"They won't approve the charity game," Coach continues, and each word sounds like it's causing him physical pain. "Said the team has enough commitments as it is. Said we need to focus on ourseason performance." He makes air quotes so aggressive I'm worried he'll dislocate something. "Said it's not a good use ofteam resources."
The locker room is so quiet I can hear Groover's breathing three benches over.
"So that's it?" Wall asks, voice flat. "We're just... giving up?"
Something hot and sharp twists in my chest. Devon's face flashes through my mind—the way he looked when Mama Paws explained about the shelter closing. The immediate, fierce determination. The refusal to accept defeat.
We can't just quit.
"What do we do now?" someone asks, and I can't tell who because my ears are ringing with frustrated rage.
Coach's expression shifts. His jaw unclenches slightly, and something that might be a smile—or might be a stroke, honestly hard to tell—crosses his face.
"Fuck them," he finally says.
The locker room erupts.
"COACH SAID FUCK!"
"I heard it!"
"Someone's been body-snatched!"
"Who are you and what did you do with Coach Martin?"
Coach holds up a hand, and we shut up immediately because even when he's swearing, he's still Coach.
"We'll do it in our spare time," he says, calm now, decided. "We don't need their permission. This is about something bigger than corporate approval and PR optics. This is about doing the right thing."
For a moment, nobody reacts.
Then Becker stands up. "Pucks for Paws!"
"PUCKS FOR PAWS!" Petrov echoes, jumping to his feet.
And suddenly everyone's chanting it, fists pumping, the energy in the room flipping from despair to righteous fury in approximately three seconds.
I'm chanting too, caught up in it, feeling that hot sharp thing in my chest transform into something that might be hope.
But then my brain catches up to my enthusiasm, and I hold up a hand.
The chanting dies down.
"Guys," I say, hating that I'm about to be the voice of reason. "If it's not an official game… We're not going to findanother team willing to play us. Especially on short notice, right before Christmas."
The energy deflates slightly. Shit.
Groover frowns, thinking. "What if we don't play against another team? What if we do mixed teams? Like, half pros, half civilians. Make it more of an exhibition thing."
Becker's face lights up with that expression he gets when he's about to suggest something either brilliant or catastrophically stupid. There's no in-between with him.
"Say less," he announces, already pulling out his phone and heading for the door.
"Where are you going?" Washington calls after him.
"To make some calls!" Becker yells back, door already swinging shut behind him.
We all exchange glances.
