Wecan’t even get there."
Devon stops pacing, and I can practically see the gears turning in his head. "Then we bring the game to them."
Everyone stares at him.
"What?" Becker asks.
"We can't get people to come to us," Devon says, gaining momentum now, his voice getting stronger. "So we go to them. Online. We stream it."
Groover frowns. "Stream what? We can't do that in a blizzard."
"No, but we can—" Devon stops mid-sentence, his eyes going distant like he's working through something. "Actually. Why can't we?"
"Because it's ablizzard," Wall says slowly, like he's explaining to a child.
But Devon's not listening. He spins to face me, eyes bright. "You said you had an outdoor rink at your place when you were a kid, right?"
