"Dad managed it."
"Your father was thirty-two when he met your mother, already established in his career. You're twenty-five with scouts watching your every move and a viral video complicating everything." Chief's expression softens. "He'd tell you the same thing I'm about to: figure out what you want. Not what everyone else wants for you. What you want."
The question echoes through my exhausted brain. What do I want?
To play in the NHL. To make Dad proud. To prove I belong at that level.
But also—to see Piper smile at me across a table. To teach her about surviving Alaska winters. To kiss her properly without a moose interrupting.
"What if I want both?" I ask quietly.
"Then you better figure out how to make that work. Because right now, trying to have both is making you terrible at everything."
He leaves me with that, and I drive home in silence, his words circling like vultures.
The game is a bloodbath.
Not literally—though there are two fights and a penalty that sends their enforcer to the box for ten minutes. But for me personally? It's a complete disaster from the opening faceoff.
I'm in my head from the first shift. Overthinking every pass, second-guessing every play. The scouts are three rows behind our bench, clipboards out, watching everything. Each mistake gets noted. Each hesitation recorded.
Second period, I miss an empty net. The puck bounces off my stick at the worst possible angle, and their goalie recovers before I can shoot again. The crowd groans. Coach looks like he wants to strangle me with my own jersey.
Third period, I take a stupid penalty—cross-checking because I was frustrated and not thinking. Two minutes in the box while my team plays shorthanded. Jax scores anyway, pulling us within one, but it's not enough.
We lose 2-4.
I'm the last one in the locker room, still in my gear, staring at nothing.
"Lockwood." Coach's voice makes me look up. His expression is carefully neutral—the kind of neutral that's worse than anger. "Scouts want to talk."
My stomach drops. "Now?"
"Now."
They're waiting in the conference room—two men in suits with tablets and assessment forms. I recognize them from their photos: Rick Dawson and David Cooper, scouts for teams that could change my entire life.
"Ryder." Dawson extends a hand. "Thanks for meeting with us."
"Of course." I shake both their hands, trying to ignore how sweaty my palms are despite having just showered.
"We've been watching your games this season," Cooper starts, pulling up stats on his tablet. "Your numbers are impressive. Goals, assists, plus-minus—all solid."
"Thank you."
"But tonight wasn't your best showing," Dawson says, not unkindly. "You seemed distracted. Unfocused. Not the captain we saw in game footage from earlier this season."
There it is. The thing everyone's been dancing around.
"I had an off night," I say.
"Because of the viral video?" Cooper asks, and he's watching me carefully now. "We saw it. The whole hockey community saw it. You're trending in markets you've never played in."
"That wasn't—I didn't plan that."
"Doesn't matter if you planned it." Dawson leans forward. "What matters is how you handle pressure. On ice and off. The NHL isn't just about skill—it's about managing public attention, media scrutiny, maintaining focus when everyone's watching."
"I can handle it."
