Chapter Four
AUSTIN
“Does Denton seriously think we’re amateurs?” I mutter under my breath to Nick as Coach continues pacing in front of us like we’re in a high-pressure playoff game instead of a fall festival.
It’s the day of the annual Community Fall Fest and Parade, which means the entire team has been stuck listening to Coach Denton deliver yet another detailed speech he’s famous for.
“Remember,” Coach demands, pointing like he’s addressing us in the locker room, “you represent this organization every second you are out there today. Just keep smiling, waving, and engaging with the fans like they are your own family members.”
Nick leans closer to me. “I think he really loves the sound of his own voice.”
I snort. “Good point.”
Every year the Bears kick off the start of the season by participating in the town’s fall festival parade. It’s become a huge tradition. Thousands of people line up dressed in their fall attire, ready to kick off the ‘ber’ months (as my mom calls them).
The team walks the parade route waving to fans and tossing out candy, mini hockey pucks, T-shirts, hats, and other Bears merchandise the marketing department ordered. And the fans love it, both the kids and adults.
“You’d think after all these years they’d realize the people are here for free stuff, not us,” I say.
Nick shrugs. “Speak for yourself. I’m beloved by the community. It’s been said that I’m the best trade in years.”
“And by community, do you mean your fiancée, Abby?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I laugh.
The festival itself is your typical fall activity. There are food trucks lined up offering Carolina BBQ, kettle corn, cider donuts, beverages, and all forms of less than healthy snacks. There’s also painting stations, carnival games, hayrides, live music, and more.
After the parade, we’re scheduled for a press interview on the main stage followed by a meet and greet with fans. Which really means taking eight hundred photos with kids, swooning women, and die-hard hockey fans. Personally, I always enjoy this event.
There’s something fun about seeing the city this excited for hockey season again. The fans show up every year decked out in Bears gear, completely convinced this is going to be our season. The optimism is impressive and hopefully it translates to us when we’re back on the ice.
Coach finally claps his hands together. “Alright, let’s move.”
The team starts toward the parade lineup, and we all grab bags of candy and boxes of merch.
As we turn the corner onto the main road, the noise hits instantly—music blasting from speakers, kids laughing, people cheering from behind barricades.
Nick whistles. “Wow, there are a lot of people.”
I grin despite myself. “Always. This town takes their festivals very seriously.”
Almost immediately, fans start yelling our names.
I point to some kids sitting along the curbs and toss them hockey pucks from the swag box. The kids react like Santa has visited on Christmas morning. Who doesn’t love freebies?
“Okay,” Nick admits beside me. “This is a little fun.”
“There’s the attitude change we’ve been waiting for,” I say, smiling as the crowd erupts farther down the street. “Abby will be so proud.”
“She will—can you tell her?” he asks.
“Sure.”
We continue walking and waving while the crowd cheers for us. Suddenly I spot Abby in the crowd, and then I see Isabella, that beautiful woman from the game with her.
This day just keeps getting better by the second.
After the parade, we head into a small media room for a press interview.
Cameras line the back wall, the reporters crowd in front of us, and the flashing lights make the whole thing feel far more important than it probably is.
Naturally, Coach Denton takes control of the conversation before anyone else even has the chance to speak.
And as usual his answers drag on forever.
Every question turns into a five-minute speech about discipline, culture, grit, and “trusting the process.” A few reporters exchange tired looks while he rambles from one point to another without ever really answering the question.
If only the man could read the room. Even the media staff starts looking impatient near the end.
Finally the questions are directed toward the players.
Most of us are comfortable speaking publicly, but others look relieved when someone else answers first. The questions are predictable. How are we feeling about the upcoming season? What are our expectations? Do we think we can repeat last year’s success?
Honestly, these questions are ridiculous. What professional team isn’t striving to get to the finals or win the championship? Nobody trains all year hoping for an average season. Of course our goal is the playoffs. Of course we want to get farther than we did last year.
But we still smile politely and give the same careful answers everyone expects to hear.
After the interview wraps up, we move to the fan section where several long tables have been arranged in a semi-circle. The Bears marketing team has put out stacks of programs, posters, and pucks laid out for autographs. Fans immediately begin forming lines the second we sit down.
I make sure to grab a seat beside Nick. Partly because he’s one of my closest friends, but also because I’m hoping Abby shows up—and brings friends with her.
The line starts moving almost immediately.
Most of the fans are great. The kids beam like they’ve just met their favorite superheroes, and their parents thank us for taking pictures.
But every now and then, there’s always one critic.
This is that one fan who thinks buying tickets makes him part-owner of the team.
The one who believes he knows everything about the sport and how to run a professional sports team.
And that guy has arrived. He moves slowly in front of the tables, stopping at every player to offer his personal analysis of the season.
According to him, our power play is weak, our defense is inconsistent, and Coach Denton has lost his edge.
I listen as he critiques everything—how we play, how we skate, how we answer interviews, even the way some of the guys carry themselves walking through the arena.
By the time he reaches me, I brace myself.
He gives me a curious look for a second before looking up at me with narrowed eyes.
“Austin Reed,” he says thoughtfully, like he’s about to deliver life-changing wisdom. “You’re just moving through the motions out there. What happened to the fire you used to have? Yeah, you still get the blocks, but you’ve been mostly lackluster this season.”
I keep my expression neutral and nod once. I’ve had years of training for these moments.
“I appreciate your opinion,” I say evenly. “I’m always open to ways I can improve.”
“But are you?” he asks, tilting his head curiously. “Because I pay good money every season. I want to feel like I’m getting something for it.”
“Absolutely.”
He crosses his arms. “I mean, I could spend my money on the Tigers instead. I’m already seeing big things from their season.”
“Yes, you can,” I reply calmly.
“I could drive the two hours to their games,” he adds.
I force a polite smile, even though internally I’m counting down the seconds until he moves on.
Thankfully, he finally does. Unfortunately for him, the next player in line is Nick.
And Nick is nowhere near as patient as I am. I wish I had some popcorn for what’s about to happen.
The guy immediately launches into a detailed explanation for Nick, demonstrating exactly how a goalie should stand in front of the net. He plants his feet wide apart, bends his knees, and waves his arms around like he’s coaching in the finals.
I really wish I had my phone out to record their interaction because Nick’s expression is priceless.
He’s doing his best to remain polite, but I can see the frustration building.
The longer the guy talks, the quicker Nick’s patience starts fading.
One more suggestion and all of Nick’s composure might be gone.
Meanwhile, another family steps up to my table, pulling my attention away from the nearby drama.
“Our son plays hockey,” the man says proudly, resting a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Do you have any advice for him?”
“That’s awesome,” I say, reaching across the table to shake the boy’s hand. “Stay focused. Keep working even when it gets tough, and don’t slack on your schoolwork.”
The kid frowns, but he nods anyway. “Okay.”
“That sounds like great advice, huh Max?” the father asks with a laugh.
“Yeah,” the kid replies, clearly unamused by the mention of schoolwork.
I’ve been doing this long enough to know what to say when approached with these kind of questions from parents. I quickly sign a mini puck for him and pose for a photo.
The family moves on, and I become so engrossed watching Nick survive the hockey critic that I barely notice Abby approaching with a small group of women. I’m thrilled to see that Isabella is with them.
“Hey, Austin,” Abby says, glancing toward Nick’s table. “What’s happening over there?”
I grin. “Your fiancé is getting a full lesson on how to play goalie.”
Her eyes widen instantly. “Oh no. That’s not good.”
“So far he’s handling it like a champ,” I assure her. “You should be proud.”
Suddenly the guy finally wraps up his lecture and wanders off ready to critique the next player. Nick immediately turns his attention to the family waiting in front of him.
“Ah, looks like he survived,” I say. “I was starting to get worried. He’s come a long way since he got here last season.”
Abby exhales dramatically, her shoulders relaxing. “Thank goodness.”
My attention shifts to Isabella, who’s standing beside Eloise, the café owner, near the end of the table.
“Hey there,” I exclaim. “What happened to the crutches?”
A bright smile spreads across her face. “They are history. I’m free.”
“Congrats. That’s great news.”
She taps the gray boot on her foot. “I upgraded to this very stylish boot instead. I still need to be careful, but at least I’m done with those awful things.”
I laugh softly, but my gaze lingers on her longer than it probably should.
She’s just as pretty as I remember from the night we met after the game.
Long brown hair falls over her shoulders, framing her face.
Her large brown eyes immediately draw me in, and there's something undeniably captivating about the way she carries herself that makes it difficult to look away.
“We’re introducing Isabella to her first North Carolina fall festival,” Abby explains.
“Yes,” Isabella says with a laugh. “My whole family is around here somewhere. Thankfully Abby and Eloise volunteered to show me around.”
“Hey, you,” Nick calls to Abby from his table.
I look over at him with a smirk. “Congratulations on surviving the hockey expert.”
Nick groans loudly. “It took every ounce of self-control I had not to say something that would’ve landed me on the news.”
“I could tell,” I say. “You handled it well.”
Abby walks over and squeezes his shoulder proudly. “I’m impressed. That showed real growth.”
“I know, I’m a new man,” he mumbles.
I laugh before turning back to Isabella.
“So,” I say, gesturing to the merchandise spread across the table, “can I interest you in an autograph? We’ve got mini hockey pucks, programs, photos. It’s only the finest of the Carolina Bears merchandise.”
She laughs. “Sure. Then I won’t have to buy my brother a Christmas present.”
“Oh, so you’re saying you don’t want your own Carolina Bears T-shirt?” I ask, holding one up. “They are one hundred percent cotton. Very fancy.”
Her eyes narrow playfully. “Well, when you put it that way, I guess I need one.”
I smile as I sign the shirt for her, carefully writing my name across the front. For a second, I consider adding my phone number but that might be too much.
“Here you go,” I say, handing it over. “Hang on to it. Someday it might be worth something.”
She hugs the shirt to her chest and raises an eyebrow. “Wow. A free souvenir and investment advice? Thank you very much.”
I grin.
“Do you guys do this festival every year?” she asks.
I nod. “Yep. The Bears organization sponsors a lot of local events. This is one of our favorite ways to give back to the community. The fans support us all year long, so showing up for things like this matters.”
Her expression softens. “That’s amazing. Our team at Ballroom Dance America is getting more involved with the community too,” she says. “We’re all pretty passionate about giving back however we can.”
“So Ballroom Dance America, is that like the show where celebrities dance for a trophy?”
Isabella laughs, and for a second the noise of the festival fades into the background.
“We don’t dance with celebrities, but it is a competition show.”
“Reality TV, right?”
She nods. “Yep.”
“I’m not much of a TV guy, unless it’s sports, but I’ll have to check it out,” I tell her. “I’ve never watched a dance show.”
She grins. “Well you’re missing out. There’s lots of a good drama, but not as much fighting as there is in hockey.”
“Oh bummer.”
A few guys approach the table, and I really wish they would keep moving so I could continue my conversation.
“Thanks for the shirt,” she says, noticing them. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
“You’re welcome. And congrats on retiring the crutches.”
She joins Abby and Eloise, and I instantly want her to come back.
Hmm…well this is new. I confidently admit that I have a crush on the new girl in town.