Hashtags: #BlizzardBowl #PucksForPaws #ChicagoStrong #HockeyForGood
Posting schedule: Start teasing now, ramp up as game time approaches, go live with behind-the-scenes content
Platforms: Instagram, Twitter, TikTok, Facebook—hit 'em all.
Engagement: Respond to comments, repost user content, make it interactive
She's in the middle of explaining optimal posting times when Leila walks in, holding a sandwich like it's a weapon.
"Devon."
I hold up a finger. "One second, I'm—"
"Devon." She walks over, physically places the sandwich in my hand, and crosses her arms. "Eat."
"I don't have time to—"
"Eat or I'm telling Ace you're not taking care of yourself."
I stare at her. "That's a low blow."
"I know." She's not even slightly sorry. "Eat."
I take a bite of the sandwich—turkey and Swiss, actually pretty good—while Mrs. Parks laughs on the screen.
"Your friend is right, you know," she says in her mom-voice. "Can't save the world on an empty stomach."
"Fine. I'm eating. Happy?"
"Delirious," Leila says, then leaves, apparently satisfied that I won't die of malnutrition in the next ten minutes.
By the time I finish the call and the sandwich, it's after 6 PM.
The storm has intensified significantly. I can hear the wind howling outside, rattling the windows, and when I look out, I can barely see the firefighters still working in the backyard. The snow is coming down sideways now, visibility reduced to almost nothing.
But through the white mess, I can see lights.
Industrial work lights, strung up around the perimeter of what will be the rink, creating this almost magical glow through the falling snow. It looks like something out of a winter movie, the kind where everything works out in the end and everyone learns a valuable lesson about teamwork.
I just hope life imitates art.
I head back outside, bundled in every layer I own, and survey the progress.
The rink is taking shape. The snow's been cleared, the ground leveled as much as possible. They're flooding it now, multiple hoses going at once, water spreading across the cleared area and immediately starting to freeze in the brutal cold.
Becker's set up his streaming equipment under a covered area designed for summer barbecues. He's got multiple cameras positioned at different angles, a laptop running diagnostics, and enough cables to connect half of Chicago.
Wall's constructing makeshift boards using plywood and sheer determination. They're not regulation height, obviously, and they're definitely not going to a player crashing into them at full speed, but they'll define the playing area and that's good enough.
Petrov's showing a group of firefighters his technique for smoothing ice by hand—something about weight distribution and using your body heat strategically. I don't understand it, but they're all nodding like it makes perfect sense.
Coach Martin arrives at some point, and he's not alone. He's brought two referees in full gear—actual professional refs who apparently owe him favors—and a guy in his fifties wearing a heavy coat and carrying what looks like professional broadcasting equipment.
"Devon, this is Steve," Coach says. "He's an announcer. He's going to call the game."
Steve offers his hand, and I shake it.
The garage has been transformed into the Adoption Station. Portable heaters blast warm air, making it actually comfortable. Mama Paws and Leila have set up photos of all theanimals, printed information cards with names and personality descriptions, and a laptop connected to the shelter's website for virtual meet-and-greets.
