He slammed his flat palm into the desk, and I jumped, all the words I had falling out of my head. “You think I put you on this team to warm a bench? Or maybe I kept you around for years because blue’s a good color on you. Maybe that’s it.”
His anger made me feel about two feet tall, and I just stood there, taking it. What else could I do?
“You’re the guy I call on when the team needs you,” he said, nostrils flaring. “Nobody else plays your game, Santos. Fuck the roster, or ice time, or any of it. I put you on when it’s your game we need. You calling me a clueless coach?”
“No, sir.”
“You saying I’m a dumbfuck who doesn’t know shit about hockey?”
“N— no, sir.”
“Because it sure as hell sounds like it from where I’m sitting.”
“No, sir, I don’t think you’re clueless.”
“Then what are you saying, then?” He screwed up his eyes, challenging me to go ahead and piss him off some more.
But this wasn’t some childish power struggle with authority. This was my life. I’d just realized I wasn’t cut out for pro hockey, something I’d been dreaming about my whole life, pretty much.
“If I play like I did the last game…” He didn’t immediately interrupt me, which was weird. I hadn’t thought out where to go with the rest of my sentence. Floundering on the spot, I continued with, “I just don’t want to let anyone down.”
“Pull yourself out of the game, and you’ll be letting everyone down, including yourself.”
I swallowed hard.
“Ride or die. That’s who you are to The Surge. And that’s tonight, Santos. That’s this game. So what are you gonna do about it? Whine some more? Cry about tabloids and opinions that don’t mean shit to your game?”
I wanted to argue my case, but the words wouldn’t come. His stare pinned me in place, the kind of look that didn’t demand compliance so much as it demanded truth. And the truth was… he was right. I’d been cowering in my own doubts, letting them fester while the team needed me to be the guy I was supposed to be.
Coach leaned back, his chair creaking, but his voice softened slightly. “Leave the last game behind you. That’s done. Tonight’s all that matters. You understand?”
I nodded, almost too quickly, heart pounding with what this now meant for me. I’d prepared myself to go back to the hotel and catch the game on TV. Instead, I stood here agreeing with him.
“Yes, Coach. I… I’ll do it.”
“Good.” He straightened, sharp and commanding again. “Go suit up and meet me out there. And, Santos— Don’t overthink it. Just play the fucking game.”
I left the office, the weight on my shoulders lighter, but the knot of doubt still lingering in my chest. Still nagging. I knew I had to shake it. Shake it or it’d ruin everything before it even started.
A few minutes later, we skated onto the ice as a unit, the roar of the Nashville crowd hitting me like a physical wall. Away game. No home crowd to lean on. Just thousands of strangers staring, jeering, expecting us to crash and burn. And me, wondering if I could even hold it together.
Grayson clapped a hand on my shoulder as we lined up for the faceoff. “What do you say, partner? Are we gonna crush them or what?”
I wanted to tell him to shut up. His confidence in me felt wasted. Instead, I nodded, trying to swallow the tight lump in my throat.
“Yeah. Let’s do this,” I muttered, even though the words felt hollow.
The puck dropped, and immediately I felt the weight of every mistake from the last game pressing down. The Predators were fast and aggressive, circling like beasts closing in on their prey. Tucker and Cash tried to stabilize the defense, but I was second-guessing every move, every pass.
“Push it up! Aiden, shift left!” Grayson barked, his voice cutting through the noise.
I tried skating the angle he called for, but my timing was way off. Landon streaked past me, opened up for the shot, and I misread it, leaving the lane just a fraction too late. The Predators pounced, and just like that, they countered and scored.
I felt my stomach drop. Great. Just fucking great.
“Shake it off!” Grayson yelled. “Next shift, you’re with me. We’ll fix it.”
I nodded again, forcing the motion, trying to push past the fog in my head. We cycled the puck up the ice, Landon cutting sharp angles, Tucker covering our back, Cash pinching at the boards. I got a pass and made to feed Grayson, but my push was weak and trailed away from him, bouncing off the boards. Nashville recovered immediately, and the crowd ate it up.
