I push them harder. Full speed. Rapid transitions. Instead of tightening up, they adjust. Passes connect. Positioning improves. They’re playing better than they have in weeks.
“You’re thinking too loud.” Shep materializes beside me, water bottle in hand. “I can hear your brain overheating from here.”
“They’re not supposed to be this relaxed.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” I stop, realize I don’t have a good answer. “Because practice is work. Focus requires tension.”
“Does it?” Shep takes a swig of water. “Or is that just what you’ve always believed because it’s what you know?”
“Don’t psychoanalyze me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. That’s Gisele’s job now.” He grins at my expression. “I’m just saying—look at them. Actually look.”
I look. Heath and Holden are running through a passing sequence on their own, no prompting, just because they want to. Boone’s helping one of the younger guys adjust his stick grip. The whole bench has an energy that’s different from anything I’ve seen this season.
“They’re not afraid of you right now,” Shep says quietly. “Usually they are. Usually you come in wound so tight that everyone else tenses up just being near you. Today you walked in looking like a person who actually sleeps occasionally, and they responded.”
The observation hits harder than any check I’ve ever taken. Because it’s true. I’ve been making them afraid and calling it leadership.
“You’re saying this is because of a haircut?”
“I’m saying this is because whatever Gisele’s doing is working.” He meets my eyes, and for once, there’s no jokeunderneath. “You came in lighter. They felt that. They played to it.”
“I don’t feel lighter.” But I don’t feel like I’m suffocating either.
“Maybe not.” He shrugs. “But you look it. You act it. And for a team that’s been walking on eggshells around their captain for three months, that matters.”
“Get out of here.”
He grabs his stick, gives two obscene hip thrusts, mouthsbang festin his nature documentary voice, then throws both arms up and yells, “WOOOOO!”
Brogan appears at my shoulder. “Do you think when Sawyer’s hooking up, he screams WOOOOOO! after he comes?”
I close my eyes for a second.
I count to ten. Then to ten again.
He skates away before I can respond, leaving me standing at the boards with my stick in my hands and my entire understanding of leadership rearranging itself. I don’t like it. But I can’t unsee it now.
The rest of practice continues in the same vein. I try to tighten things up—call for harder drills, sharper execution—but the tension I’m used to generating doesn’t materialize. They push themselves, work hard, give their best effort, but they do it without the brittle edge that’s characterized our practices all season.
And they keep playing well.
Not perfect. We’re not magically transformed into a championship team because I got a professional haircut and learned to pick greeting options. But the improvement is undeniable. Passes connect more often. Positioning holds better. Communication flows instead of stutters.
By the time I call it, I’m more confused than I’ve been since this whole thing started. Because this wasn’t supposed towork. Gisele’s Post-it notes and greeting options and emotional vocabulary lessons weren’t supposed to translate to the ice. To the team. To actual, measurable improvement in the thing I care about most.
But they did.
“Good work.” The words feel foreign coming out of my mouth, but they’re true. “Rest up. Game tomorrow. We’re going to need this energy.”
The guys file off the ice, still chattering, still easy with each other. Shep throws me a salute as he passes. Boone claps my shoulder. Even Heath nods at me without the usual wariness in his eyes.
I stay on the ice after everyone leaves.
The rink is quiet now, just the hum of the refrigeration and the occasional creak of the building settling. I skate slow laps, trying to process everything—the chirping, the practice, the way my team looked at me differently today.
