Chapter 8
Crosby
There are moments in a season that will stick with you the rest of your life and tonight is one of them.
The arena locker room still carries that clean, filtered smell that hasn’t been broken in yet.
Dark wood stalls line the walls in a massive, open horseshoe where we all get ready together.
This is vastly different from our personal spaces at the performance facility set in private rows.
A more direct push toward camaraderie, which is never needed more than before a game.
Every cubby is lit from within and like the performance facility, a digital screen at the top shows a picture of the player, our name and number.
It features the media pictures taken after the final team was announced, all of us in our new Wildfire jerseys, some guys with broad smiles, others with serious looks.
The luxury is obvious. Padded benches, textured rubber flooring, climate-controlled air that keeps the room cool no matter how much heat the gear throws off. TVs are built directly into the walls, updating lines and countdown clocks in real time.
It’s impressive in the way new things always are—but it hasn’t absorbed this team’s history.
That part comes later, after enough nights like this one.
My blood hums with contained energy fueled by the screams of the fans one level up, who are getting whipped into a frenzy with loud rock music blaring.
Pregame adrenaline is normal and welcome, but this being the first game in the new arena with Portland’s brand-spanking-new hockey team… the buzz is almost overwhelming.
Arch drops onto the bench beside me, already dressed, rolling his shoulders one at a time like he’s working his joints loose, though I suspect it’s nerves too.
“Hell of a barn,” he says, craning his neck to take it all in. “Makes you want to behave. You feeling good?”
I tug my mask from its hook and turn it slowly in my hands, the weight familiar. I worked with an artist on this one. Someone who understood that a goalie’s mask isn’t decoration but rather armor with a story.
The base is matte black, but it isn’t flat.
Under the arena lights, faint texture emerges—like rippling steel beneath water.
Along the sides, deep forest green fractures into shades of blue-black, the color shift subtle unless you know to look for it.
Etched through the design are thin, precise lines that resemble pressure gauges and dive cables, disappearing and reappearing like they’re submerged.
Across the crown, barely visible unless you’re standing over me, is a latitude-and-longitude grid warped slightly out of alignment. The coordinates are real. I had them pulled from one of Birdie’s dive logs. All the artwork on my mask is a tribute to the bravest person I know.
I run my thumb along the edge, feeling the slight ridge where paint meets carbon fiber, and for a moment, I think about my sister breathing recycled air in a steel tube, waiting days to come back to the surface.
I set the mask down and finish getting dressed.
“I’m feeling great,” I reply, taking stock of my emotional temperature. I’m in the zone.
“I’ve played a lot of games.” Arch’s expression is thoughtful as he looks up toward the ceiling, listening to the crowd through layers of concrete and steel. “I have never felt anything like this before puck drop.”
Remy Dunn grins from his stall next to Arch, one skate already on, the other dangling as he tightens the laces. “Wait until the lights hit,” he says. “I heard they programmed the intro like a damn concert.”
Arch snorts. “Figures. Rowe doesn’t do subtle.”
I finish fastening my chest protector, the familiar weight providing comfort. My eyes drift across the room to where Juno stands at the far wall, watching as Evan films. He walks the perimeter of the room, trying to remain unobtrusive, and admittedly… I think everyone’s gotten used to them.
Before camp started, the entire team was reminded that the locker room allowed mixed-gender access.
This isn’t just for Juno and her documentary, but it applies to a variety of females who are allowed in, including reporters, trainers, equipment employees and the like.
It’s quite the norm these days and no one really bats an eye if a female comes wandering through while we’re gearing up or stripping down.
They all know when to look away, and no one ever films guys who are naked. There’s no real modesty in rooms like this. Men change. Sweat dries. Bodies exist without ceremony.
That part has never bothered me or any of the other guys, really.
I’ve noticed Juno in particular, settling into the etiquette of being a woman in this male-dominated space.
She knows when to look away and when to give room.
She never pushes anyone to participate, and she’s become adept at identifying those—like myself—who are not as comfortable as others.
As such, she’s already developed some trust.
Coach Monahan steps forward and the noise fades without him asking. Conversations taper off, sticks still, bodies subtly reorient toward him.
He doesn’t raise his voice but then again, he doesn’t need to. “This isn’t about winning tonight,” he says evenly. “It’s about introducing ourselves.”
He lets that sit for a beat, eyes sweeping the room—slow, intentional, catching each of us in turn.
“You’re going to feel it out there,” he continues. “This new building. A feral crowd. The weight of first impressions.” A faint huff of breath escapes him, almost a smile. “That’s normal. Anyone who says they don’t feel it is lying or checked out.”
A few guys shift. Arch rolls his shoulders. I drum a soft beat against my thigh with my fingertips. The energy prickles under my skin, my nerves coiled and ready to release.
“This city’s been waiting for a team to call its own,” Monahan says. “They’re going to be loud. They want a team they can believe in. That doesn’t mean perfection. It means effort.”
He taps the iPad against his palm once, sharp but controlled. “You don’t owe them a miracle. You don’t owe them highlights. You owe them honesty.”
His gaze settles briefly on the younger guys, the ones still fighting for certainty. “Every man in this room belongs in this league. You don’t get here by accident. You don’t hang at this level because you’re lucky. You’re here because you can play—and you can play against anyone.”
A ripple moves through the room. An acknowledgment of potential.
“We’ll clean up details later but tonight we skate our systems. We communicate and we back each other.” He pauses, eyes knowing. “And when it goes wrong—and it will—you don’t shrink. You figure out how to fix it, and you move on.” He nods once, decisive. “That’s how teams are built.”
It’s like time freezes as the last words sink in. We’re all standing on the precipice, ready to launch ourselves into the mania, ready to unleash with these fans.
Monahan steps back. “Let’s go introduce ourselves.”
And then every guy lets out a deafening cheer which, when combined, feels like it shakes the stalls. My eyes cut over to Juno in the wings, Evan beside her filming. Her eyes are on me and she doesn’t look away.
Patrick Rowe appears briefly at the doorway, and the room shifts before anyone consciously registers why. His tailored jacket is immaculate, posture easy, his eyes suggesting he’s already seen the whole picture and doesn’t feel the need to explain it.
“I won’t keep you,” he says, voice calm, carrying without effort.
He takes a step forward, resting one hand lightly against the doorframe, gaze moving across the room.
“This city understands grit. The fans out there are here because of the loyalty they already have to this team. Give them something to believe in, and the rest will come.”
That’s it. A few words without speech-writer polish. He nods once, steps back out into the corridor and disappears.
Arch exhales and mutters under his breath, “Short and terrifying.”
A ripple of laughter breaks out, tension cracking enough to let oxygen back in.
“That was fucking inspiring,” Boss says, as he walks by grinning. “I suddenly want to block shots with my face.”
I smile despite myself, pulling my gloves tighter, feeling the shift in the room. Not hype. Not nerves.
Resolve.
This city doesn’t want a spectacle.
It wants a team.
And tonight, we’re about to find out who’s ready to be one.
The team filters out of the locker room, walking the long hall to the ice. Every step we take, my heart beats faster.
When we emerge, the arena explodes with light and a thunderous roar. The crowd doesn’t ease into it—they detonate like a bomb. Green and orange ripple through the stands, jerseys blazing like they’ve always belonged here. Fans pound on the glass and the music booms.
I skate a lazy half circle, my eyes lifted to take in the stands, the people on their feet cheering for us. Say what you will about how competition and winning drive us, but it’s really moments like this that fuel our efforts.
We are nothing without these people and the good players, the ones who understand what a team truly is, never take that for granted.
?
I claim my crease.
The game has been tight from the opening draw. Detroit came to own us—fast transitions, heavy forecheck and shots coming from everywhere.
As a goalie, I did my job well. I swallowed rebounds, killed angles and denied goals.
It’s late in the third, we’re down by one, and there are two minutes left.
Monahan leans over the boards and shouts at me, “Heads up.”
I don’t need the reminder. I’m laser-focused on the play at the other end, already anticipating the signal when he’ll call me in so we can have a man advantage. Calm settles into my bones, the kind that only comes from experience.
Ninety seconds left.
That’s the window. Long enough to change a game. Short enough to destroy one.