Page 147 of Hat Trick

She pats my chest and turns for the ice. I follow behind her, careful as I walk around the curve of the rink to our bench on the other side of the arena. I wish she was allowed to sit with us over here during the game. I’d be more relaxed if she were nearby, but she has to hang out in the tunnel as soon as the puck drops.

The boys skate out to an arena full of boos, and my heart has never pounded so hard. The fear in my chest slowly shifts to adrenaline and excitement as they do a lap. The referee skates over and asks for the starting lineup, and I hand over our starting six with an apology for the delay so he can pass it along to the Vipers’ coaching staff.

“Thanks for stepping up,” Mikal says, and I scoff.

“I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?” I cross my arms over my chest and watch Liam finish up his warmup in the goal. He looks locked in tonight, quick with his movements and tracking every puck that comes his way. “Let the shit show begin.”

Someone from ESPN tries to grab me for an interview, but the PA announcer comes over the microphone and asks everyone to stand for the national anthem. I ignore the faint ache in my right leg and bend to adjust my prosthetic, hoping no one catches me on camera hunched over with my hands halfway up my thigh.

The buzzer sounds, starting lineups are introduced, and our first six skate down the bench in a line to get fist bumps from our teammates. When they reach me, they all put a hand on my head. Liam grunts in my direction and Maverick grins, pulling me into a hug.

“Relax,” he says, laughing when I nudge his shoulder.

“Easy for you to say. You’re out there with a stick.”

“We really don’t give a shit what happens, Ri. This season has had so many fucking highs and lows, and the fact that you’re here right now is a major fucking win. Let’s chirp some, show some heart, and we might get out of here with a win.”

“Damn you, Maverick Miller,” I say. “Get your ass to the face off.”

“There he is.” With another smile, he skates toward the puck drop. “See ya soon, Mitchy.”

* * *

We’reup by four with three minutes left in the third.

I don’t know how, but everything that needs to click does, and we’re on fucking fire.

Our passes are smooth. We’re aggressive on offense. Ryan Seymour made a spectacular dive to prevent a Vipers goal halfway through the second, and I ditched the whiteboard during the first intermission in favor of addressing the players directly.

“Coming up on two and a half minutes.” I clap then put a hand on Grant’s shoulder. “You’re going in next shift, and I want to see those efficient passes we worked on at practice, yeah?”

“Sure thing, Coach. Sorry. I mean Mitchy.”

He switches with Maverick during the next break in the offense, taking off to get in position for an open pass from Seymour.

“Even the rookies look good tonight.” Maverick sprays his Bodyarmor in his mouth and stretches his neck from side to side. “You might have the magic touch, Ri.”

“Shut up.” I track the puck and make a mental note to praise Ethan on his face off win percentage tonight. He’s sitting around sixty percent, a stellar stat from a guy who’s been lazy from the get-go up until recently, and he’s the kind of player who responds well to positive reinforcement. “I’m busy.”

Time ticks down, two minutes going to one, and fans start clearing out of the arena. The boys don’t get sloppy the last sixty seconds, and Grant sinks a five-hole that has me pumping my fist in the air just before the clock expires.

“Nice win,” Mikal says with a hand on my shoulder. “I knew you could do it.”

The final horn sounds, and our boys do a celly lap before skating over to the bench. I can’t avoid an interview this time, and Piper wrangles me over for a couple of questions before the national media can get a hold of me.

“Riley. Tell us what it’s like transitioning from player to coach. Is it difficult to see the ice from this perspective?” she asks, leaning the microphone in my direction.

“It’s not difficult but different. When I’m on the bench in my uniform, I’m more focused on watching my position. Back here, I see the whole picture. I’m watching their tendy and their forwards, and you have to be quick to react if needed.”

“How prepared did you feel stepping into this position tonight?”

“Not very,” I laugh. “But the heart and hustle from the boys and the encouragement from the rest of the coaching staff made it manageable. We got the W, and that’s what matters.”

“Last question, then I’ll let you go celebrate. Was tonight the start of a position you see yourself doing long-term?”

“Ah, shucks. I don’t know. I had a good time. I love hockey. Being out here is a gift, ya know? Whether that’s with skates on my feet or a lineup sheet in my hands, I’m blessed to do this.”

“Thanks, Riley. Enjoy your 1-0 coaching record,” Piper says, lowering her microphone and giving me a wide grin. “Sorry for the formalities, but holy shit, Ri. That was so fun to watch. I’m so proud of you. I bet your phone is going to start ringing with opportunities. Scouting maybe too.”

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