I nod because that’s what I’ve been thinking as well.
After I logged offDead Zonelast night, I started jotting down more notes on different things that have stood out to me throughout the season. Even things I thought were off from last year.
He has the means to cover up whatever he’s doing, and he’s proven he’ll let other people take the fall for him if it means keeping the heat off his back.
“Right now, it’s just a bunch of stuff that doesn’t add up,” Kade says.
“And that’s how it starts,” Talon adds. “Those little things start to add up. He’ll mess up eventually, and we’ll catch him. Or if we have to, we’ll just trick him at his own game.”
I glance toward the front of the bus where Coach Dawson sits. We’ve avoided each other since our conversation in his office. He hasn’t glanced back here once this morning.
“He knows we’re on the road,” Kade says, talking about Reed still. “He’ll be trying to get more done this week before the Bulldogs hit the road themselves. But he doesn’t want to rush it and miss something.”
“I get it, but every minute that passes is one more I’m spending away from Brinley. How am I supposed to travel to games and focus with the playoffs ahead of us if I’m constantly worried about her and her safety?”
“You talked to Dave, though, right?” Talon asks.
I nod. “Yeah, but what good is that gonna do to keep her safe?”
“Well, you wouldn’t be able to do anything from here anyway. I’ll bring it up to Reed, though. Maybe he can tap into the cameras and try to pick up on the feed. He might know of a way we can use it as a second set of eyes.”
I don’t love the idea of watching her without her knowing, but I’m also not going to risk her safety either.
Kade straightens, stretching his shoulders. “You know we’ve got your back. Don’t forget it.”
I nod once. “I know.”
They sit there for a few minutes, debating whether they want to say more, but I’m sure they can pick up on my mood. I’m not really feeling chatty today.
Owen shouts something from behind us about snacks, and Kade pushes off the seat.
“Don’t think too much before the game,” Talon says quietly before he stands. “We need your head clear.”
“I’ll be ready.”
He gives me a look that says he doesn’t quite believe it, then makes his way down the aisle.
I close my eyes and tilt my head against the window again. I manage to drift off to sleep, which makes the three-hour bus ride north go by faster.
When we check into the hotel, I’m paired up with Owen. I don’t mind it. He’s quiet, keeps to himself, and I don’t have to worry about him leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor like some of the other guys I’ve been stuck with.
The second the door shuts behind us, I drop my bag by the desk and pull out my notebook.
Owen notices, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s seen it enough times now.
It’s the same black spiral I use for game notes—shot tendencies, breakaway habits, and power play setups. At some point, the notes stopped being about game notes and became about him. That started after my talk with Coach Dawson.
I know the guys want me to be patient while Reed looks into things. I need to give it time and let him handle this. Stay out of it, focus on hockey, and do not draw any unnecessary attention to myself.
I’ve tried, though. And sitting around waiting hasn’t helped keep my focus on the game.
I flip through the pages, scanning what I’ve written, hoping maybe I’ll suddenly see something I missed before. So far, it’s just dates, games, and decisions that still don’t sit right.
I turn another page.
Same ref crew as last time.
Third period line change didn’t match practice.
