“McAvoy is never going to go for it,” I said, keeping my voice even as I matched his steps so he didn’t drift too far. “This is not some rec league scrimmage.”
He dragged a hand through his hair and didn’t look at me. “It’s not a league game.”
“I’m aware,” I said. “I know what an exhibition game is.”
His jaw set, a familiar line forming there. He hadn’t been on the ice in weeks, and it showed in the way his body stayed coiled, as if any wrong movement might send him sprinting toward the rink. The benching had lodged under his skin. I could feel itin how close he stood, how quick his breathing went whenever someone in a Surge jersey recognized him.
A group of fans near the beer line started whispering. One of them pointed, not subtle about it. Another lifted their phone before thinking better of it.
Landon noticed. Of course he did.
“Come on,” he muttered, already steering me away from the crowd.
His palm pressed to my back just long enough to guide me toward the tunnel, away from the noise and the eyes. The temperature dipped as soon as we crossed the threshold, concrete replacing the glossy openness of the concourse. Sound narrowed. Voices echoed instead of swelling.
“This is not helping your case,” I said, though I followed without resistance.
The tunnel smelled faintly of disinfectant and old rubber, the kind of backstage scent arenas never quite got rid of. My steps echoed despite my best efforts to keep pace with his longer stride.
“I can be ready,” he said. “Thirty seconds..”
“I’m not the one you have to convince. You haven’t been to any practices in weeks.”
“It’ll be fine. He’ll go for it.”
I opened my mouth to argue again and stopped when I saw McAvoy ahead of us, clipboard tucked under his arm as he waited for players to file past toward the ice. He looked exactly like a coach on a mission, attention already divided between the clock in his head and the roster in his hand.
Landon slowed, then squared his shoulders. I felt the shift before he spoke, the way his focus narrowed until it was just him and the man who kept telling him no.
“Coach,” Landon said, stepping into McAvoy’s line of sight.
McAvoy glanced up, surprise flickering before it vanished behind that professional calm. “Landon.”
“I can play,” Landon said. No preamble. No easing into it. “It’s an exhibition game. It doesn’t touch playoffs. Let me suit up.”
Players streamed past us, some clapping Landon on the arm in passing, others offering sympathetic looks they probably thought he couldn’t see. I stayed just behind his shoulder, close enough to feel the tension radiating off him.
McAvoy shook his head once. “We’ve talked about this.”
“Talked,” Landon said. “We haven’t solved it. You know I can back it up, Coach. Just let me get out there. Please.”
McAvoy’s gaze flicked to me for a brief beat, then back to Landon. “You’re still dealing with legal fallout. Management doesn’t want the risk. Playoffs or not, they don’t want you on the ice.”
“I’m cleared to be here,” Landon shot back. “I’m not some liability.”
“This isn’t about your skill,” McAvoy said, voice firm without being raised. “You know that.”
Landon took a breath that didn’t seem to do much. “Then what is it about? Optics? Because everyone already knows. Sitting me doesn’t make it disappear.”
Another wave of players passed, sticks tapping the concrete as they went. The sound echoed around us, a reminder of what he was missing. I could see it in his face now, the frustration bleeding through his determination.
“Coach McAvoy,” I said, unable to keep quiet anymore. “It’s one game. He needs this.”
McAvoy’s expression softened just enough to sting. He waited until the last of the players had cleared the tunnel before speaking again, lowering his voice out of courtesy rather than secrecy.
“I feel sorry for you, kid,” he said to Landon. “I do. But it’s still no.”
Landon’s shoulders sagged a fraction, the fight draining out of him in a way that made my chest ache. McAvoy nodded once, decision final, and turned toward the rink, footsteps receding as the roar of the crowd swelled to meet him.
