"Go! Go! Go!" the bench was screaming.
I carried the puck across the red line. A defenseman closed in, looking to pin me against the boards. I sold the dump-in, dropped my shoulder, and then executed a toe-drag that left him lunging at empty air. I was in the clear.
I crossed the blue line. The goalie came out to challenge, cutting down the angle. I could hear the roar of thousands rising to a crescendo, a wall of sound that pushed me forward. I looked for Mason in the middle, but the lane was blocked.
Fine. I’ll do it myself.
I snapped a wrist shot, aiming for the tiny gap above the goalie's blocker. The puck blurred.
Thwack.
It hit the back of the net with a beautiful, violent ripple of twine.
The horn sounded and I was mobbed before I could finish my celebratory slide. Mason, Landon, even Cash from the defensive pairing. They piled onto me, a chaotic huddle of sweating, shouting men.
"There he is! That’s what I’m talking about!" Mason yelled into my ear hole.
We spent the last two minutes playing the most disciplined defensive hockey of our lives. I blocked a shot with my shin guard that I knew would leave a mammoth bruise, but I didn't care. When the final horn sounded, the scoreboard read 2-1.
We had tied the series.
As we walked down the tunnel, the fans leaning over the railings to high-five our gloves, I felt a strange, pulsing heat in my chest. It wasn't just the win. It was the realization that for the first time since I’d landed in San Antonio, I wasn't a guest. I was home. And I knew exactly where I wanted to go to celebrate.
The locker room was a disaster zone of discarded tape, empty Gatorade bottles, and the heavy, sweet scent of victory. Usually, the air in here was thick with tension, but tonight, it was electric.
"That toe-drag was filthy, man. I thought Suter’s ankles were going to snap," Mason yelled, pulling his jersey over his head.
"Old dogs, new tricks," I shouted back with a grin as I unlaced my skates. My heart was still hammering a post-game rhythm, but it wasn't from the cardio. I was already checking the clock. 10:45 PM. If I moved fast, I’d make it to the Faucet before the rush hit its peak. I wanted to see Kayla. I wanted to see if that friendly smile held a little more heat after a game-winning goal.
"We’re hitting the Downtown Social," Tucker called out, surprisingly directed at me. "First round’s on the rookies. You coming, Michael?"
It was the first time he’d used my first name without a sneer attached to it.
"Maybe catch up with you guys later," I said, giving him a chin flick. "Got some things to take care of first."
The guys filtered out in a loud, boisterous wave, their voices echoing down the concrete tunnel. I was reaching for my jacket when a sharp whistle cut through the lingering steam of the showers.
"Landry. A word."
Coach leaned against the doorway of his office, his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up. I checked the empty room, then walked over.
"Great game tonight, Coach."
"It was a professional game," he corrected, though his eyes were softer than they’d been in a week. He stepped into the locker room, looking at the empty stalls. "I know it hasn't been easy. Coming into a room that’s already won together, trying to find a seat at a table that feels full. I’ve watched you take the hits. From the press and from your own teammates. And I like the way you stood your ground tonight. You earned that jersey a few times over."
The adrenaline finally starting to dip into a steady, quiet hum. "Thanks, Coach. Honestly? I’ve been wondering when the Welcome mat was going to stop being pulled out from under me." I hesitated, the question that had been gnawing at me since Seattle finally clawing its way to the surface. "Can I ask you something? Man to man?"
Coach nodded, crossing his arms.
"Why me?" I asked, and the words felt heavier than I expected. "I’m thirty-six. My stats are plateauing. I’m not a franchise player, and I’m definitely not a superstar. This team has liftedthe Cup a few times. You’ve got Hall of Famers in this room. Why did the Surge trade for a guy who’s past his sell-by date?"
Coach let out a short, dry chuckle. He walked over to the whiteboard, erasing a defensive play with the side of his hand.
"You saw the third period tonight, right?" Coach asked. "We have stars, Michael. We have guys who can score fifty goals a season and guys who can skate circles around a puck. But what we didn't have was a spine. When things get ugly in the playoffs, when teams like the Wild start playing dirty and the pressure starts cracking the foundation, stars start looking for the exit. They don't know how to suffer. You do."
“Is that a compliment?”
He turned to face me fully. "I didn't bring you here for your slap shot. I brought you here because you’ve survived years of this. You’re a seasoned leader who knows how to be the adult in the room when everyone else is acting like a kid. Even if it’s only for one season, I wanted my guys to see what a real pro looks like. I wanted your shadow in this room."
