Page 51 of Glitz & Goals

“Damn.” Viktor rubs his hand across his face. “So my sister doesn’t know that you’re thinking about a future with her, and my dad doesn’t know that he wrecked your career?”

I sigh. “Pretty much.”

“Shit. That’s rough. And oh, so complicated. I wouldn’t want to trade places with you, Coach.” Viktor pats my shoulder as he shuffles past me, heading back to his seat up front. I’m left staring out the window at the clouds and little patches of farmland beneath us.

Shit, that’s rough pretty much sums things up, doesn’t it?

* * *

The locker room hums with energy—nervous, electric, like the air before a thunderstorm. The guys are pulling on their gear, cracking jokes to shake the tension, but I can see it in their eyes. They know what’s at stake tonight. I stand at the whiteboard, marker in hand, walking through the last-minute strategy.

“First line, listen up. Hale, stay wide on the breakout. Abbott, keep your head up in the neutral zone—they’re going to try to trap you. Dubois, communicate out there. Loud and clear.” My voice is steady, authoritative, but my stomach churns. Camden is tying his skates too tight, a nervous habit. He looks up when I call his name, and his expression indicates he might puke again. “Beck, stay disciplined. No hero plays tonight. Stick to the system.”

They nod, but I can feel the weight on their shoulders. It’s not just another game. It’s against one of the top teams in the league, and every mistake will be magnified.

Behind me, Ranger leans in. “They look good. Focused.”

I grunt in response, keeping my eyes on the players. “They need to be. The Cyclones eat hesitation for breakfast.”

Noah steps up beside us, clipboard in hand, his expression calm and unflappable. “Ox’s dialed in. He knows their tendencies.”

Good. We’re going to need every edge we can get. Our gentle giant in the net, Owen ‘Ox’ Dalton, is six foot six of impenetrable human wall. Not much gets through him unless our defensemen are off their game.

As the players file out to the ice, my thoughts drift. Viv would tell me to breathe. She’d tell me I’m overthinking, to just let the guys play their game. The memory of her teasing smile softens the knot in my chest for half a second before the tension returns.

I watch Knight and Viktor as they step onto the ice, both brimming with confidence. Camden trails behind, his nervous energy palpable, while Tristan stays quiet, like he’s lost in his own head.

After warm-ups, the anthem plays, the puck drops, and I feel that familiar rush of adrenaline. This is it. Time to see what we’re made of.

We survive the first period, but barely. The score’s 0-0, and it feels like a miracle. The Houston Cyclones came out like they were shot out of a cannon, pinning us in our own zone for the first ten minutes. Ox’s been standing on his head, and Noah keeps leaning into my ear with updates: “He’s tracking well. Staying square. He’s locked in.”

But I know this kind of pressure doesn’t hold forever. Something’s got to give.

I glance down the bench. Knight’s focused, jaw tight as he nods along to my instructions during the intermission. Viktor slouches next to him, but there’s fire in his eyes. I know he’s itching to make something happen, to take control of the game. Camden looks like he’s still trying to catch his breath, and Tristan’s bouncing his knee so hard it’s shaking the bench.

The second period starts, and we finally find some rhythm. Knight pulls off a highlight-reel goal three minutes in, dragging the puck through two defenders before roofing it over their goalie’s shoulder. The bench explodes in cheers, and for a moment, I think we’ve shifted the momentum.

But the Cyclones don’t waste any time answering back. A bad turnover at our blue line, and their sniper lasers one into the top corner. I slam my hand against the boards. “Tighten up, boys! No more freebies!”

The cracks start to show. Viktor gets caught reaching with his stick, and the refs don’t hesitate to call him for tripping.Their power play unit doesn’t miss. It’s 2-1 Cyclones by the time Viktor’s out of the box, and the frustration is boiling over.

By the end of the period, we’re down 3-1. The guys look gassed, and I feel that old, familiar ache in my chest. We’re in a hole, and I’m not sure we can climb out of it.

The second the guys hit the bench, I let them have it. “Are we playing hockey, or are we just here to watch the Cyclones have a practice?” My voice echoes off the boards, cutting through the clamor of the arena. “You’re chasing pucks like Peewees. Tighten the hell up out there!”

Knight yanks his helmet off, jaw clenched. “We’re trying, Coach. Their forecheck’s—”

“I don’t want excuses,” I snap. “I want execution. You’re better than this.”

Ranger steps in beside me, his voice lower but no less intense. “You heard him. Heads on straight. Stop puck-watching, and start moving your feet.”

The third period starts, and for a few glorious minutes, it feels like we’re back in control. Tristan threads a perfect pass to Knight in the slot, and he buries it. The horn blares, and the bench erupts.

“That’s how it’s done!” I yell, slapping Knight on the back as he skates by. “Keep it up!”

But the Cyclones aren’t backing down. They push harder, faster, pinning us in our own zone. Viktor scrambles to clear the puck, and it barely squeaks past the blue line.

“Get off, Abbott!” I scream, motioning for the change. He slams onto the bench, panting. “You’ve got to stop lunging, or they’re going to eat you alive!”

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