I shoved it down where it belonged and focused on the ice.
On my line, it was undeniable why we were fucked up. It was all on me, and I wasn’t connecting with Becks and Mules the way I needed to. I was a step off on the forecheck, drifting into space that was already covered, arriving just late enough to be useless. Becks carried wide, searching for support that didn’t come. Mules went hard to the net, banging for position, but the puck never followed him there.
Frustration crept in fast. I started gripping my stick, forcing plays that weren't there. New Jersey fed on my fuckups.
A TV timeout gave us a breather, and I headed to the bench with my line, my chest heaving, sweat running down the back of my neck. The crowd was buzzing, clearly torn between booingme or booing the entire team whenever we fucked up. The music blared, but on the bench, everything narrowed to our little pocket of space. Cap gripped the back of my neck for a moment—reassurance, I think, but it was Coach who had words for each line, leaning in, voice low. No yelling. No theatrics.
“Relax,” he said first, eyes moving between the three of us forming the fourth line. “The three of you are rushing everything.” He tapped his clipboard. “I'm seeing some good stuff,” he lied. “But tighten your triangle. One touch, then move it. Stop chasing.”
His gaze settled on Becks. “Carry it in wide. Make them back up.” Then Mules. “Straight to the net. Don’t look for pretty. Make their D hate you.” Finally, me. ”And you—trail the play. Be the second wave. Don’t force it. Let it come to you.”
I nodded, the instructions cutting through the noise in my head. Simple. Clean. Doable.
Coach straightened. “Next shift—clean exit, clean entry. That’s it. Worry about the rest later.”
“Yes, Coach,” we chorused.
The horn sounded again. Helmets went on. Becks caught my eye and gave a short nod. Mules tapped his stick once to the boards. We weren’t broken. We were just out of rhythm—and it was time to fix it.
When it was our turn Becks took possession deep in our zone, shoulder down, skating it out instead of rimming it blind. I stayed inside, close enough to be an option, close enough to matter. One New Jersey D-man stepped up, then hesitated.
Becks hit me with a short, safe pass—tape-to-tape. I didn’t dust it off. One touch back to him as he crossed the blue line, exactly where he’d expect it. Mules was already going. Straight line to the crease, dragging a defenseman with him like dead weight. Becks drove wide, just as Coach said, pulling their coverage toward the boards. I trailed the play, head up, lettingthe gap open instead of crashing it. When the puck kicked loose, it came to me clean. For a split second, everything slowed. I snapped a low shot on net—not trying to pick corners, just putting it where something could happen. Their goalie kicked out his pad, the rebound spilling into traffic. Mules got a stick on it, hacked once, twice before it squirted free, and New Jersey finally cleared the zone.
No goal.
But we skated back onside together, lungs burning, boards rattling under our gloves as we changed. Becks flashed me a grin as he jumped the bench. Mules gave a single nod. It wasn’t pretty, but it was real hockey, and for the first time all night, it felt like we were playing the same game.
Next shift, New Jersey upped their defensive game against our line—maybe they’d seen the threat? Whatever, they came out mean. The first hit came on Becks before he even finished his turn—shoulder through chest, legal enough, loud enough to send a message. The second was on Mules in front of the net, cross-check into the numbers while the puck was already gone. The refs let it go. Of course they did. On the back check, one of their Ds clipped my skates just enough to throw me off balance. I stayed up, but his stick rode up into my ribs, a quick, sharp jab that stole my breath.
“Your dad was a prick—but at least he could play,” he muttered as we tangled, glove gripping my jersey. If he thought that was going to get a rise out of me, then he knew nothing. I shoved him off and chased the play instead. That was the test. Get mad. Get stupid. Break the rhythm we’d just found.
Mules took another hit behind the net, and this time he gave it back, hard, boards rattling. Becks circled, stick down, eyes up—waiting. Trusting I’d be there. I was. I slid into the lane, took the pass clean, and chipped it deep instead of forcing something heroic. Becks was on it immediately. Mules planted himself atthe top of the crease. We didn’t generate much—just pressure, just time—but it mattered. New Jersey had to work for it. Had to lean on us instead of running us over.
It put them on the back foot, and when Trick's line climbed over the boards, it was twenty seconds in, and they scored.
Yeah, we ended up with a five-one loss, but I had to hope I'd put on a good enough show to start proving I belonged on this line.
After the final horn, I sat in my cubby staring at the floor while the room filled back up with noise—music, voices, the scrape of gear. Cap walked past, tapped his stick lightly against my shin.
“Nice,” he said, as if it was nothing more than a routine thing, then he was gone toward the cameras, already shifting into captain mode.
I was still pulling my jersey off when Coach stopped in front of me. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t soften it either.
“You’re up,” he said, jerking his chin toward the semicircle of reporters gathering around Cap. Fuck! For real? “Answer the questions. Don’t overthink it.”
Easy for him to say.
I walked over, heart thudding harder than it ever did on the ice. The mics came up immediately.
“Tough night,” someone said. “You got booed heavily in warm-ups. How did that feel?”
It felt awful, it felt like shit, it was the worst thing to know that so many people hated me… but I’m used to it.
I swallowed, but I knew what to say and how to pretend it didn’t matter. “Fans are passionate,” I said, which sounded rehearsed even to my own ears. “I get it. They want wins. They want effort, and I owe them that.”
Another voice cut in. “Do you think your father’s reputation played into what happened? He wasn’t exactly loved in this building.”
There it was.
