Chapter 38
Finley
We’re going to overtime against the Boston Bears.
Overtime always feels quieter to me. Though that’s not what the average spectator would observe in the arena. God, no. The crowd is feral, on its feet, sound rattling the glass. We’re lucky we’re in Denver tonight.
But inside my head, everything narrows. Sharpens. The world is reduced to nothing more than ice.
Win, and we move on. Lose, and we’re done. It’s the scenario movies are made about.
I stand behind the bench, my arms crossed, the inside sliver of my cheek bleeding between my teeth.
This is not a moment for me to interfere.
I’ve done my part.
Every line, every matchup, every detail… perfect.
The guys hop over the boards, and my chest tightens with something like pride. They look calm. Focused. Ready. This is the team I’ve been building all season.
Not flashy. Not reckless.
Disciplined.
And they’ve played an almost perfect game tonight.
The puck drops.
And the Yeti players execute. No panic, no wasted stride. They take the zone, just the way they’re supposed to. We cycle low. We’re patient. We force them to chase. Force them to tire.
J.D. takes a shot from the point, and the rebound kicks wide, right where it should.
Lefevre gets another chance.
Then another.
I barely breathe.
This is what my system is supposed to look like. And it’s working. The average professional hockey team scores once for every ten shots on goal. We’ve had thirty-four shots this game. Good fucking attempts.
Their goalie is on fire tonight.
The Bears rush the other way, but it’s nothing. Angled wide. Our defense not letting anything into the middle. Volkov swallows the puck like he’s done all game—like he’s done a thousand times before.
We’re doing everything right. And that’s the cruel part.
Time stretches, those five minutes both flying by and standing still.
And suddenly there’s fifteen seconds left. The puck slides into the slot, and my pulse spikes so hard I almost gasp.
This is the moment.
J.D.’s shot releases—hard, clean, right toward his upper glove side. The place where he and the rest of the goalies are most likely to let a puck go by.
But not this time.
Their goalie makes a save he had no business making. The sound the crowd makes is animalistic. Complete chaos and outrage, though the puck is still alive.
Players scramble. Sticks collide. Skates tangle.
We’re going to sudden death.
But then—
“Puck!” the bench yells.
It’s not a blown coverage.
It’s not a lazy mistake.
It’s not something anyone could’ve changed.
It’s a bounce.
The puck hits the boards wrong and kicks out into open ice. Straight to a Bears winger who is behind the play.
And physics, the constant asshole that it is, betrays the Yeti.
They can’t change their direction quite fast enough as the winger takes one stride and shoots his shot.
It’s ugly.
Desperate.
Unremarkable.
And it slides right into Volkov’s five hole.
The red light turns on.
And everything goes silent. Like no one quite believes it.
Then the horn sounds, and the Bears explode over the boards, gloves and sticks flying as they celebrate.
I don’t move.
I watch Volkov drop to his knees, staring straight at the ice. My gaze shifts to J.D. as he bends forward, hands braced on his thighs, his gaze searching the crowd for… ah—his wife.
I wish I could look at Beckett. Get strength or comfort or that reassurance that someone still cares about me, like J.D. and his wife. But I can’t. Instead, I focus on the sounds from the bench—the ones that echo the grief inside me.
They did everything right.
But the scoreboard didn’t care.
We played better, we earned more chances, we played the cleanest game all year.
And we still lost.
I walk into the tunnel in a state of shock, the noise around me faded to a low hum.
I’m not even sure what I say to the team in the locker room. They don’t need to hear from me right now. They did exactly what I told them to do.
And it wasn’t enough.
I exit the locker room and have a quick debrief in the hall with the coaches, just long enough to tell them they did great work, and we’ll start planning for the next season on Monday.
We all need a day off.
And then I see him. Standing at the door to my office.
My dad.
“You made it,” I observe, pulling the door open and inviting him in.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Fin. Tough game out there.”
I nod. Both grateful for his presence and already exhausted by the lecture that’s sure to come.
Because no matter how well I thought we did tonight, my dad will have critiques.
Not to be mean, but because he’s always wanted me to be the best. And that requires acknowledging and changing any action or thought that is less than perfect. Even if it’s subjective.
But it is helpful: I can’t change what I don’t know.
“You coached not to lose,” he says, eyes still sharp in a way that used to make grown men pay attention. “You trusted your system at a time when you needed your men to break it.”
He paces, slow and deliberate. “Overtime isn’t about control.
It’s about timing. You needed to unleash their killer instinct, not their discipline.
You changed lines like it was regulation.
You protected a structure that didn’t serve the outcome you wanted.
You should’ve unleashed your difference makers.
You should’ve taken a risk. They didn’t make any mistakes, but you didn’t allow them to force one, either. ”
He stops in front of me. “Great coaches don’t just eliminate errors. They decide which ones they’re willing to live with.”
I nod. Of course.
My dad sighs. “You’re too young for this position, Finley. I wish they would’ve listened to me when I told them not to offer it to you, but they set you up for failure. This loss, whether it happened now or in a few weeks, would’ve happened. You’re just not ready.”
I know he’s not trying to make me feel like this is my fault. I know he cares about making me better, but there’s something about the way he says it that has the air whooshing out of me like I just took a hit to the solar plexus.
And while I know he was talking about playing it safe tonight, his words hit home in a different way. One that reminds me that I made a different error, one of potentially greater magnitude. One that I still have to deal with.