Chapter 4
Chapter four
Sean
The win on Saturday against the Avalanche bought us some breathing room, but not much. One game didn’t win the playoffs. This was when everyone was focused, hellos were shorter, and there was less chirping in the locker room.
I liked it that way. This was the stretch where a team either sharpened into something damn near lethal or cracked under the weight of it.
I pushed through the glass doors of Tahoe West HQ, coffee in one hand, game notes tucked under my arm. In the lobby, staff and a few players trickled in. It had that Monday scent of coffee and floor polish.
Felix had summoned all department heads for an 8:30 short briefing. Let’s keep the postseason tight, his Sunday night email had said. Translation: No surprises, no sloppiness, and no press leaks (drama was for the ice, not the highlights).
I stepped off the elevator.
“Morning, Sean.”
I turned. Maria was coming toward me, and beside her was the woman from the restroom. Business casual, badge clipped at her waistband and swinging near her hip. She looked confident, a far cry from the flustered woman slipping out of the men’s room last week.
“Morning,” I said, keeping my tone even.
“Perfect timing,” Maria continued. “This is Melanie Boyd. She’s just joined us to assist with Player Development.”
I nodded at the newcomer. “Welcome.”
“Thanks.”
She met my gaze. Blue-green eyes, cool and almond-shaped, striking as hell. The type that could knock out what you were supposed to say next. She didn’t try to smile too wide; she held the moment like it was second nature.
But the prettiness didn’t sit quietly. It made you notice and left it up to you to do something about it.
“Orientation’s underway,” Maria went on. “She’s part of that new model we’re starting as liaison support during travel.”
Right. That model. A strategy to tighten team cohesion and track player metrics more closely while on the road. It’d made sense in theory, but at the time, I hadn’t thought much of it.
My jaw ticked once. I covered it with a sip of coffee.
“Glad to have you on board,” I said, nodding again.
But I didn’t love it. Not because she wasn’t qualified—Maria didn’t make sloppy hires—and not because I had anything against trial positions. But we had barely started the damn playoffs. My job was to lock it down, not test-drive new staff, and one that was a walking distraction, no less.
Mel-Melanie gave a final smile and walked off with Maria.
I watched them go, long enough to remind myself: This is work.
Still…late twenties, maybe not quite thirty?
Was that my cutoff now? Hell if I knew. Age shouldn’t have mattered, but it stuck in my head anyway, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel that flicker from our first two encounters again.
Maybe it was the memory of that bathroom door slamming into me or the calm way she looked at me a moment ago.
Either way, I was aware of her. Very aware.
Seeing her Saturday, cheering, alone, I assumed…
No, not assumed. I hoped.
But this wasn’t that. She was part of the team now, technically reporting through Maria, but on the road, those lines blurred. I was the top of her chain out there, and that was a responsibility I couldn’t ignore.
I headed to practice right after the debrief.
Arms crossed, I watched drills unfold across the rink. The scrape of blades and echo of pucks usually reset my brain. But today, there was an extra layer to manage.
“Logan, reset and go again! Porter, watch your angle!” I called out.
During a break in drills, a flicker at the edge of my vision made me turn. Mel or Melanie—didn’t matter—stood on the sideline, talking with Rich, the head trainer. I needed to get used to seeing her here.
I scanned the rink again, half listening to a support staff mention that the Colorado team had been in town since Friday. Not surprising. They had back-to-back games on our rink. But knowing they’d been here all weekend made the pressure feel tighter.
“Coach,” Brent called, skating to a stop beside me, grinning. “So...who’s the new brunette shadowing our staff?”
Colton was right behind him as if linked by the hips, helmet tucked under one arm. “Yeah, Coach?”
I kept my eyes on the rink. “That’s Melanie Boyd. New Player Development assistant.”
Brent let out a low whistle. “To watch us, huh?”
I nodded once. “Trial period.”
Colton’s grin widened. “That explains it.”
I glanced over toward where Mel stood then back to Colton. “Explains what?”
He held up both hands. “Just didn’t know the job description included giving Coach Murphy wrinkles. But if she’s here to shake things up, I’m all for it.” That was Colton, ready to rattle the status quo.
I turned back to the ice without answering and barked a cue for the next line change. They skated off grinning.
I wasn’t mad, not really. But this was playoff time, when the margin for error didn’t exist. Having someone new in the mix, someone I hadn’t vetted, whose rhythm I didn’t know, threw me.
Especially when that someone had eyes I hadn’t been able to forget.
No, I wasn’t mad. Just…aware. Right place. Wrong time.
And I didn’t like not knowing what came next.
My phone buzzed.
Maria: Let’s properly introduce Melanie to the team. Shoot me a good time.
Standard protocol. Same as we’d done for every new intern, scout, and trainer. But this felt different. I couldn’t put my finger on why.
I typed back:
Me: Right after skate wrap-up. They’ll be beat but not yet hungry. Best window you’ll get.
After the guys finished with drills, Maria joined Mel by the trainer, and the two of them walked toward me.
Direct line of sight, my chance to catch what I’d missed earlier.
Mel’s hair was pulled back in a game-day style with no frizz, light brown, soft in color.
She looked more like she gave orders than took them, and something about that landed low in my gut.
Her dark pink blouse—raspberry, maybe—fit well, tracing the line of her shoulders before falling loose over slacks. Small heels, too. How the hell was she walking in those after that spill six weeks ago?
Then again, I wasn’t supposed to be noticing any of that.
But I was. And I hated how aware I was of it all.
We walked to the locker room. At the sight of the women, the chatters quieted down.
“Alright,” Maria called. “Quick second, guys.”
A few towels dropped, and hands froze with laces half-undone. The guys leaned back against their stalls, a wall of skates and towels that might read intimidating to a new hire.
“This is Melanie Boyd. She’s joined us as a Player Development assistant. She’ll be orienting through the postseason, traveling with the team on select trips.”
Mel gave a calm nod. “Nice to meet you all. Looking forward to working with you.”
Logan swept a towel around his shoulders. “Player development, huh? So if I eat one less donut and run one more drill, you’re the one who claps for me?” He winked.
A few of the guys snorted.
Sergei shook his head. “Man’s been waiting all year to impress someone new.”
“Let’s start with passing drills,” Mel said, dry but light. “I hear those are still optional for you.”
Oh, snap. The group lit up with howls and sticks clapping against the boards. I smiled, a genuine one.
Logan grinned, impressed. “Okay, okay. She’s got teeth.” And she wasn’t afraid to use them.
Maria looked smug. I wasn’t surprised.
Mel briefly met my eyes, then turned back to a player asking about the road schedule. She nodded and jotted something down on her iPad.
Most new staff tried not to take up space, but that clapback got her into the pack faster than she knew. The guys respected that. Hell, I respected it. Even if some part of me clocked the curve of her hip when she turned—not helpful, my brain was in rebellious mode.
After Tuesday’s light skate, I peeled off my gloves and tugged my cap low, same as always. Most of the guys had filtered into the locker room, the last few chirping at trainers or stretching through cooldowns. Typical game-day morning casual routine.
“Sean.”
Maria’s voice cut through the tunnel. She was already halfway to me, heels soft against the rubber flooring.
“I need a minute.”
I nodded and followed her a few steps from the noise.
“I’d like Melanie to travel with the team this week,” she said. “You’re leaving for a back-to-back in Colorado.”
I did a double take. “She’s been here, what, a week?”
“Exactly. So she’d better hit the road running.
We’re already behind on rotating development staff into travel roles.
Tahoe West doesn’t fall behind the curve.
” She didn’t blink. “If we don’t squeeze her in now, she’ll be flying blind next season.
She needs exposure in all areas of her job this season. ”
I crossed my arms. “I get that. But we’re in the playoffs. Is that the time to experiment?”
“She’s not running drills,” Maria said. “She’s observing, getting the feel. You said it yourself in the debrief—players respond better when they see consistent faces behind the bench and off the ice.”
I exhaled slowly. That had been about trainers not breaking in new staff during playoffs.
“Management thinks long game. You do too,” she added. “Integrate her now when it matters. You know the routine, and she’ll learn it faster beside you than from any checklist.”
There it was. Flattery and team loyalty, rolled into one neat punch.
“I trust you to give her the kind of insight we can’t put on paper,” Maria concluded.
Mel hadn’t walked into that locker room tentative; she’d handled it calmly and given as good as she got. She was here for a job and ready to prove it, which was both impressive and annoyingly inconvenient.
I shook my head lightly. “You’re good at this.”
Maria smiled. “I know.”
And that was that. My fate, sealed with a confident smile.
Game time rolled in that evening, the arena electric with home fans. The second playoff game against Colorado. Gotta win it, same as every game. Lose this one, and the pressure grew tighter to win the following games. The good news was we were on home soil.
Warm-ups wrapped. I stood behind the bench, scanning the ice.
Colton flicked a puck into the corner, all heat and precision, like he was daring someone to test him.
Brent circled the net with that low, coiled stride that meant he was dialed in.
My two best forwards: Colton brought the fire, Brent the focus. A damn reliable pair.
The air thrummed with energy, bass-heavy music, fans slapping the glass—all the markers of home advantage, ready to be cashed in.
I caught sight of Mel, iPad in hand, standing behind the gear carts and tape bins near the gate. Blazer fitted, hair up, fully locked in. Tomorrow, she’d be on the plane, under my watch.
Trial role or not, this wasn’t a soft launch. It was a full send, fast track, total immersion. I respected people who earned their space; that was my whole damn life. From across where I stood, Mel seemed calm and eager. She was observing with interest, not a bad look for being new in the role.
Colton skated up, tapped his stick on the boards.
“Are we ready?”
“Yeah,” I said, getting into game mode.
Still, I felt her presence off my right shoulder. Not literally, more of a shift in the air. The type of shift you noticed, even when you tried not to, and I had to get used to it, whether or not I liked it.
Later that night, we lost the game. I dragged myself to my car, the sting of it hanging on my shoulders.
The house was dark when I got back, but the porch light was still on. I locked the door behind me and made a loop through the hall. No TV noise. My sister had probably crashed. And Cassy…
I peeked into her cracked door.
She was out cold, one foot hanging off the bed, blanket kicked to the side. A five-year-old tornado in unicorn pajamas. I stepped in, pushed her to the middle of the bed, pulled the blanket up over her, and brushed a curl away from her cheek.
Her breathing was steady, helping me fade out missed power plays and tonight’s game interview.
I sat on the edge of her bed for a minute.
Playoff losses sucked. They stuck in your chest, letting you know you let more than your team down, that you let your town down too. But Cassy didn’t care about ice time or press questions; she cared that her stuffed penguin was tucked by her side and that bedtime stories came with sound effects.
Since they moved in last month, this had become my routine, checking on her while she slept. There was something about it that reminded me of home. I knew it wouldn’t last. Abby and Jeff were talking again, and that was a good thing.
She left her marriage after too many solo dinners and too many “I’ll be out of town longer” calls from Jeff.
She told me she was done carrying it all alone, done pretending that counted as a marriage.
With Jeff’s business trips showing no signs of slowing down, she said it felt less like a partnership and more like single motherhood.
That was why she held off on a second child; she couldn’t bear to watch another kid grow up asking why their dad wasn’t around.
When they reconcile, there won’t be any more rainbow coloring on the sidewalk, cereal won’t spill in the morning rush, and the whispered “don’t tell Mommy” snacks at bedtime will cease.
I’d miss those. I’d miss them.
I stood after a moment, easing out of her room into mine. One loss down, more games to go. And now, an iPad-wielding fast-tracked woman in small heels would be joining us on the road. This postseason wasn’t going to be boring at all.