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He tries, and this time the puck slides cleanly between the cones.

He beams. “Thanks, Coach Wes!”

Moments like that? They mean more than goals ever did.

I spot Beckett at the faceoff circle running shooting drills and Griff helping kids line up for a timed lap around the rink. For a moment, I flash back to our own teenage years, racing each other until the custodian kicked us off the ice.

I think about Beckett getting his business sense early. He’s the one who helped me and Griff invest wisely during our early contracts. Most players blew through their rookie bonuses. Not us. Beck had us reading financial literacy books and talking with mentors. Before twenty-five, we each owned property and were on our way to building business portfolios.

And now, we’re here—still on the ice, still giving back.

A group of adults stands near the entrance, arms crossed. It’s not the first time I’ve seen them. They’re from a rival town's program, and they’ve been circling ever since we started pulling in better attendance and sponsorships.

One of them—tall, smug, wearing a too-tight polo—steps forward and makes a show of checking his clipboard.

"Still calling yourselves a nonprofit?" he asks, loud enough to turn heads.

I straighten up. “We are. We focus on access, not just wins.”

He smiles, tight and unfriendly. “Word is you’re poaching players.”

Before I can answer, a voice slices through the tension.

“Word is you’re threatened by a better program. Kids can join wherever they want.” Quinn says, stepping out from the sidelines, arms folded over her Sunset Cove medical hoodie.“And unless you’ve got proof of misconduct, maybe go check your own ethics before questioning ours.”

The man sputters, but she doesn’t flinch.

“We’ve got a clean record, medical staff on-site, and we turn no kid away. If that’s a threat to you, maybe you’re in the wrong business.”

The crowd goes still. A few parents exchange glances. Savannah, handing out orange slices, calls, “Boom! That’s my clinic boss!”

A dad near the blue line shouts, “Sunset Cove stands with Wes!”

The guy walks off in a huff, and a small cheer breaks out.

I look at Quinn and shake my head. “I was going to handle that.”

“You were being polite. I was being effective.”

Man, I love that woman.

As the day winds down, I help a few kids pick up gear while Beckett hoses off the benches. There’s a hum of joy under the fluorescent lights—the kind only community can create.

Later that night, after the gear is packed and the rink is quiet, I linger to lock up. That’s when I spot Liz waiting for me on the front bench.

She’s wearing one of Griff’s jackets and holding a cocoa, the same way she did when she was a kid and we’d sneak in early to practice.

“You always loved this place,” she says.

“I still do,” I reply.

She watches the Zamboni hum across the rink. “Remember the time you tied my skates so tight my toes went numb?”

I laugh. “Hey, better than falling on your face.”

She grins. “Or the time I accidentally wore your elbow pads to practice and couldn’t lift my arms?”

We both laugh harder at that. “You waddled like a penguin on skates,” I say, wiping my eyes.