Chapter Two
This Is It
Shane
Present
At forty-one years old, I was having my patience tested as a coach in a way I imagined it might have been tested had I ever been a parent.
It was mid-September in the most chaotic opening of a season I’d yet to experience.
As head coach for the Tampa Bay Ospreys, I’d seen a lot over the years — suspensions from offseason debauchery, rookies who just never showed up to camp, rookies who did show up and then underperformed in a way that had us all wondering why they were ever drafted.
But this season felt like my own personal hell.
Our goalie, Will Perry, affectionately known as Daddy P, was the best in the league.
There was no debate. Irrefutably, he was the best — and all summer, he had been sitting on the Ospreys’ offer for a contract extension next season.
He’d promised me he’d seriously consider it, but I had a feeling he was leaning toward retirement.
And I couldn’t blame him.
He’d put his body through hell for decades, won himself a Stanley Cup with the team a few seasons ago, and had played one hell of a career, in general. He was married now to his former nanny, Chloe, and they were ready to give his daughter a sibling.
But just because I could understand his choice didn’t mean I had to love it.
Perry had his struggles — the same hip that had carried him through two decades of saves now protesting every drop to the ice, his stamina fading with it. But all in all, he was still incredible. He was a powerhouse and a team favorite. He was the heart and soul of the team.
And everyone knows if you kill the heart and soul of anything, it doesn’t take long for the rest to decay.
So, I walked into the first day of preseason training camp with a promise from Perry that he’d have an answer for me. It was the first time since my rookie year coaching that anxiety thrummed through me on the first day of camp — coffee full in my hand, stomach too tight to take a sip.
If I had to rebuild our team around our backup goalie or, worse, a new goalie altogether — I was in for a tough season ahead.
To add to my misery, we’d lost our General Manager unexpectedly over the offseason.
Richard Bancroft, or “Dick” as we all called him, had been a jolly old man.
He was everything you might think Santa Claus might be in his down time when he wasn’t running the North Pole.
And though a bit eccentric, he’d helped me turn this program around.
We went from a losing team that could barely fill half the arena to a championship one that frequently had sold-out games.
Between his off-the-wall marketing and my knack for bringing out the best in players, we had what it took to achieve greatness.
And we did.
Up until the very moment he passed from a sudden heart attack.
Grief didn’t like to play by any rules you tried to set out for it. I’d learned that at a very early age. Still, now that camp was here, I didn’t have the luxury of grieving my old friend anymore.
Because I had to prepare for his replacement.
The Tampa Bay Ospreys had scrambled to get us a new GM before the season started, but by the time negotiations were settled, we were right on the cusp of preseason.
That meant this new guy was walking into a team already settled for him.
There was no time for him to make any of the changes he might want to, unless he decided to do so in the middle of a season, which wouldn’t be the most ideal situation for anyone.
I didn’t consider myself a very religious man, but I did pray. I’d been praying since I was a kid, since the day I lost my parents in the most unfair way imaginable.
And so, when I walked into camp that day, I was praying — that somehow my goalie would stick around for a couple more seasons, and that my new general manager wouldn’t be a prick.
Fortunately, once I stepped behind the bench and heard the familiar slice of skates over ice, my nerves settled.
The rink was alive with motion — pucks clanging off the glass, coaches barking drills, trainers hauling gear across the bench, the low thud of sticks meeting the boards.
The smell of fresh ice and sweat was like a candle scent poured just for me.
We were off to the races, transitioning from rookie camp, which had taken place over the summer, to seeing the full team together for the first time.
The energy was different now — the rookies trying to impress, the vets not giving a shit what the rookies thought at all.
The veterans didn’t move like the kids did; there was rhythm in their stride, muscle memory in every pass and stop.
You could almost feel the rookies shrinking under the weight of it.
But some of them were inspired, lighting up from the inside out and chasing the challenge. Those were the ones I had my eyes on the most.
I scanned the ice, watching for chemistry, for hesitation, for anyone who looked like they’d forgotten what it meant to belong here, and anyone new who might be hungry for a chance. It was my job to know who was ready and who was bluffing it.
I caught sight of Perry at the far net, mask off, water bottle tipped to his lips.
He was laughing at something our defenseman, Jaxson Brittain, said, that familiar crooked grin making him look ten years younger than his body felt.
But when he dropped back into the crease, I saw it — the hesitation, the guarded way he planted on his left side.
It wasn’t enough for anyone else to notice, but it was plenty enough to make my stomach knot.
The vets were ribbing him between drills, tossing a few “old man” jokes his way, and he was giving it right back, glove raised in mock salute. Typical Daddy P — the heartbeat of the room. And yet, under all that noise, all that routine, I could see it in his posture. The heaviness. The finality.
He hadn’t given me his answer yet, but I could feel it coming.
I turned to Kozak, one of my assistant coaches, nodding toward the net. “Soon as this drill’s over, tell Perry I want a word.”
Because whatever decision he’d made — it was time I heard it.
My assistants took the reins when Perry skated over to me, and he hopped off the ice and walked back to the locker room with me guiding the way.
We slipped into my office, the quiet snick of the door closing behind us setting my nerves on edge again.
I gestured for him to take a seat before I did the same, and then I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, gaze leveled with his.
“You’re going, aren’t you?”
Will Perry was what I would call a man of stoicism. He’d always been laser focused on the game and this team, with the only soft spot in his heart being reserved for Chloe and his daughter, Ava.
So when his eyes welled, his jaw tight, a loud sniff breaking the silence of my office, I knew.
I closed my eyes, letting out a long breath before I sat back in my chair. “Fuck,” I murmured.
“My hip is going,” Will said, and I didn’t miss how his throat bobbed at the admission. “No one hates that fact more than I do, Coach. But I have a family. I’m already looking at a life of rehab. The last thing I want is to not be able to play with Ava or her future siblings.”
I nodded. “I understand, Perry.”
And I did. Goalies weren’t the only ones who suffered injuries that followed them for life. I still did physical therapy for the career-ending one that turned me from a player to a coach far younger than I ever anticipated.
That memory had the next question rolling off my tongue.
“Would you ever consider coaching for us? You and I both know you’d do better than ol’ Romanov out there.”
That made Perry bark out a laugh, which melted some of the tension in the room. “That man hasn’t taught me shit, not in all the years I’ve been here. I’ve learned more from Ava than him.”
I chuckled. “I don’t doubt it. So, you’ll consider?”
Will was silent a moment before he nodded. “I’ll think on it.”
“Good.” My eyes flicked between his, the corner of my lips curling just a notch. “So, this is your last season?”
“This is it.”
I shook my head, hand finding my desk to help me stand. Then, I extended that hand for Perry’s, taking it in a firm shake when he stood to join me. “Then we better fucking win the Cup.”
“Hear, hear,” Perry echoed.
I considered hugging him, but decided I’d save that for the spring. For now, we still had one last season, one final ride — and I didn’t intend to let him off easy.
“Now, back on the ice, Pickles. Time to show these rookies how it’s done.”
The rest of the day blurred past in a rush of drills, video review, and media obligations.
My assistants rotated players through testing and conditioning while I bounced between the ice and the meeting rooms, checking off boxes and trying not to think about what Perry’s announcement meant for the rest of our season.
Around noon, the rink had quieted. Most of the guys were in the gym or showering off. I was halfway through reviewing tomorrow’s drill plan when Kozak poked his head into my office.
“Coach,” he said, breathless from the walk. “They’re setting up for the press conference. PR says the new GM just arrived — they’re almost ready for you.”
I scrubbed a hand over my face and exhaled. “Great.”
The word came out flat. I wasn’t ready for this, not after the morning I’d had. But ready or not, I had to meet the man who’d be running this circus with me.
“You good?” Kozak asked.
“Yeah.” I stood, tugged on my jacket, and squared my shoulders — game face in place, the same one I’d worn since my first day behind a bench as the youngest coach in the NHL.
We left my office and headed down the hall toward the media room — a space off the main corridor, just beyond the players’ lounge. I could already hear the hum of reporters setting up, the clatter of camera equipment, the low buzz of conversation bleeding through the walls.
I’d done a hundred of these, but something about this one felt heavier. New leadership meant change. And change rarely came without casualties.
I pushed open the door, ready to shake hands and smile for the cameras even as my stomach rioted.
My gaze found him immediately — Nathan Black, the new general manager.
I hadn’t taken the time to research him past the photo and short bio our PR team had supplied me.
I liked to get to know people for who they were, not the laundry list of accomplishments they boasted — though, this man did boast quite a bit.
He was the kind of executive the league loved: a golden boy with a finance degree, a Harvard certificate in sports management, and a knack for turning struggling franchises into profit machines.
Physically, I noted immediately that he was tall, polished, and in his early fifties, if I had to guess.
His hair was dark, threaded neatly through with silver and cut like a Hollywood actor’s — short on the sides, a perfect swoop at the top.
His navy suit was tailored, cuff links shining at his wrists.
It was jarring, compared to Dick, who often showed up to press conferences with the buttons of his dress shirt straining against his belly, and rosy cheeks glistening under the harsh light.
Even from across the room, I could tell this was the kind of man who never raised his voice because he didn’t need to.
Power followed him in a quiet way— in the calm confidence of his stance, the precise movements of his hands as he spoke with PR, the faint smirk that seemed permanently etched into the corners of his mouth.
His grin, when it landed on me, looked practiced. It was polite and professional, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
I assessed all of this in just a few seconds, because immediately, my attention was drawn away from my new general manager to the woman standing beside him.
My heart stuttered at the first sight of her blonde hair, swept into a neat twist. My breath faltered next when I took in her dazzling blue eyes, the very ones that used to undo me with a single look.
It didn’t matter that decades had passed, I’d know her anywhere — how could I ever forget those lips, the graceful shape of her, the haunted gaze that had been a wraith in every nightmare I’d had since the day I walked away from her.
Ariana Ridley.
The only woman I’d ever loved.
Like she felt me before she saw me, her smile that was aimed at Kozak wavered, her brows pinching together just slightly.
Then, her eyes snapped to mine.