Page 15 of Wrong Score

Penelope and Slade just bought a place there too. It seems it’s the neighborhood where all the Hawkeyes men go to settle down. It's kind of sweet, really.

“I bought Zoey her first set of ice skates and took her to the outdoor rink. She’s starting to get the hang of it. I try to get her out on the ice as much as I can.”

Zoey told me all about their story. It’s the kind that makes you believe that if two people are meant to be together, they’ll find each other again. When the time is right.

“What about you, Coach?” Lake asks, reaching over and slapping Bex’s arm in the aisle seat in front of him.

Bex doesn’t turn around as he responds. “I haven’t celebrated Valentine’s Day since they made me in primary school. I don’t trust naked babies wielding weapons.”

That can’t be true. He used to be married. Or maybe that’s another reason for why he’s divorced.

“Good point,” Lake says. “Flying around without a helmet and broadhead arrow… that has to be an OSHA violation.”

Brent leans forward, gripping Lake’s headrest in front of him. “What? No lucky girl getting the full Townsend love experience? What a waste of all that charm,” Brent snickers and then winks at me.

Bex shoots a look over his shoulder at me. Our eyes lock and then he turns back around.

What was that about?

As the plane begins to taxi, we all settle into our seats. I mull over Brent's words. Give him time? How much time does he need? It's not like I'm asking to be his best friend. I just want to do my job without feeling like I'm walking on eggshells.

The jet engines roar to life, and I feel the familiar lurch as we take off. As we climb into the air, I can't shake the feeling that this trip is going to be more challenging than I anticipated. It's not just about writing a story anymore. It's about proving myself—to Bex, to the team, and maybe even to myself. The closer we get to the playoffs, the more pressure there is to get this story right.

The vibration of the jet engines soothes me as I lose myself in the smooth voice of Julian Mercer, my favorite contemporary painter. His podcast, "Strokes of Inspiration," has been my go-to lately for both relaxation and creative stimulation. As Julian describes his process for finding inspiration in everyday life, I jot down notes for my upcoming interview with Assistant Coach Ezra Thompson in my notebook. Something about writing down ideas with a pen and paper instead of typing it up in a laptop helps me to work through my thoughts. Maybe it’s the physicality of it.

"The key is to observe without judgment," Julian's voice crackles through my headphones. "Every moment, every interaction, holds the potential for the artist to express a feeling, a thought, a question, and most importantly, a story. With every brush stroke, you are the conductor, the author, and the creator of every masterpiece."

I smile to myself, thinking about how his advice applies just as well to journalism as it does to painting. My pen flies across the empty lined pages, ink staining the crisp white paper of my notepad that sits on the folding table attached to the seat back in front of me as I brainstorm questions. Then I’ll transfer everything to my laptop.

Just like Julian says, I have a story to tell, which makes me the conductor, the author, and the creator.

My keypad is my easel, my computer screen is my canvas, and unfortunately, at the moment, this team’s rise to Stanley Cup victory is the story I'm hoping I get to tell.

I already planned to interview Kaenan Altman this week. Even my questions for him are all laid out and ready on a doc sheet on my computer. But one of the things that artists don't always discuss is that sometimes when inspiration hits, you don't always have a choice to avoid your muse. It consumes your thoughts, even if you wish they wouldn't.

Against my better judgment, I can't stop thinking about the coach sitting three rows ahead of me and on the opposite side of the aircraft. So I'll give in, temporarily, and write the most sensible questions that I think he might actually answer without telling me that they're inconsequential and of no importance to his leadership as an NHL coach.

So I'll stick to the boring stuff.

"How do you balance pushing the team's limits without burning them out?"

"What's your approach to tailoring training methods to individual players' strengths?"

"In your opinion, what's the most underrated aspect of coaching that fans don't see?"

And because I know that my boss will berate me if I don't try to delve a little deeper into Coach Bex as a human, though I'm mostly certain that he's a robot without feelings, I toss in one question that I one-thousand percent know will earn me, at the very least, a deep scowl.

"With all of your achievements and success on the ice, do you feel that hockey still allows time in your life for love?"

I'm so engrossed in jotting down my questions and practically hearing his voice answer the questions how I imagine he will, that I barely notice Reeve sliding into the empty seat beside me. It's only when he gently taps my arm that I look up to see him there.

"Oh, hey, Reeve," I say, pulling off my headphones and closing my laptop before he sees the last question I have on my list, labeled "Questions for the Grump". He'd probably laugh his ass off if he saw the last question I wrote for Bex to answer. "What's up?"

He nods, leaning in closer to speak in hushed tones. "I just wanted to thank you for talking to Keely during your pedicures. She felt a lot better knowing you and Autumn have her back. It means a lot to both of us."

I feel a warm glow of satisfaction. Moments like these remind me why I love my job. Not just for the thrill of the story, but for the human connections I get to make along the way.

"Of course," I whisper back, matching his low volume. "That's what friends are for. I'm just glad I could help."

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