Coach Roberts kept the skate short and focused—power play work, penalty kill review, systems reinforcement. No heavy skating, no exhausting drills. We needed our legs fresh for that night.
I performed my routines with mechanical precision, but my mind was split between preparation and memory. My father skating these same laps, taking shots at this same net, wearing the captain’s C for Vancouver’s franchise.
The arena staff had changed the boards, repainted the logos, updated the technology. But the bones of the building remained the same. The sight lines from the bench, the distance from the blue line to the goal, the particular echo ofskates on ice—all unchanged from when my father had played here.
“You good?” Holloway asked, as we headed back to the locker room after the skate.
“Yeah. Just thinking about tonight.”
“Your dad’s team.” It wasn’t a question. Everyone knew the history. “That’s gotta be weird.”
“Complicated,” I corrected. “But I’m focused on our game, not the past.”
The lie tasted bitter, but what else could I say? That I was terrified of failing to live up to a dead man’s legacy? That comparisons to my legendary father made me feel like I’d never be enough?
Back at the hotel, I tried to nap but ended up staring at the ceiling, replaying last night—Wesley’s touch, the conversation about my father, the terror of waking up in the wrong room. The way it had felt both reckless and necessary all at once.
My phone buzzed with a text from Michael.
Michael
Big game tonight. All eyes on you in Vancouver. Make your father proud.
The pressure settled heavier on my shoulders. Make my father proud. Live up to his legacy. Be perfect.
I placed my phone face down on the nightstand.
The arena was sold out that night, and even though it was a preseason game, 18,910 fans created a wall of sound that vibrated through the concrete as we took the ice for warm-ups. Vancouver’s fans were passionate and knowledgeable, and tonight they’d be watching to see if Nic Lapierre’s son could measure up to the man himself.
I went through my warm-up routine on autopilot—skating patterns, stretching, taking shots, visualizing plays.But I was hyperaware of the arena’s history, of the memories embedded in these boards, of every comparison that would be made between my performance tonight and my father’s legendary career.
In the locker room before puck drop, Coach Roberts gave his pregame speech, but I barely heard it. The pressure in my chest felt suffocating—not the motivating pregame adrenaline, but something heavier, more paralyzing.
Focus. Just play your game. Don’t think about anything else.
The anthems played. We lined up on the center line. And the puck dropped.
From the first shift, something was off. My timing was a fraction slow, my passes a few inches off target, my reads of the play just slightly delayed. Nothing catastrophic, nothing obvious to casual observers, but enough that I could feel the difference.
Vancouver scored first—a deflection off Turner’s stick that beat Gagnon glove side. Not Turner’s fault, just bad luck, but it put us behind early.
We battled back. Weber scored midway through the second period, tying it 1–1. But I wasn’t contributing—no goals, no assists, just grinding through shifts while feeling like I was skating through mud.
The third period was torture. Vancouver scored again with eight minutes left—a breakaway that Gagnon almost stopped but couldn’t quite reach. Vancouver was one up.
We pressed for the equalizer, pulling Gagnon with ninety seconds left for the extra attacker. I had chances—a shot that hit the post, a rebound that I fanned on, a pass to Laasko that was intercepted.
The horn sounded. 2–1 Vancouver.
We’d lost.
In the locker room afterward, the mood was somber but not devastated. We’d played hard, had our chances, justcouldn’t bury them. For a preseason game, the effort was there even if the result wasn’t.
But I sat at my stall, stripped of equipment above the waist, feeling the weight of failure pressing down. I’d played in my father’s arena as the captain of a new expansion team and hadn’t measured up. Hadn’t led the team to victory. Hadn’t proven I belonged in his legacy.
“Tough loss.” Holloway dropped onto the bench beside me. “We’ll get them next time.”
“Yeah.” The word came out flat, unconvincing.
