Because for the first time, I’m not standing alone.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Clay
When I push through the locker room doors, the post-game chatter and celebration stop. Dozens of eyes turn toward me. Some of them are cautious, the rest of them pretending like they hadn’t already heard about what happened in the post-game presser.
I drop my clipboard on the bench with a smack and let out a long breath, trying to figure out how to start this conversation with the team. “It was a good game out there, guys. They tried to drag us down with some of their dirty play, but we kept our chins up. You kept grinding. I’m proud of you.”
A low murmur ripples through the room. Sticks clack against the floor. Skates scrape over rubber mats.
Ryder, one of the defensemen, shifts forward on the bench, elbows braced on his knees. “Coach, I think it’s fair we ask, right?” He glances around like he’s waiting for backup, then looks back at me. “What that guy said… is it true?”
Every head turns my way.
I nod once. “Yeah. It’s true.”
The silence that follows is heavy, pressing down on the space between us. Someone exhales. Another guy mutters something under his breath.
“I owe you all an apology,” I start,trying to steady my voice. “My personal life should’ve never been dragged intoyourlocker room. You’ve worked too damn hard for that.” I glance around the room, meeting as many eyes as I can. “But since it’s already out there, I’m going to be straight with you.”
The tension tightens again. They’re waiting.
“I’m seeing someone,” I say. “Yeah, she’s a student at Kolmont, but she’s notjusta student. I’ve known her most of my life. We grew up together. Long before I ever wore this jersey, long before I came back here to coach.”
I pause, letting the words settle. “It doesn’t change how I do my job. It doesn’t change how I show up for you. I chose to answer honestly tonight because I’d rather you hear it from me than let them continue to write a story with some twisted headline.”
Ryder nods slowly, jaw tight. “So… what now?”
I shift my weight, my voice thick with the truth of it. “That’s all. Now, I put my focus back into you and this team. I keep showing up. Same as before. You’ve got my word that what happens outside this team doesn’t touch what happens in this locker room or out on the ice. I don’t expect blind trust, but I hope you’ll give me the chance to earn it. To prove I’m more than whatever story they’re trying to write or any past narrative you may have heard.”
The room goes quiet again. Then, one by one, a few guys start nodding. Someone claps their hands together. Another mutters, “We got you, Coach.”
The knot in my chest eases, just a little. It’s not gone, but it’s something.
“Good,” I say, clearing my throat. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s talk aboutyou.You played your asses off tonight. You earned that win. Don’t let anyone take that from you.”
That finally breaks the tension. Laughter bubbles up. Someone tosses a towel at Ryder, who ducks too late. The sound of chatter fills the air again, the normal rhythm of a locker room settling back in.
I stand there for another moment, watching them.
When I finally grab my bag from the coach’s room, the laughter fades behind me. My footsteps echo down the hall. I’m near the door when a voice calls out my name.
“Barlowe. Got a minute?”
I look up to see Coach Sanders, the head coach, standing in the doorway with the AD beside him. The whole room goes still again.
“Yeah,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “Of course.”
The hallway feels heavier, quieter. Thompson is waiting, arms crossed, eyes locked on me. He’s got that same look I remember from when I played for Kolmont—one that says don’t fucking test me or you won’t like the consequences.
The AD, Thompson, clears his throat first. “Clay, we know tonight probably didn’t go how you expected.”
“No, sir,” I admit.
Sanders nods slowly, the lines around his eyes deepening. “We’ve both been in this game a long time,” he says. “We know how reporters work. They twist things to get a rise, grab a headline, move on to the next mess.” His tone softens, and an understanding in it that reminds me why I respected him when I was a player. “But we also knowyou.We coached you for four years. We watched you grow up in this program. You were one of the hardest-working players we ever had.”
The words sink in deeper than I expect. That part of me—the player who lived for the grind, who bled for this team and their program—is still in there somewhere. Hearing him say it pulls something tight in my chest.
