“I won't make you wait,” he began, and I steeled myself for rejection. “You made the roster.”
I stared at him. Blinked.
“Coach?”
He smiled—a quiet acknowledgment I’d earned this. “You’ll dress for the first two games. I want you on the fourth line with Mules and Becks. After that, we reassess. Congratulations.” Niklas Müller and Tobias Becker had a year of Railers hockey under their belt, a solid fourth line pair who'd lost their wing to a retirement, and even though Becks pretty much ignored me, Mules was friendly enough. Something fluttered in my ribcage—small, trembling, unfamiliar. Hope, maybe.
“Thank you, Coach,” I murmured.
“And,” he continued, sliding a printed schedule across the desk, “your first welcome session with Dr. Hale is today in two hours. Top floor, admin wing. Gives you time to shower, eat something, breathe.”
My stomach twisted. “Yes, Coach,” I said, although I probably sounded defeated. Every player here saw the sports psychologist, and I was no different, but I’d already understood that for me it wouldn’t be one appointment and done.
“This isn’t punitive, Jari. It’s support,” Coach said. “Everyone on this team sits in that office at some point. You’re not alone.”
I nodded.
He dismissed me kindly. “Go decompress. Take a walk. Get out of your head.”
If only it were that simple.
The locker room was emptying now—guys filtering out, gear dumped, showers running in the distance—but Cap was still there, along with Noah and Trick. A couple of other players hovered nearby, watching, curious.
Cap was the first to cross the room to me. “Congrats, Jari. You earned it,” he said, gripping my hand firmly.
Noah fist-bumped me, grin wide. “Awesome.”
Trick clapped a hand on my shoulder, solid and surprising. “Fourth line’s about to scare the shit out of goalies again.”
Then Mules and Becks came over—Mules grinning like a kid at Christmas, Becks less sure but trying.
Mules jabbed a thumb between the three of us. “Our trio of deadly fourth-line snipers is back on the menu, boys.”
Becks snorted. “‘Deadly’? Mules, we’ve scored four combined goals in two seasons.”
“Yeah,” Mules shot back, “but they wereimportantgoals. Legendary goals. Historic.”
Becks rolled his eyes. “Two were empty-netters.”
Mules shrugged. “Still counts.”
They both looked at me then—really looked.
“Gonna be good having you with us,” Mules said.
Becks nodded, a little stiff but sincere. “Yeah. Let’s make it a line people notice this year.”
“I'm there for it,” I said, and jeez, my acting skills were on point because I sounded as if Iactuallymeant it would happen and that I’d maybe get to stay with the team.
I showered quickly and had an hour now to kill, as I walked out of the Railers building, and I tugged at my bracelets. Clicked my watch clasp. Grounding myself as I headed for the medical building we shared with the baseball and football teams.
I entered through the front door, took a right at some painting, and was lost—one wrong turn, and suddenly everything seemed different. The lighting was warmer, the ceiling higher, and the whole place echoed with a sense of history of all the pro teams. Posters lined the walls, large ones—players mid-pitch, skater, celebrating a goal, full of grit and glory, a whole shrine to Tennant Rowe to one side, nearest the trophy cabinet, with polished glass reflecting my anxious expression.
“Calm the fuck down,” I told my worried-looking self. I focused on the baseball photos instead as I tried to find my center.
I never tried out for baseball. Never wanted to, although I watched games here and there when I was a kid, back when my father played for the Arizona Raptors. I was born to skate and born for ice. Every bone in my body knew that from the first time I touched a rink. So why was it going so wrong? Why did it feel like no matter how hard I fought to make a name for myself—myself, not the shadow of my father—I kept getting pulled under?
I let out an overly dramatic sigh, realized I'd completely lost my bearings, and broke into a jog to backtrack—only to turn a corner and nearly collide with someone.
