My hands moved, identifying the sequence with fingers that shook, applying labels that didn’t capture what I’d witnessed.
Play continued, and I tried to track all six players and log the patterns that mattered. Do my job the way I’d been doing it for years.
Instead, I found myself pulling up the isolated camera angle on Tolrek to review the sequence and make sure I’d tagged it correctly. That was professional, right? It was part of the job. The footage showed him tracking the developing play, his timing exact. Frame by frame, I could see the moment he committed to contact without the half-second hesitation that had been present in every practice sequence I’d pulled from the past three weeks.
The hesitation was gone.
I rewound the tape and watched it again.
Then again.
The third time through, I realized what I was doing and forced myself to close the isolated feed. This wasn’t professional anymore. It was something else entirely, and I couldn’t afford to let it show.
The period continued. Tolrek’s line cycled through twice more. Both times he made reads that were cleaner than anything I’d seen from him in recent footage. Both times I did my job and tried not to linger on the isolated angles longer than I should.
Each time, I failed.
Between periods, I ran my standard cleanup while the arena sound system played music loud enough to rattle my bones. The press box had mostly emptied, analysts and reporters heading to grab a drink or use the bathroom before the second period started.
I stayed in my seat and pulled up Tolrek’s tapes again.
My tablet chimed with a message from one of the assistant coaches asking for the neutral zone transition stats. I compiled them quickly and sent them, proud of myself for remembering to include the full roster instead of just the sequences I’d been rewinding for the past twenty minutes.
The second period started, and I made myself focus.
Tolrek took the ice midway through the period. The other team’s power play unit deployed, running the setup I’d identified in my scouting package. Our penalty kill read it perfectly, positioning themselves to cut off the passing lanes before the play could develop.
Tolrek’s voice carried through my headset feed, cutting through the arena noise to direct the other defenseman into position. This was the kind of on-ice leadership that didn’t show up in stat sheets but made everyone around him better.
The power play collapsed without a shot on goal.
My father would use this footage in tomorrow’s team meeting. He’d pull my breakdown and show the players exactlyhow the read had worked. He’d probably mention Tolrek specifically, praising what he’d done today.
Pride hit me all at once, sudden, total, and with nowhere to go.
Tolrek deserved the recognition, though my father had no idea why Tolrek was playing better or what I’d done to help him get there. Let alone what we’d done together in a hotel gym while the rest of the team slept.
The third period blurred. We won by two goals. Both were scored off plays that started with defensive positioning—Tolrek's positioning—creating offensive opportunities. This was the kind of textbook hockey my father loved to see.
After the final buzzer, I stayed in my seat, running through my logs and compiling the breakdown. The press box emptied around me. Down on the ice, the team celebrated, slapping hands and helmets.
Tolrek stood near the bench, his helmet off, his hair damp with sweat. He was talking to Brashe, probably reviewing something from the third period. When he glanced up at the press box, his gaze met mine. I felt his attention in the same place I’d felt everything else about him for the past three weeks.
The eye contact didn’t last long. He returned his attention to Brashe.
I'd watched hours of footage today. Those three seconds were the only ones I kept coming back to. But I knew what I’d seen in his face. I knew because it matched whatever was on mine.
I closed my computer.
The bathroom near the press box only had three stalls and two sinks with taps that ran cold no matter how long you waited. I’d been using it for over a year and still couldn’t get warm water.
I was washing my hands when Simone walked in. Fedor’s wife. Fedor was one of the forwards. They’d been together for at least five years. Tall, she had dark hair and the kind of put-together look most people only managed after a full night's sleep.
“Haley.” She smiled. “Great game tonight.”
“Sure was. Fedor was amazing.”
“He said you’re the one who spotted their power play tell.” She moved to the sink beside me. “He’s been raving about your scouting packages all week.”
