Chapter 6
Chapter six
Mel
There was a team curfew, but my sparkling new job didn’t come with one. Still, wandering Denver solo felt less like an adventure and more like a questionable life choice.
So, I grabbed a hotel kitchen meal, snapped a picture of it, and sent it to Erica with a message:
Me: Send Thai takeout. Will trade hockey gossip.
Erica: Girl, that plate looks like airplane food.
Me: Correction: 4.5-star hotel food.
Erica: Fine, still tragic. Spill later, out and about. \*sorry emoji\*
Then I retreated to my room. My well-behaved adult self in yoga pants curled on the couch and picked up the TV remote.
I scrolled through the hotel’s stream until I landed on Someone Great. Not exactly light viewing, but it hit that weird sweet spot—the bittersweet transition from absent and stale relationships to clarity and reinvention, all bundled into one glitter-smudged breakup spiral.
I half ate, half watched as Gina Rodriguez’s character walked through New York, aching, but also waking up to her next chapter. And it got me thinking.
With Andrew, it had only ever been polite flickers that never caught flame, leaving me with the soft disappointment of having hoped for something that never took shape. But better friends than dragging something flatlined across the finish line.
What lingered wasn’t him so much as it was the reminder that “nice” could trick you into staying longer than you should. Because safe feels comfortable, and comfortable feels tempting, especially when your mom is whispering about timelines and babies like they’re overdue bills.
That was why the movie hit me harder than it should have: watching someone else wake up to the truth that endings aren’t failures.
I exhaled, sliding deeper under the covers. One chapter closed, another still unfolding—called my job. Involving a moody hockey coach who lent me his jacket without smiling. So, you know, no pressure.
The next morning, I dressed like a woman who’d survived one rinkside freeze and learned her damn lesson.
Black textured leggings (because comfort is key, people), a moisture-wicking long-sleeve shirt, and the official Tahoe West quarter-zip Maria had handed me during my orientation, topped with a sporty navy puffer.
Warm, practical, built for movement. Not glamorous, but who cared?
Hockey logistics didn’t award style points.
I pulled my hair into a low ponytail, swiped on light makeup to tone down the zombie effect I was giving off, then gave my reflection a solid not-bad-for-6 a.m. nod.
Game day. Colorado Avalanche.
The bus ride was eerily silent. No chirping, no Logan trash-talking the opposite team. Players were locked in, headphones on, zone-mode activated. Any yoga instructor would love this hushed moment for a meditation session.
I sat near the front and scrolled through walk-through notes. My job was still ‘observe and absorb,’ but Maria had hinted that ‘internal reports’ were next. No pressure, except that my primary grader sat three rows behind in a Tahoe West jacket and was as unreadable as a tattoo in Hebrew.
At the arena, barricade fans pressed against the glass, Zambonis purred, and camera ops set up their equipment. I checked the player hydration station and helped the trainers with their equipment.
Mid-laugh at a trainer’s joke, I turned and froze.
Coach Murphy’s eyes were on me, and not a fleeting glance. He was watching. His gaze held mine, a silent laser beam, while everyone around us was in motion. Then he gave a small nod that landed with a jolt in my chest before turning away.
I looked down, suddenly all too aware of my jacket and my entire freaking spine. Maybe this was what it felt like to be truly seen and not quite know how to breathe through it.
Before I could guess the feeling, it was game time.
The Colorado Avalanche stormed in like an actual avalanche determined to bury us.
Tahoe West struggled early with missed passes and intercepted breakaways.
The coach’s voice cut through the noise, sharper the worse the score got.
I did my best not to stare each time he leaned over the boards.
His intensity hit me in waves—steady, powerful, impossible to ignore.
He never smiled, but I’d started to read the signals. A tight jaw for frustration, a slow nod for approval, and narrowed eyes for someone about to be benched. Even when he didn’t speak, you could tell where you stood.
Final score: Colorado won.
The guys looked wrecked. Paxton slammed his helmet against the wall, and Porter crushed a water bottle, but none of that gave us the deficit goals.
I blended into the wall, letting them decompress.
Later, curled up with room service and my meticulous notes, I replayed the one thing Coach had said to the team: “We regroup. We refocus. See you tomorrow.”
Flat, professional, exactly what you’d expect from Coach Murphy. But the way he’d looked at me there on the ice felt anything but flat. It struck a perfectly aimed puck at the chest.
That night, I actually slept deeply. Probably the only one on the team who did.
Saturday morning blurred into checklists of updating trackers, wrangling ice for scratches, and syncing with training. By noon my coffee was cold, but my nerves were warmer. That was unusual and proof of how much I already liked this job.
When evening came, I layered up the same way as the day before with trusty tights, a Tahoe West tee, and a jacket. The energy at the rink was tighter than my leggings. A laser focus hummed through the team. No one wanted to go home 1-3.
When the puck dropped, Colton, our golden boy, buried a sharp-angle goal that made the home crowd groan. Sergei, a defenseman, followed with a breakaway, a true ice ballet.
The Avalanche retaliated, of course, but Golden State held the lead heading into the third. Coach Murphy barked less tonight and watched more. That calm in the storm made him appealing—okay, and hotter.
I gripped my DevPad with the desperation of a game’s final minute. When the final horn blasted and the scoreboard didn’t budge, we all roared.
We won!
Logan slapped my shoulder as he passed. “Lucky jacket,” he declared.
I laughed, a full-body, chest-shaking laugh that felt ridiculously good. The burst of heartbeats that came with working in sports had absolutely no comparison to my old life.
Later, on the shuttle to the airport, I leaned my head against the window and felt it in my bones.
I couldn’t imagine going back to desk phones, carefully worded emails, and putting out fires no one saw coming.
That office only ran because I ran it, but nothing—nothing—ever made my pulse spike like this.
Except maybe when the copier paper jammed and tried to catch fire.
In the plane, across the aisle, Coach caught my eye.
I smiled before I could think about it. He smiled back, slow and warm, and something loosened in me.
His features softened. That squared jaw unclenched, and his shoulders eased back.
His brown eyes held mine steady, and I felt it in my chest—that low ache that turns into something soft.
I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been holding myself together until this exchange relaxed me. It didn’t feel dramatic, but a gentle wave from my chest to my gut. If that was what climate change felt like, maybe the planet would be okay after all.
“You’re so smug now,” Sam said, glancing up from her laptop, looking impressed. “You dress like a backup goalie and talk hockey lingo.”
I laughed, adjusting my Tahoe West hoodie. I’d just taken out the trash. “Hey, don’t diss the sports-girl vibe,” I said, gesturing at myself with flair. “Give me ice, stats, a well-fitted jacket, and once I nail the skating, I’m a full-blown hockey girl.”
“Can’t believe it took an entire NHL franchise to crack your spark code,” Sam said, shaking her head.
“Honestly, same. I didn’t realize how dim things had gotten until something finally flickered back on.”
Sam tilted her head. “You’re happy, really happy.”
Before I could respond, my phone rang. It was Mom.
I hit the speaker. “Hey, Mom. You’re on with the full California crew.”
“Hi, girls,” Mom said, cheerful, but her breath caught oddly between syllables, as if she’d just climbed the stairs.
“Hey, hey!” Dad chimed in from the background.
Sam leaned in, brow furrowing slightly. “Is everyone still healthy? We’re rooting for fully functioning organs over here.”
Mom laughed, though it sounded thinner than usual. “We’re good, and we’re so proud of both of you. Mel’s big new job, Sam graduating in a few weeks…” Her voice faltered briefly, before she rushed on. “It’s… a lot of change all at once.”
“May twenty-second,” Sam cut in proudly. “I’m looking forward to the family-and-friends party. You know, show off that you’ve raised a doctor.”
We chuckled.
“Well,” Mom said, her tone shifting. “We’ll be arriving…um, this Wednesday.”
I blinked. “That’s…great,” I said slowly. “We’ll be ready for you.”
She let out a small, tight laugh, one that didn’t reach her usual warmth. “Well, your dad insisted we not wait.”
We talked a few more minutes about travel logistics, Florida weather, and a longer-than-necessary story about Dad versus the storage unit, but something didn’t sit right.
I set my phone down when the call ended.
“They’re not telling us something,” I said lightly.
“Yep,” Sam replied. “Definitely a weird tone. We’ll find out soon enough, Wednesday is basically tomorrow.”
My parents were free to come whenever and stay however long they wanted; that wasn’t what threw me. It was that pause, that shift in her tone, the unease between her words. Wednesday was bringing more than luggage, and my gut already knew it.
On Tuesday, I stood by the receptionist desk, staring at my calendar, willing it to rearrange itself around my life.
Wednesday, April 29: Fly to Colorado – Game 6
Wednesday, April 29: Parents Arrive – Sam not available.
I could only be involved in one of those. After last night’s home win, the pressure was high. We were up 3–2. One more win, and we’d knock Colorado out. One more loss, and it was do-or-die in Game 7. The vibe around the team was cutthroat and clear: No slack.
I’d approached Maria earlier, trying for a casual, hopeful tone. “Hey, my parents are arriving tomorrow for my sister’s graduation. Is it possible I skip this travel assignment?”
She’d blinked, then gave a polite, so-not-my-problem smile. “Sean handles your road orientation, so you’ll need to ask him directly. I’m here to support you, but I don’t play mediator,” she’d added kindly but firmly.
Which brought me to after practice, DevPad in hand—my emotional support these days. I watched Coach Murphy at the video monitor, arms crossed, legs set in that strong, unbothered stance. Sleeves shoved high, showing off forearms that shouldn’t be distracting but absolutely were.
I waited until the players drifted off, then stepped forward.
“Coach Murphy?” I started, bracing myself.
He turned fully toward me, wearing that same steady look I was coming to recognize as so calm and focused it made silence sound louder.
My stomach dropped once, okay maybe twice. I didn’t know what to do with that kind of attention. As if he registered every detail without blinking, and the room tilted with it, gravity shifting. At this rate, my gut might end up on the floor or escape the building entirely.
“Hey, my parents are flying in tomorrow for my sister’s graduation from med school. Any chance I could sit this trip out?”
He didn’t scowl or soften; he continued to study me. “No. The rhythm has to stay consistent during the playoffs.”
I nodded. Well, that was that. My grand plan failed to “rhythm”.
“Why can’t your sister meet them?” he asked.
My eyes widened briefly. It was his first personal question.
“She’s not available. She’ll still be in the clinic.”
“Yeah, med school’s like NHL playoffs. No margin for breath.”
That almost made me smile. Subtle, but clearly a “no.” Not cute.
“Got it,” I said softly.
His gaze lingered a second longer, then he gave a short nod and turned back to the screen. There was something in that moment. He hadn’t shut me out, but left the door open; I was still invited in.
That conversation hummed in the back of my mind as we started our descent the following day.
The wheels screeched against the tarmac, followed by that familiar lurch forward.
Seatbelts unfastened, and phones came out.
Flutters stirred in my chest, not from the landing, but from the ticking clock inside me.
I kept thinking of how my parents would react to my new job.
They’d touch down in Sacramento in two hours and take a taxi to the house, something they insisted on.
They declined asking neighbors for a ride.
Folsom, California, was the old chapter, and Florida was the new, with book clubs, beach walks, and never missing a sunrise. I hated not being there to meet them.
But this was my life now. Flights and DevPads, walk-throughs and stat reports. I hadn’t mastered the routine yet, but I was starting to catch the beat. And today, that beat dropped me right back into a playoff push in Denver.
Players filed off the plane row by row. Coach Murphy stopped beside my seat, and I realized he was waiting for me to move first. I stood and reached for my carry-on, but his hand was already there, lifting it down easily.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Sure.”
He smiled, and his eyes held mine for a beat before he followed me off the plane.
I adjusted my grip on my carry-on and tried not to overanalyze the fact that Coach Murphy was at my heels, and I could sense the weight of his stare.
If I said his eyes on me didn’t send a little warmth blooming behind my ribs in tiny, very inappropriate burns, I’d be lying.