Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Oliver
“You excited?” Jeff’s hand lands heavy on my shoulder, the head coach’s enthusiasm practically radiating through his palm. “First game of the season.”
My throat constricts like I’ve swallowed sandpaper. The words stick somewhere between my chest and mouth, and all that emerges is a pathetic wheeze. I clear my throat, force the syllables past the knot. “Yeah.” Another clearing. “Big day.”
Big day. Understatement of the century. My stomach churns like I’m back in the minors, eighteen years old and terrified I’ll blow my shot at the NHL.
Except this is worse somehow. These aren’t seasoned pros who know how to handle pressure—they’re kids.
Kids whose futures might pivot on how well Jeff and I guide them through the next few months.
The locker room thrums with barely contained chaos.
Eduardo’s bouncing on his toes in the corner, stick-taping ritual in full swing.
Tommy’s got his earbuds in, eyes closed, probably visualizing plays.
The younger kids—the ones whose parents signed them up because “sports build character”—cluster together, feeding off each other’s nervous energy.
And then there are the serious ones, the ones who worship at the altar of professional hockey, who look at me like I’m some kind of deity fallen to earth. Those are the ones who terrify me most.
We’ve been grinding for weeks. Bag skates, passing drills, defensive positioning until these kids could probably execute a neutral zone trap in their sleep. Tonight, the Pine Island Ice Hawks finally get their shot.
That or we crater spectacularly in front of the entire town.
The acid in my stomach intensifies, bile creeping up my throat.
It’s not even my ass on the ice, but it might as well be.
Every missed pass, every blown coverage, every goal against—it all reflects on me.
On whether Oliver Paxton, former NHL star turned high school assistant coach, actually knows what the hell he’s doing.
The old me would have demanded perfection.
Would have made these kids run suicides until they puked if they didn’t execute flawlessly.
Winning was oxygen, losing was death, and anything in between was unacceptable.
But that Oliver ended up broken on the ice with mangled ligaments and a career in pieces.
That Oliver pushed away the only woman who ever really mattered.
This Oliver? This one has different priorities. These kids need to leave this season better than they entered it—as players, sure, but more importantly as people.
Jeff’s hands cup around his mouth like a megaphone. “O-Kay, listen up! Settle down!”
The chaos gradually dims to a low rumble, then silence.
Thirty-two eyes swivel toward us, and my skin prickles under their collective gaze.
Even after years in packed arenas, after Stanley Cup playoffs with millions watching, this hits different.
These kids see me as something I’m not sure I am anymore—competent, worthy, someone who has answers.
“You all have been training well,” Jeff’s voice carries that perfect coach timber—authoritative but warm.
“Really putting in the work. We’re not even a game in and the season is already off to a great start.
I expect you all to go out there and keep your cool, okay?
Remember, you’re only as good a player as you are a teammate. ”
A smattering of whoops echoes off the concrete walls. Jeff’s eyes find mine, eyebrows raised in that universal coach language: Your turn, rookie.
My throat goes Sahara-dry. I step forward, and the squeak of my shoes on the rubber flooring sounds like a gunshot. I’ve rehearsed this speech a dozen times. Had note cards. Practiced in the mirror like some nervous kid before prom. Now? Every carefully crafted word evaporates like mist.
Heart hammering against my ribs, I force oxygen into my lungs. Slow. Steady. What would sixteen-year-old Oliver have needed to hear? Not the Oliver who was already convinced he’d go pro, but the one before that. The one who just loved the feeling of ice beneath his blades.
“Coach Jeff hit it on the nose. You’ve done really well so far.”
My tongue feels too thick, but something shifts.
The nerves transform into something else—anticipation, maybe.
Or purpose. “I know each and every one of you has your own reasons for getting on the ice tonight. You’ll put in the effort and do everything you can to win, I know you will.
And heck—I want a win. Maybe more than anyone else in this room. ”
I let that hang for a beat, watching their faces. Some nod, others lean forward, hanging on words from someone they think matters.
“I want you to remember that, when it comes down to it, sometimes winning is out of your control. What’s in your control, though, is whether you have a good game or not, and that doesn’t have a darn thing to do with winning.
It has to do with your perspective. Your values.
So I suggest that before you get out there you make a choice.
You decide that, no matter what happens, you’re going to see the value in the outcome—whether that be a life lesson, a beatdown by the other team that shows you what techniques you need to work on, or just the fact that you know you can have fun no matter what.
So commit to that and you’re going to have a great game. ”
The words taste foreign in my mouth—patience, perspective, values.
The old Oliver would laugh himself sick.
But the silence that follows isn’t dismissive.
Tommy’s pulled out his earbuds. Eduardo’s stopped bouncing.
Even the parent-mandated kids look thoughtful.
Maybe half of them actually heard me. With teenagers, that’s practically a miracle.
Jeff checks his watch, breaks the spell. “All right. Let’s get out there!”
The energy surge is immediate, testosterone and adrenaline flooding the room as kids scramble for last-minute adjustments.
I catch Gabe’s arm before he follows the stampede.
Our goalie’s good—quick reflexes, decent positioning—but he’s got a tell.
Tracks the shooter instead of the puck, leaves himself vulnerable to passes.
“Remember to stay square to the puck,” I tell him, hand firm on his shoulder pad. “It’s the puck you’re tracking, not the shooter.”
His Adam’s apple bobs, but his nod is solid. “Got it.”
I clap his back hard enough to rattle his pads, and we trail the team through the tunnel. The familiar smell hits me first—Zamboni exhaust, rubber mats, that particular staleness of arena air. Then the sounds: skates on ice, pucks hitting boards, the murmur of a filling crowd.
The bleachers are already half-full, parents and students and bored townspeople looking for Friday night entertainment. My eyes move on instinct, scanning, searching for—
There.
Front row, like she’s staking a claim. Red beanie that makes her dark hair look like melted chocolate.
Matching scarf that she’s probably had since college because Devin never throws anything away if it still works.
She’s mid-conversation with one of the PT interns, hands moving as she talks, and then—
She turns. Our eyes lock across fifty feet of soon-to-be-battleground, and her face transforms. That smile—Christ, that smile could power the entire rink.
My heart doesn’t just leap; it attempts a full triple axel in my chest. My hand moves without permission, waving like some eager kid, and her smile somehow gets wider.
The game’s starting, players crashing onto the ice in controlled chaos, but I risk one more glance at her. That’s when I see him.
Three rows back, positioned perfectly to watch both the ice and me. Mark Bailey. My stomach plummets to somewhere near my ankles.
He hasn’t changed. Same shit-eating grin that got wider every time he threw a dirty hit.
Same calculated slouch that says I’m too cool to care while his eyes track everything like a predator.
He catches me looking and his grin sharpens, all teeth and malice.
That little wave—fingers waggling like we’re old friends instead of what we really were.
Rivals. Enemies, really, though we played for the same team.
My hands curl into fists, nails biting crescents into my palms. I’m different now.
Better. Evolved. But looking at Bailey makes something primal want to drop gloves and settle every old score.
Instead, I force my face into something that might pass for friendly from a distance.
Wave back, though my arm feels like it’s made of concrete.
Focus on the game. Don’t let him get in your head.
I take my position beside Jeff, pull arctic air deep into my lungs.
Home. This has always been home, even when home was trying to kill me.
But the edge won’t leave, heart still racing from something that has nothing to do with game nerves.
The old Oliver played for glory, for proof that he deserved to exist in spaces that didn’t want him.
This Oliver—I’m here for these kids. For the chance to do something right. For—
The puck drops.
We win the face-off clean, Eduardo showing the hands that might take him somewhere if he keeps his head on straight. The pass connects, tape to tape, and then Gabe—
He does exactly what I told him. Stays square, tracks the puck through traffic, makes the save look easy.
The counterattack is poetry. Three passes, each one crisp, building speed through neutral ice.
The opposing team’s defense scrambles, out of position, and Tommy—quiet, earbud Tommy—snipes it top shelf where mom keeps the cookies.
The arena erupts. Parents on their feet, students pounding the glass, and the pride that floods my chest is nothing like winning the Cup. That was vindication, proving every doubter wrong. This is pure. This is right.
For the first time since my career ended in a pile of broken body parts and shattered dreams, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
“Nice adjustment with Gabe,” Jeff shouts over the noise.
I manage something that might be words, might just be grateful sounds.
The game flows, and I lose myself in it.
Not playing, but something maybe better—teaching.
During line changes, I’m right there. “Keep your stick on the ice, Petey.” “Support your defense, don’t leave them hanging.
” “Beautiful pass, Eduardo, that’s exactly what we practiced. ”
We score again. Then the tide shifts like it always does.
The other team’s coach makes adjustments.
Their forecheck gets aggressive, forcing turnovers.
Our kids start gripping their sticks too tight, overthinking instead of playing.
I pull aside each kid who comes off, quick corrections, gentle encouragements.
This is what coaching actually is—not the screaming tyrants from hockey movies, but this.
Seeing a kid’s confidence wobble and knowing exactly what to say to steady it.
I’m so locked in I almost forget Bailey’s there. Almost.
Then the prickle starts at the base of my skull, that prehistoric awareness that says you’re being watched.
I glance back and there he is, staring straight at me while everyone else watches the play develop.
That same predator assessment, like he’s cataloging weaknesses, filing away ammunition for later.
The other team scores. Our section deflates while their fans celebrate. I catch Devin booing with admirable enthusiasm, and despite everything, it makes me want to smile. Quickly I look away from her, not wanting to get distracted.
Easier said than done. Last night, when I couldn’t sleep, I scrolled five years back through my cloud photos to find the picture of her at that donut shop in Portland. We’d gone there for a game, and she swore their maple bacon donut was the best thing she ever tasted.
So I got out of bed and drove to the twenty-four-hour supermarket to get the ingredients. I’d never made donuts before, but I had the Dutch oven and cooling racks to make it possible. This time, I didn’t need to go through five batches—the second one was the winner.
Dropping off the box of them at Devin’s clinic this morning, you would have thought I brought her the moon. We didn’t have much time to talk, since she had a patient coming in, but her smile kept me going all day long.
The buzzer sounds, bringing me back to the moment. I blink, trying to make sense of the noise filling the rink. The scoreboard draws my gaze. 4-3.
4-3.
They did it. We won!
The feeling that crashes through me defies description. This isn’t the Stanley Cup, isn’t a playoff series, isn’t even a particularly important regular season game. It’s a bunch of kids playing high school hockey in a tiny arena that smells like old socks and hopeful dreams.
And somehow it tastes sweeter than any victory I can remember.
No. That’s not quite right.
My eyes find Devin through the chaos of celebrating fans and players heading for the tunnel. She’s on her feet, beaming like we just won Olympic gold, and the truth hits me with the force of a blindside check.
The victory’s sweet, sure. But what’s sweeter is seeing her here, wearing our team colors, choosing to show up when she doesn’t have to. That smile aimed at me like I’m something worth smiling about.
I realize with sudden, perfect clarity that there’s something even better than winning waiting for me. And I’m on my way to get it.