Chapter 5
ADAN
The visiting locker room at Rochester smelled like disinfectant and old sweat, but the energy was electric. Twenty guys suiting up for our first game of the season, and everyone could feel it. This was the kind of game that mattered—first game, conference rival, packed arena, scouts in the stands.
I laced my skates with extra care, running through the mental checklist Coach had drilled into us.
But underneath the standard pre-game routine, I was thinking about the techniques Coach Anders had been teaching me.
The corner positioning, the core stability work, the shot selection strategies.
Tonight felt like a test of everything we’d been working on.
The puck felt different on my stick now.
Not physically—same weight, same texture—but the control I’d gained over the past two weeks was obvious in every movement.
Every play was more deliberate, more strategic.
Instead of powering through the defense, I was thinking about angles, about creating space, about making them commit before I revealed my hand.
It was fucking addictive.
The truth was, our training sessions had become the highlight of my week.
We’d had sessions every other day, like Coach Anders had planned, and I was seeing improvements in my game.
What made the difference wasn’t so much the hockey stuff, though I was learning new things, but the way Coach Anders coached.
He never made me feel stupid for not knowing something, never acted like the techniques were obvious.
He explained everything like I was smart enough to understand the strategy behind it.
Which I was, apparently. Who knew?
Even after that disaster during scrimmage.
Our private session the following Monday had been awkward as hell.
I’d shown up expecting him to lecture me about attitude or respect, but instead, he’d picked up where we’d left off, working on the same corner positioning techniques he’d demonstrated during the scrimmage. Like nothing had happened.
“You felt the difference on Friday,” he’d said, setting up the drill. “Now let’s make it automatic.”
No mention of my defensive reaction, no reference to the argument. Just hockey.
It had taken me three more sessions to stop feeling like an idiot about the whole thing.
My phone buzzed with a text from my mom.
Mom
Mucha suerte en el primer partido de la temporada, hijo mío. ?Te sientes con confianza?
Me
Thanks, Mom. Yeah, I’m confident. Coach says I’ve been improving.
Mom
?El entrenador sueco?
Me
Yeah, the Swedish coach. He knows his stuff.
Mom
That’s great. Estamos muy orgullosos de ti.
She never failed to tell me how proud she was of me.
And what I told her had been true. In the few sessions we’d had, Coach Anders had taught me so much about the mental side of hockey. How to read the defense, how to create opportunities for teammates, how to think two plays ahead instead of reacting to what was happening in the moment.
“You talking to your parents?” Tank asked, pulling his jersey over his head.
“My mom. Wishing me good luck for the first game. I told her I was confident.”
“No shit. You made like five perfect passes yesterday instead of forcing shots. Coach Brennan looked like he was gonna cry tears of joy.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m serious, though. You’re playing smarter. Like, way smarter.”
Even my teammates could see it, which was a comfort. Though it stung a little too.
“You ready for this, Rivera?” Martinez called out.
“Born ready,” I shot back, the usual pre-game bravado coming automatically.
“You better be.” Martinez finished taping his stick. “Their left wing’s been talking shit about you on social media all week.”
I wasn’t very active on social media. Honestly, between studying and training, I barely had time for anything else but sleeping and eating. I had Snap, but that was about it. “What kind of shit?”
“Calling you overrated. Said you only put up numbers against weak teams.”
Heat flashed in my chest. “We’ll see about that.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Webb said with a grin. “Nothing like a little motivation to get Rivera fired up.”
The usual pre-game chirping continued around the room, but I was thinking about what Coach Anders had told me about controlling emotions on the ice. Don’t let them dictate your game. Use the energy, but don’t let it make you stupid.
Good advice. Advice I was determined to apply tonight.
“Alright, boys!” Coach Brennan’s voice cut through the noise as he stepped into the center of the room. “Gather round.”
We formed the familiar semi-circle, everyone’s attention focused on Coach. These pre-game speeches could make or break your mental state, and Coach Brennan, grumpy as he usually was, had a gift for knowing exactly what to say.
“I’ve been coaching for twenty-three years,” he began, his voice carrying that gravelly authority that made you want to run through walls for him.
“And I can honestly say I’ve never been more excited about a team’s potential than I am right now.
” He looked around the room, making eye contact with each of us.
“You know why? Because this isn’t the same team that started the season three weeks ago.
You’ve already grown. You’ve learned. You’ve become greater than the sum of your parts. ”
His gaze landed on me briefly, and pride surged through me. “Rivera, the way you’ve elevated your line mates’ play, the way you’ve bought into the team concept… That’s great progress.”
My chest swelled. Coming from Brennan, that meant everything.
“Tank, your defensive zone coverage has been rock solid. Martinez, your forechecking has been relentless. Webb, you’ve been a wall in front of the net.”
He worked his way around the room, targeting specific praise for each player. It was classic Brennan, building confidence while reminding everyone of their role.
“Rochester thinks they know who we are,” he said, his voice building intensity. “They think we’re the same team they beat 5-2 last year. They think Rivera’s only a scorer who can’t play defense. They think Tank’s too small to handle their power forwards. They think we’re soft.”
The energy in the room was crackling now. Guys were bouncing on their toes, ready to explode out of the gates.
“Well, boys, tonight, we show them how wrong they are. Tonight, we show them what Millard hockey really looks like. Tonight, we play our game, trust our systems, and leave everything on the ice.”
He paused, letting the words sink in.
“Now let’s go remind them why they should respect the Mavericks.”
The roar that erupted from twenty throats could probably be heard through the arena walls. We were ready.
The first period was a blur of speed and intensity.
Rochester came out flying, trying to establish physical dominance early, but we matched their energy and then some.
My first shift was different. It felt smoother, more controlled.
When I got the puck in the corner, instead of trying to muscle my way out, I used the positioning Coach Anders had taught me.
It worked perfectly.
The d-man committed to one side, and I had three different options instead of trying to power through him.
I slipped a pass back to the point that led to a scoring chance, and as I skated by the bench, I caught Coach Anders watching with a proud expression.
I wanted to make him proud. Him even more than Coach Brennan.
“Nice play, Rivera!” Coach Brennan called out. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
The rest of the period continued the same way. Every corner battle felt more manageable. Every decision with the puck felt clearer. The techniques Coach Anders had been drilling into me weren’t theoretical anymore. They were tools I could use, weapons that made me more effective.
By the end of the first, we were up 1-0, and I had the assist.
“Keep it up, boys!” Brennan said during the intermission. “They’re getting frustrated. Stick to the game plan and good things will happen.”
The game evolved into a clinic. Rochester was chasing the game, taking risks, and we made them pay. I scored twice: one on a perfect shot selection where I recognized the goalie was cheating to his glove side, and another where I used my defensive awareness to steal a pass and go in alone.
Both goals came directly from things Coach Anders had taught me.
When the final buzzer sounded, we’d won 4-1, and I had two goals and one assist. Three points. The best game of my college career.
The locker room was chaos: guys screaming, music blasting, everyone talking about different plays and moments. Tank grabbed me in a headlock and ruffled my hair.
“Dude, you were unreal tonight! Like, seriously unreal. When did you become Wayne Gretzky?”
“I’ve always been this good,” I said with a grin. “You guys weren’t paying attention.”
But inside, I knew the truth. I’d been good before, but tonight, I’d been better. I’d been smart. Tonight, I’d played chess while everyone else was playing checkers. And I had Coach Anders to thank for that.
And for the first time, I truly understood why I hadn’t been drafted, how much I still had to learn. How much he could still teach me.
As we packed up our gear, I caught sight of him near the coaching area, quietly organizing paperwork while the chaos swirled around him. He looked up and our eyes met for a second. He nodded once, a gesture that somehow meant more than all the celebrations around me.
The bus ride home started loud and stayed that way for about fifteen minutes.
Guys reliving plays, talking shit about Rochester’s goalie, making plans for how they were going to spend their weekend.
But as the highway stretched out in front of us and the adrenaline started to fade, the bus got quieter.
By the time we’d been driving for forty-five minutes, most of the team was asleep or zoned out with headphones. The lights were dimmed, and the steady hum of the engine was almost hypnotic.