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“What the hell happened out there?” I asked. “We played like shit. It was chippy and congested, and we couldn’t get the puck in the net.”

“It was a grind,” Steph said, sounding much calmer than I felt. “But that’s just how some games are.”

“Not for us,” I seethed.

We’d worked an entire season to get to this point, and we were on the verge of losing everything.

I felt the pressure more than ever. As team captain, a lot was expected of me—by the team, by the fans. I expected a lot of myself. This wasn’t just about losing one game; it was about our entire season.

We were still in the running for the Walter Cup, but we were hanging on by a thread. I knew I was spiraling, but I’d been under so much pressure lately that it was difficult not to dwell on the potential consequences.

I knew it was one bad game, but I also knew how quickly that defeat could get into a team’s head, creating a cascading effect of losses. I was determined to prove I had more good years in me so the Wolves or another team would make an offer when my current contract ended. Without that, I wouldn’t be seen as a viable candidate for the Olympic team. I wouldn’t get to continue expanding the sport for women, growing the game for the next generation.

“Hey,” Ritz said in a low voice from beside me. “Lo. It’s okay.”

“No. It’s not fucking okay.” I kicked a helmet that was resting on the floor.

Fuck. I dragged a hand through my hair, turning toward my locker so I wouldn’t have to see the surprised faces of my teammates. This wasn’t me. I didn’t throw a fucking temper tantrum.

“Frost,” Coach called. “My office. Now.”

Shit.

I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths, but they did nothing to calm me. Even so, I knew Coach was waiting, my teammates were watching.

Jesus, Frost. Get it together.

I was a leader, and I needed to act like it.

I headed to Coach’s office, and she shut the door behind me, closing the blinds. “Sit down.”

I sank into the chair across from her desk but remained silent. She sat across from me, stern and intimidating.

“Hockey is a team sport, and the team respects you. As their leader, they look to you for guidance,” she continued. “You’re their center in the storm. If they see you losing your shit, they’re going to lose theirs.”

I swallowed hard, some of my temper cooling at her reprimand. “I’m sorry, Coach. It won’t happen again.”

“Have you ever been surfing?” she asked.

I furrowed my brow. “You want me to go surfing?” Wouldn’t that violate my contract? Maybe I was more tired than I realized, because I wasn’t following. Or maybe I was exhausted after a grueling game, months of travel, balancing the podcast, the NHL initiative, and so much more.

“No. No.” She waved a hand through the air. “Just wondered if you’d ever been.”

“Yeah.” When I was a kid, I’d definitely enjoyed living near the ocean.

“What do you do if a big wave comes and takes you out?” she asked. “Do you fight it?”

I shook my head slowly, wondering where she was going with this.

“Exactly.” She grinned. “You let it wash over you. You might sink to the bottom, but then you will rise back up.” She watched me, quietly letting me absorb her words.

Sink to the bottom so you will rise back up.

Did that advice still apply when you’d clawed—were clawing—your way to the top?

“And what happens if you panic?” she asked.

“You drown,” I said quietly, understanding dawning on me.