Chapter 10 #2
The locker room door slammed behind them, echo bouncing off the concrete like applause that didn’t know when to quit. I stood on the edge of the ice, gloves hanging from one hand, watching the last skater step off.
Billie moved slow but sure, helmet under her arm, chin lifted. No swagger—just the kind of pride that came from earning a bruise the right way. Our eyes caught for a beat. I gave her a nod before I could stop it. Instinct. Respect.
She paused mid-stride, one eyebrow lifting like she wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it. Then she turned away, ponytail flicking across her shoulder. That was good. Let her wonder. Thinking was better than talking.
I bent to collect stray pucks that had rolled into the corner. The ice was scarred from their blades, a map of effort I could almost feel under my boots. The air smelled of snow, sweat, and rubber—things that never lied.
“Coach?”
The voice startled me enough that I nearly dropped the bucket.
I turned to find one of the rookies—short, dark hair sticking out of her helmet, freckles across her nose.
Jess, defenseman. Quick on her edges but still fighting balance when she shifted direction.
She had that look—the kind kids get when they want something but are afraid to ask.
“What is it?”
She held up her stick like a peace offering. “I keep losing speed on my crossovers. I’m doing what they taught last year, but it feels off.”
I crouched near the blue line, tapped the ice with my glove. “You’re breaking too wide. Angle your inside knee toward the line, not away. Keeps your weight forward, drives momentum instead of dragging it.”
She blinked. “Oh. So like—push, don’t glide?”
“Exactly. Every crossover’s a sprint, not a coast. Try again.”
She set off, shoulders tight, then loosened as she caught rhythm. The blades carved neat arcs through the thin layer of shaved ice. When she came back around, she was breathing hard but grinning.
“Better,” I said. “Now do it again tomorrow, and the next day.”
She laughed nervously. “You’re gonna make us hate you, aren’t you?”
“That’s the idea.”
But when she skated off, she wasn’t afraid. None of them were. A handful lingered by the bench, half-smiling, half-exhausted, watching me like they were seeing a shape they hadn’t tried to name yet. Not a headline. Not a cautionary tale. A coach.
It hit harder than I wanted.
Sam flicked the arena lights to half power and walked past, coffee finally gone cold in his hands. “Nice change of pace,” he muttered. “They didn’t look terrified this time.”
“Good,” I said, loading pucks into the crate. “Fear makes people sloppy.”
Snow-dust scraped the boards as the Zamboni started up, the slow growl filling the empty rink. I looked across the glass toward the hallway, where Billie disappeared—helmet tucked under one arm, stride still strong.
For the first time in years, I caught myself hoping tomorrow might not be a repeat of yesterday. Then I crushed that thought before it started.
Hope was a dangerous habit.
The arena emptied slow, like the building itself exhaled after holding a breath too long. Doors clanged. Voices thinned down the corridor until only the faint hum of the refrigeration unit filled the air. I crossed the hallway, shoes echoing on damp concrete, and pushed into my office.
The lights inside were harsh, flickering at the edges, bouncing off the little trophies and cracked gear someone had left behind before me.
I dropped the clipboard on the desk, leaned both hands on the wood, and let my shoulders sag.
The silence pressed in until it felt like a hand on the back of my neck.
I sank into the chair—the old vinyl wheezed under my weight—and tilted my head back. The cheap ceiling tiles above looked like they were waiting for a reason to cave. For the first time all day, no one expected me to bark orders or carry anyone else’s pride.
The drawer stuck, like always, before coming loose with a sharp jerk. Inside lay a battered folder, edges curling from years of coffee rings and road trips. My notes from my last pro job. “Detroit Serpents—2025 season.” I hadn’t looked at them since the day I walked out.
Pages slipped free, scribbled diagrams and quick stats scrawled in ink that had faded to gray. I flipped through them; the names hitting harder than I’d expected—guys who’d made it out, others who hadn’t. Mistakes so obvious now I wanted to punch myself for them.
I spread them across the desk, then opened today’s sheet from Crestwood. Fresh numbers, new blood. I cross-referenced the notes, line pairings, timing differentials. My pen moved fast, the way it used to when the game meant something.
By the time I hit the forward column, one name kept jumping out at me. I circled it once. Then again, harder until the paper dented. BILLIE DONOVAN.
I grabbed the marker and turned to the whiteboard. The squeak sounded too loud in the small room.
Fast hands. Better vision than she realizes. Possible captain material.
Under it, smaller letters, almost a whisper.
Don’t fuck this up.
I capped the marker, stared at the words until the letters blurred into one thick line. My pulse steadied for the first time all night. The room smelled like ice, tape glue, and the faint citrus from the liniment tubs outside. Familiar scents. Safe ones.
No clinking bottles in the drawer, no twitch of craving under my skin. Just the buzz of the arena lights and the steady rhythm of thought. I didn’t feel good—didn’t even feel calm—but the cold in my chest had shifted.
Engaged. That was the word.
I sat there, shoulders loose, pen tapping against the folder. For the first time in weeks, it felt like the game might let me back in.