Shane
Six Months Later
“This was a hard-fought battle, and I think our team needed the win more this season than ever before. I mean, I don’t have to say it for all of you in this room to know we’ve had a tough go of it. A lot of changes. A lot of distractions along the way.”
The room full of press murmured their acknowledgment to my statement, some of them sharing knowing looks across the room.
“I’m always proud of this team, win or lose, because I know how hard we work. I know the personal and professional sacrifices we’ve all made along the way. But I’m extra proud tonight. I’m…” I shook my head, running a hand over my jaw. “These guys played their hearts out in this last series, and I know they didn’t just win it for themselves. They won to make a statement. The Tampa Bay Ospreys are here to stay, and we’re a threat — not just this season, but every one.”
Hands flew up around the room, everyone vying for my attention to be the next one to ask a question, and I couldn’t help the goofy grin I wore despite how exhaustion was seeping into my bones the later the night turned. I was damp and cold from having a cooler full of ice water thrown on me. My voice washoarse from screaming. Every bone in my body ached like I’d run a marathon, but none of it mattered.
Because we’d won the Stanley Cup.
It felt even more surreal than the first time it happened for me. I always imagined the day I’d make it there as a player, the day I’d hoist that trophy over my head and kiss it as I skated around an arena full of screaming fans. But as a coach? It hit even deeper. I felt pride like I couldn’t explain, knowing what every single player had to overcome and push through in order to make the win happen.
I nodded to a local journalist in the back of the room. “What do you think this means for Perry?”
I chuckled. “Well, I guess it means he gets to retire the way all athletes dream, doesn’t it? Going out on top.”
The room laughed and nodded, cameras flashing.
“No, I know this means so much to him. You’ll have your time with him and you can hear it from his own mouth, but no one works harder than Pickles. He’s been the heartbeat of this team for years, and we’re going to miss him like a limb, but Sandin is ready to step in. He’s proven that this season against all odds.” I balked at the choice of words. “No pun intended.”
The laughter was a little uncomfortable then. It was hard to make light of such a serious situation, but at the same time, we couldn’t run from it. What Nathan had done, the way so many players and staff had participated — it was as much a part of our story this season as the championship win was.
The last six months had taken the organization by storm, an investigation leading us straight into chaos. The fallout had been brutal and immediate. Ownership had moved fast with public statements, internal audits, and emergency leadership brought in to stabilize the team while the investigation tore through us. We finished the season without a general manager, the frontoffice run by an interim committee while the league monitored every decision we made.
I was relieved to find I hadn’t been the only one on our team who was suspicious. Several members of the staff and team had suspected something was off before I ever spoke up, questioning betting lines and injuries that never quite healed the way they should. But no one had imagined the scope of it. Not until it was too big to deny.
We’d found proof that there was a trainer working against Will — one who’d poisoned him the night he vomited on the ice, and then purposefully fucked with his recovery plan to make his injuries flare up rather than get better. It’d taken weeks to get him back up to top playing shape, and in that time, Ben had been suspended as he underwent investigation.
We’d survived on a third-string goalie, one pulled up from our AHL affiliate, a kid who still looked like he needed permission to grow a beard. He’d stood between the pipes like he had nothing to lose and everything to prove, and somehow, that had been enough to keep us afloat while the rest of the house burned.
Ben’s name had been dragged through the mud early on. What the public never saw at first was the leverage Nathan had used to trap him. Ben’s father had been dying from aggressive pancreatic cancer, and Nathan had promised access to elite care and a clinical trial that had promise. And for a while, it worked.
But the moment Ben hesitated, the moment Nathan suspected he might turn, that access vanished. Appointments were delayed. Paperwork was stalled. The next round of treatment never came.
That was what led to his father’s death in the end.
The league ruled what had happened for what it was: coercion. Ben was cleared. But cleared didn’t mean untouched. He lost months of his career, his privacy, his father. Thepunishment for him was never about the law — it was the cost of surviving someone who never should’ve had that kind of power.
When he came back, he played like hell itself was chasing him. I’d never seen someone channel pain so cleanly, so relentlessly. The locker room followed his lead.
Not everyone made it back.
The investigation tore through the organization with surgical precision, and there were more players in Nathan’s sick game than we realized or hoped for. Trainers. Support staff. A couple of players who’d known more than they admitted at first. Some were fired. Some were suspended indefinitely. A few were quietly cut loose and would never work in professional hockey again. It hurt to look at the empty stalls, the missing faces, but it hurt worse to think about what would’ve happened if none of it had come to light.
As for Nathan: there was no redemption arc waiting for him.
By March, the league had terminated him for cause. His name was stripped from everything, his contracts voided, his reputation scorched. The league barred him permanently. And the criminal case that followed ensured he would never again hold a position where power could be mistaken for entitlement.
By April, law enforcement stepped in. By May, the wordscriminal investigationwere no longer whispered but printed in bold type, his face splashed across screens with language that left no room for spin.
The man who’d once commanded rooms with charm and money now couldn’t buy his way out of the consequences.
He tried to reach out to Ariana once, using his lawyer as the messenger. His request was a bold one: he wanted to see her, to get “closure.”
Ari never replied.
