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The guy had blown up his entire schedule for me. Had rearranged his sleep, his ice time, his off days. We’d been practically attached at the hip for weeks now, and it had all been for nothing.

As I rounded the corner, I reminded myself to thank him before I left. It’d been years since someone had gone to bat for me like he had. The idea of telling him that I’d failed both of us made me want to puke.

At Coach’s office, I knocked on the doorframe. “You wanted to see me?”

“Come on in, and shut the door.” He gestured at the chair across from his desk, the same one I’d sat in only a handful of days ago as he told me he liked what he was seeing and that I should keep it up.

I took a seat, my spine straight, feet planted flat on the floor while I waited for him to speak.

He continued flipping through some papers for a few more seconds, then cleared his throat and glanced up. “We need someone who’s dependable. Defensively responsible. We didn’t bring you here to light the lamp. We need a guy who won’t be a liability when the puck’s in our end. A guy who can hold things down.”

Which I obviously couldn’t do.

I nodded, my mouth completely dry.

“Today,” Hendricks continued, glancing back down at his notes. “Today wasn’t your best showing, Porter.”

“I know,” I jumped in, not really knowing what I planned to say, only that I should say something. It might not matter—it probably wouldn’t—but I had to at least try. “Coach, I⁠—”

He held up a hand, letting me know he didn’t want to hear it.

I snapped my mouth shut.

He leaned back in his seat, linking his fingers together and resting them over his belly.

“We’ve seen real progress out of you since you and Callahan started putting in the extra work. Your wind’s better. Your feet are quicker out of the turns. And against Cleveland, you acquitted yourself fine—made smart reads, didn’t try to do too much. Held the line.”

He paused, and I waited for the “but” to come.

But … it wasn’t enough.

But … you’re not good enough.

But … we’re cutting you.

“So we’re keeping you on the roster, kid,” he said. “You made the team. Congratulations, Porter.”

For a few long seconds, the words just sort of tumbled around in my brain, refusing to be understood. When they did finally settle, when I heard them and processed them and absorbed them, I couldn’t fucking believe my ears.

The breath I’d been holding left me in a rush. My eyes stung, and I had to blink hard to stop the tears from forming. My heart was beating so hard I could hear it between my ears. I’d walked in here believing I was about to lose everything I’d worked my whole life for, and instead, my dream was finally coming true.

“I’m—” My voice cracked. I cleared my throat and tried again. “I’m on the roster?”

“That’s what I said,” he replied, his mouth twitching at the right side. “I want you to continue working with Callahan, though. And you’re going to keep playing how you did yesterday, not like whatever the hell that was out there today. We clear?”

“Yes. Fuck. Crystal clear.” I rose, extending my hand across his desk. “Thank you, Coach. Seriously. Thank you.”

I gripped his hand, gripping it probably way too hard, and pumping it like a lunatic who’d never shook someone’s hand before.

“All right. Go get showered. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

The back of my throat burning, I got myself the hell out of his office before my eyes could betray me.

In the hallway, I took a few steps back out toward our stalls, my shaking legs threatening to give out.

I’d made the team.

Unfucking believable.