26. Thane
TWENTY-SIX
THANE
The hotel room was still dark when I woke up. Then the previous night's loss came back to me along with the reality of another game waiting tonight.
I reached for my phone on the nightstand. No new messages. That wasn't surprising. It was still early. Kieran was probably asleep.
I pushed myself out of bed and headed for the shower. The day moved quickly after that. Breakfast with the team. A bus ride to the arena. Meetings. Video review. The familiar rhythm of a road trip. By the time I stepped into the locker room, my phone vibrated.
Kier: Hope today goes better.
Exactly the kind of thing Kieran would say. Just quiet support.
A smile pulled at my mouth. I typed back.
Me: Me too. Flying home tonight. I can't wait to get back to Seattle.
The response arrived before I finished putting my gear away.
Kier: Good.
Kier: Seattle's boring without you.
My smile widened.
Before I could answer, Coach Reynolds walked into the room and immediately started gathering players for a meeting.
I slipped the phone into my pocket.
The locker room carried a different energy than it had before the trip. Nobody was acting as though the season was falling apart. But losing never sat well with professional athletes, and nobody enjoyed spending an entire day thinking about a game they'd failed to win.
Some players were quieter than usual. Others buried themselves in video clips and scouting reports.
Across the room, Tannen sat at his stall studying something on a tablet.
I recognized the expression immediately.
I'd seen it plenty of times over the years.
Determination mixed with irritation. The look of somebody trying to solve a problem that refused to cooperate.
I crossed the room and dropped onto the bench beside him. "Morning."
He glanced up briefly. "Debatable.”
"Still thinking about last night?"
"Somebody has to."
"We all are."
His attention returned to the screen. A few seconds later, he looked over again. "Why are you smiling?"
The question caught me off guard because I hadn't even realized I still was.
Tannen's eyes narrowed. Then understanding settled across his face. "Oh."
I rolled my eyes. "Oh, what?"
"Kieran texted you."
The annoying part was that he wasn't guessing. He knew me too well.
"Maybe."
"Right."
I shook my head. "You're insufferable."
"That's what makes me captain."
Coach Reynolds called the team together a few minutes later, and the room shifted back into business mode. Systems. Matchups. Adjustments from the previous night's game. Nobody needed a lecture about effort. We'd all been there. We'd all felt the frustration of watching opportunities slip away.
The meeting ended, and the day settled into the familiar routine that had shaped most of my adult life. Video. Pre-game preparation.
The hours leading up to puck drop always seemed to move in two different directions at once. Everything felt rushed, yet somehow there was enough waiting to make a person restless.
When game time finally arrived, the building felt louder than it had the night before. LA's crowd still had the confidence of a fanbase that had watched their team beat us the night before.
We wanted the response they had no interest in seeing.
The first period flew by in a blur of line changes, collisions, and near misses. Every shift felt sharper than it had twenty-four hours earlier. We skated harder. Managed the puck better. Generated chances.
For long stretches, it felt like we were right there. One rebound. One deflection. One lucky bounce. The goal never came.
Midway through the second period, I tried to force a pass through traffic that should never have been there in the first place.
The puck hit a skate and immediately went the other way. For half a second, my stomach dropped. The rush developed fast. Too fast.
Our goalie bailed us out with a save that drew a roar from the bench, but I spent the rest of the shift annoyed with myself anyway. Not because the chance had happened. Mistakes were part of hockey.
Because I knew better.
Later, Tannen beat the goalie clean and caught nothing but iron. The sound of the puck striking the post echoed through the arena before bouncing harmlessly away. A few shifts after that, Briggs fought through two defenders at the top of the crease and somehow still couldn't buy a goal.
The opportunities were there all night.
The finish wasn't.
By the third period, every possession seemed to carry a little more weight. You could feel it on both benches. One goal felt like it might decide everything.
When LA finally broke through, the building erupted.
We pushed back immediately.
The final minutes became a scramble of blocked shots, loose pucks, and desperate chances. We threw everything we had at them.
It wasn't enough. The horn sounded before we found the equalizer.
Nobody said much during the walk back to the locker room.
Gear hit the floor.
Velcro tore loose.
Pads disappeared into equipment bags.
The room wasn't angry. Anger usually came after a game where you hadn't shown up. This one felt different. This one felt like a game we should have found a way to win.
Coach Reynolds kept his remarks short. "We clean up the details and move on."
Nobody argued. That was the job. Watch the film. Fix what needed fixing. Get ready for the next one.
I sat at my stall after the coaches left and replayed my turnover anyway.
Across the room, Tannen stared at the floor in front of him.
A few stalls away, Briggs was already talking one of the younger guys through a play from the second period.
Nobody was looking for someone to blame.
Two losses after the holiday break would give reporters plenty to talk about. The thought barely crossed my mind before one of the media staff appeared in the doorway.
"Thane. Tannen. You're up first."
Of course, we were. Captain. Alternate captain. Faces of the franchise. Part of the job.
Tannen and I took our seats at the table while cameras adjusted and reporters shuffled papers.
The first few questions were predictable. Execution. Special teams. Missed opportunities. What needed to improve. The same questions every team in the league answered after a loss.
Then one of the reporters near the front raised his hand. "Thane, there's been a lot of discussion online over the last twenty-four hours connecting the losing streak to the attention surrounding your personal life. Do you think that's fair?"
I felt my jaw tighten.
People always wanted a simple explanation. Two losses. One headline. Problem solved. Unfortunately, hockey rarely worked that way.
"No," I said.
The reporter leaned forward slightly. "Why not?"
"Because there isn't one reason we lost."
The room quieted.
"We've had chances. We've made mistakes. Every game is different. That's hockey." I shrugged. "Trying to pin it all on one thing makes for a good headline, but it doesn't make it true."
Another reporter spoke up. "So you don't think the extra attention has affected the team?"
"No." My answer came just as quickly as it had the night before.
"We're professionals. Everybody in that locker room has things happening away from the rink.
Families. Relationships. Health issues. Things people never hear about.
" I paused. "Once the puck drops, the focus is on the game.
That's what we're judged on, and that's how we judge ourselves. "
The next few questions went to Tannen. He fielded them the way he always did, calm and professional, redirecting credit to teammates and taking responsibility where he thought it belonged.
A few minutes later, the media session ended. The second the door closed behind us, I stopped thinking about reporters. I had a flight to catch.
The airport was its usual mixture of organized chaos.
By the time I found a quiet corner near the gate, it felt like the entire day had been spent rushing from one thing to the next.
I pulled out my phone. The screen lit up with a flood of notifications.
Messages from teammates. Mentions. News alerts.
The usual noise that followed a loss and a headline.
I ignored all of them. Only one mattered.
Kier: I'm still proud of you.
For a moment, I simply looked at the message. Then I hit call. The phone rang several times before rolling to voicemail. I listened to his greeting, shook my head, and ended the call. He was probably asleep.
I typed a message instead.
Me: Boarding soon. We'll be back in Seattle in the morning. Get some sleep. *heart emoji*
Some time later, boarding began. By the time we settled onto the charter, exhaustion was starting to catch up with me. Tannen dropped into the seat beside mine and stretched his legs.
For a while, neither of us said much. I glanced at my phone one more time.
Tannen followed my gaze. "You miss him."
There wasn't much point in denying it. "Yeah."
He nodded as though I'd confirmed something obvious. For a few seconds, I watched the runway lights beyond the window.
Then I said it. "I love him."
Tannen didn't even blink.
A laugh escaped me. "That's your reaction?"
"What do you want?" he asked. "A parade?"
I shook my head.
His expression softened. "Then stop overthinking it." He leaned back in his seat. "Seriously. You love him. Great." He shrugged. "Tell him."
The simplicity of it made me smile.
"And don't let the noise get between you."
I knew exactly what he meant. The reporters. The headlines. The opinions. All the people who suddenly thought they deserved a say in my life.
Tannen looked straight ahead. "I've seen too many good things fall apart because people stopped talking to each other and started listening to everybody else."
The plane began taxiing toward the runway. Tomorrow I'll be back in Seattle. Back with Kieran.
And this time, I wasn't going to keep it to myself.
It was time he knew.