11. Chapter Eleven #3
I understood his point. Of course I did. But at the same time, we’d already been facing a penalty, and one we didn’t deserve. If we could get out of a penalty situation with two minutes left, surely that was worth the risk?
I didn’t say anything more. It had been a ballsy call.
Maybe I’d felt the need to prove myself.
To show I belonged at this level. The move had paid off, but one successful gamble didn’t guarantee the next.
Coach Trasier’s words echoed through my brain.
“Next time, I’ll ask you, Wilson. Promise.
” He didn’t reply. Inwardly, I shrugged.
Only so much I could say at this point. “I’m on the hunt for Landon,” I said to the top of his head. “Have you seen him?”
“Nope.”
I shouldn’t have interrupted his reading. I should have left him alone. It wasn’t even work hours, really, though every moment of a road trip belonged to the Renegades organization.
I smoothed my skirt, adjusted my ponytail—small movements, nervous and uncomfortable. Embarrassing.
“Sorry to interrupt you, Wilson. I’ll be more careful going forward. Enjoy your book.”
The words tasted like defeat, coated in artificial sweetness. But hey, at least my dress still sparkled with sunshine, even if my smile threatened to crack my cheeks.
I settled into the Thunder box, adrenaline zinging through my veins.
My first away game with the Renegades. The ribbon from my bow slid between my fingers as I eyed the set-up.
Headset waiting. Tablet to the side. Drink on a pretty yellow daisy coaster.
Only detail missing? Joonie at the top corner of the keyboard.
The sprawl of seats below stretched toward center ice like a topographical map. Fans trickled in to fill the seats, eager to see the Renegades and Thunder battle it out. Numbers and stats danced through my mind—optimal viewing angles, pattern recognition hot zones, blind spots to watch.
Hampus Breining slouched in a chair by the window looking down on the ice, radiating the special brand of misery reserved for healthy scratches. Coach benched him for missing the team meeting. I got the impression it wasn’t the first time, but Breining wasn’t sharing any secrets today.
To twist the knife, Coach ordered him to watch from up here. A punishment that turned my sanctuary into a prison for one sulking defenseman.
Wilson claimed his territory at the far end of the monitoring station, complete with stinky wings and tar coffee. I’d need an air purifier before the night was out.
Between us, we had six monitors to watch and review. I would not make a single mistake tonight. I would not step on any toes, would not get flustered, would not waste my opportunity to make it in the NHL. Every call, every review had to be perfect. One slip and—
No.
I traced the edge of the keyboard. Wrong move.
The empty space where Joonie should be sent my thoughts spiraling.
Wilson’s gruff silence from a couple of hours ago echoed in my head.
I shouldn’t have interrupted his reading.
Even an idiot knew that. Maybe my organized tablet system overstepped?
And that call at my first game, of course. A temporary replacement shouldn’t—
The familiar ache bloomed in my chest, the one that always preceded a full anxiety spiral. Without my blue-haired friend’s steady presence, I twisted the satin red bow of my dress into a wrinkled mess. No better than a child. When would I grow up and handle my business like a grown woman?
Two hours crawled past, each minute an exercise in maintaining my professional mask. But we won. A shutout.
Below, our backup goalie rocketed across the ice, tackling our starter in their ritual celebration. The crowd roared—the kind of pure joy that made hockey magic. The kind of moment Mom would have loved.
My throat tightened. Focus on the stats. The patterns. The things I could control.
Breining stormed out the instant the final buzzer sounded, the door crashing against the wall hard enough to rattle the monitors. Wilson shuffled after him, leaving behind a warzone of empty coffee cups and scattered papers.
My fingers twitched toward the mess. No. Not my job to clean up after a grown man, especially not in another team’s arena. But the chaos of his desk space sent little sparks of anxiety through my chest.
And what grown adult left a mess behind for someone else to clean up?
The arena emptied below, fans trickling out while staff swept through with practiced efficiency. Numbers scrolled through my head—flight times to New York, game schedules, hotel check-ins. Then a string of home games.
Would it be easier to get my Pop from Shep here, at the hotel, or wait until we got back to Richland? At home, it would be easier to sneak into the locker room. But he seemed to have made a habit of taking the figurine home after games.
If I chased him down now, at least he’d have no escape. I could put him on the spot and demand my Joonie.
A sound in the hallway snagged my attention and in the next blink, Shep Landon stood in the open doorway.