Chapter 6
Drew
The Grizzlies had one preseason game before the regular season kicked in—a tune-up against a farm club from the Hockey League of Western North America, the HLWNA.
Different league, same hunger. For them, it was a chance to test themselves against pros; for us, a way to see who could handle the lights.
Half the seats were filled—families in Grizzlies jerseys, kids waving foam paws and handmade signs. Not the roar of playoffs, but loud enough to matter. For some of the rookies, it was the biggest crowd they’d ever faced.
The tunnel felt the same as always: rubber mat underfoot, cold air spilling off the ice, that low hum in the walls that belonged only to rinks. I tugged my tie, settled the clipboard under my arm. The old knee ached, dull and familiar, a ghost that wanted acknowledgment I wouldn’t give.
In the room, Jester was chirping Tank about his warm-up playlist. Trembley paced, stopped, stretched his shoulders, paced again. Carter’s knee bounced hard enough to rattle a water bottle. Nerves wore different masks. Veterans hid theirs; rookies hadn’t learned how yet.
And then there was Miguel. Half-dressed, pads open, tape looped around two fingers, eyes taking in the room without moving his head.
Calm on the outside—always. The soft tap of his stick against his pad made a rhythm under the chatter.
It took me a second to realize I was matching my own breath to it.
“Rodriguez,” I said quietly, tilting my chin toward Carter. “First shift’s going to swallow him whole if we don’t get in front of it.”
Miguel didn’t hesitate. Tape still on his fingers, he crouched in front of the kid, spoke low and steady.
I couldn’t hear the words, just the tone—measured, grounding.
Carter’s shoulders loosened, the bounce in his knee slowed.
A small clap to the shoulder, then Miguel was back in his stall, calm restored. Exactly why I’d called him over.
Warm-ups blurred into anthems. Lights dimmed; spotlights cut through the cold air. I stepped behind the bench and let the sound roll over me.
Puck drop.
The HLWNA team came heavy, their forecheck hammering before our defense even settled their feet.
Tank leaned into the first hit, glass rattling.
Jester’s stick chipped the puck free but not clean, and the bench flinched in unison.
Carter’s first turn almost sent him sprawling, but he caught himself, chased the play, took a shot off the shin and grinned through the pain. Rookie grit. We’d take it.
We were all nerves and no rhythm. I kept my voice even—short fixes, not lectures.
“Shorter change.”
“Shoulders square.”
“Eyes up.”
A turnover spun into a two-on-one. Pass threaded clean. Miguel moved before the puck even left the blade—slide, glove, pop. The sound cracked through the rink like a starter pistol. The crowd rose. A few sticks banged the boards.
For one heartbeat he looked my way. I gave a small nod; his mask dipped once. Then the play rolled on.
Penalties stacked. Tank got one he’d earned. Our penalty kill looked like a first date—uncertain, clumsy, full of near misses. Miguel cleaned up everything they didn’t. Shot through a screen? Swallowed. Rebound? Kicked wide before anyone else blinked. He made chaos look organized.
Between periods, the locker room smelled of sweat and skate oil.
“Stop reaching,” I told them. “Angles, not hope. Keep your sticks down.” The veterans nodded slowly.
The rookies too fast. Miguel said nothing, just sat with his bottle against his chin, eyes steady on the floor.
He didn’t need my words; he already understood the silence between them.
The second period bit harder. Sam got greedy on a rush—went chasing a highlight instead of making the safe pass—and when it broke the other way, our defense was caught flat.
Miguel ended up alone with two shooters closing in.
The shot slipped past his glove, clean and fast. He rapped his stick against the post once, sharp but contained, then reset like it never happened.
No theatrics, no slump. Just work. I felt my jaw loosen without realizing I’d been holding it tight.
We clawed one back on a rebound scramble. Trembley muscled the puck over the line, half-falling, half-celebrating. Ugly goal, beautiful relief. The building woke up. My pulse did too.
The visitors answered with pressure. Miguel sprawled, blocker high, pad low, shutting down both levels like he had extra limbs.
The bench erupted. I didn’t. My fingers tightened on the clipboard, eyes dragged back to him again—shoulders squared, movements exact, the kind of composure you couldn’t teach.
I stared too long. Forced myself to scan the ice instead.
Third period, tied. Scrappy hockey—nothing smooth, just collisions and heart.
Carter battled on the boards and dug the puck free, sending it back to Jester at the point.
Jester slid it across to Tank, who fired a low shot through traffic.
It bounced off two bodies in front before Trembley slammed the rebound home.
Not pretty, but it counted. Real hockey.
Final minutes. Their coach pulled the goalie. Crowd on its feet. My voice cut short: “Tank, Jester. Carter, Trembley. Win it and get off.”
They set a two-on-one that should’ve tied it. Pass looked perfect—until Miguel read it a second early. He slid across, full extension, glove flashing. The puck vanished inside it. The sound of the save hit before the cheer did.
I exhaled slowly, clipboard tapping the boards once before I caught myself.
Horn. Win.
Not pretty. But enough.
And when the team spilled onto the ice to tap gloves with their goalie, I stayed behind on the bench, pretending to study stats. My eyes found him anyway—mask tilted up, breath fogging, smile brief but real.
Something unspooled in my chest. It had to be relief.
The locker room swallowed us whole. Steam hung thick in the air; sweat and tape littered the floor. Voices climbed too high, laughter spilling over itself because young men have to put their joy somewhere.
Lily wove through the chaos like she owned it—elastic wraps in one hand, ice packs in the other—moving from Tank’s knee to Trembley’s shoulder with the instinct of someone who could spot trouble before it set in.
She caught my eye, nodded toward an extra forward pretending not to limp.
I gave a short nod back. She changed course without breaking stride.
I gave them another minute to burn off the noise—they’d earned it.
Then I stepped into the middle and waited until the room quieted.
“Good effort tonight,” I said, voice even but carrying.
“But effort without control is just chaos. You want to last past October? You want to still be here in March? Then we stay disciplined—no lazy penalties, no coasting while somebody else does the work. Keep your shape, play smart, play together.”
I looked around the circle—rookies still wired, vets unreadable.
“We’ll tighten it on Monday. For now, take the win, enjoy it. Be smart getting home.”
A few scattered “Yessirs.”
The walk to my office always felt longer after a win—maybe because victory left too much space for thinking. Same corridor as always, same framed photos, same low hum from the vending machine nobody used. I pushed the door open and let it close on the noise behind me.
The room smelled faintly of ice and old coffee. I set the clipboard on the desk, pulled my leather notebook from the drawer, and clicked the pen I’d been worrying since the third period. The paper steadied me. I started to write—nothing fancy, just what needed remembering.
Post-game notes:
- Too many penalties. Rein it in.
- Cleaner defensive rotations.
- Trembley: strong on the puck, good second effort.
- Carter: nerves fading, finding his rhythm.
- Jester it was too quiet for that. Like he was still a little surprised by himself.
I scrambled for lighter ground.
“My niece back in Santo Domingo—Elena—she’s six,” I said. “Her dad, my brother, wants her to play street hockey, but she’d rather draw it. Last week she sent me a picture of me in-net. Made my pads about twice my size.”
Mack’s mouth curved again. “Smart kid. Knows how to make her uncle look unstoppable.”
“Maybe she’s just warning goalies what happens when they let one in.”
He laughed, low and real. It curled in my chest like heat. I swallowed it down, forcing my eyes back to the kids before I lingered too long.
We wrapped drills with a messy scrimmage, letting the kids chase the puck more than actually play.
Laughter filled the rink, small bodies colliding, sticks clattering.
Mack clapped when a tiny winger managed a clean steal, his voice carrying enough command that every head lifted.
For a moment, he wasn’t the coach who needed some cheering up, even if he mightn’t admit it.
He was just a man enjoying kids being kids.
Markers squeaked against plastic and paper, caps clicking as the kids swarmed us with sticks, programs, and ball caps to sign. I crouched, scribbling my name while one boy squinted up at me. “How many teeth have you lost?”
“More than you want to know,” I said with a grin, showing him the one that had been capped. His laughter shot through me like a spark.