We lose 3-1 and it isn’t close enough for that scoreline to be flattering.
The first period is fine. Scrappy, physical, the kind of hockey that’s not pretty but keeps you in the game, and we go into the first intermission level. The locker room has that tight, focused energy that I recognize, that I’ve been trying to rebuild all season. Like the team is about to click.
It doesn’t click.
Northern State score seven minutes into the second on a transition we should have read, a defensive breakdown that starts small and builds fast, the kind of thing that happens when you’re half a second behind and can’t claw it back. I watch it happen from the crease and there’s nothing I can do.
We pull one back midway through the third. Ward, off a scramble in front, and for about four minutes the game feels like last season, and the bench is loud and I can feel it - that thing, that almost-thing-
And then they score twice in six minutes and it’s over.
The buzzer goes.
I stand at center ice for a second longer than I should while Northern State celebrate at the other end.
3-1.
We’re better than that.
I tap gloves with their guys coming through the line and I keep my face neutral. I say the right things to the right people and I try not to let anything show.
ELIDA
I watch from the stands a few rows behind Coach Calloway.
I’m not their coach. Not for games, not officially. I’m hired to give extra skating help. So I just watch.
And technically speaking, they’re so close.
That’s what strikes me, sitting here in this cold, unremarkable arena in this small Minnesota town with my scarf pulled up. They’re not a bad team. They’re not even a struggling team, not really. They’re a team that’s right on the edge of being great. Watching the third period slip away from them is like watching someone reach for something just beyond their fingertips over and over again.
I know that feeling.
When the buzzer goes I stay in my seat while the stands empty around me, watching the handshake line below, watching Russo move through it with his chin up and his face composed in a way that is quite clearly concealing disappointment.
That’s when I notice the man near the glass.
He’s not a student. Late twenties maybe, broad-shouldered, in a Northern State jacket. He looks up at me and catches myeye. He smiles - easy, open - and nods toward the ice in a way that saysgood gamewithout saying anything.
I nod back.
He moves toward the gate and leans on it. “You’re the new skating coach?”
“I am.”
“Jake Skelly.” He offers his hand over the boards. “Assistant coach at Northern State.
“Elida Eriksson.”
“I know.” His voice is warm and not pushy. “I followed your career. You were incredible.” He says it but doesn’t make it weird, which I appreciate.
“Thank you.”
He looks back at the ice, comfortable with the silence. “Your guys aren’t bad,” he says, after a moment. “Honestly. They’re right there.”
“I know.”
“Maybe that almost makes it worse?” He’s intuitive.
