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Perfect.

I slide over and whisper, “You ever score on a Foster before?”

Her eyes go wide, shaking her head like I just offered her a trip to Disneyland.

“Well, today’s your lucky day.”

I drop the puck at her blade and give her a little nudge forward. She takes off—tentative at first—but the second I start hyping her up like she’s Gretzky in pigtails, she kicks it into gear. She dekes left, right, zips between two cones, and flicks the puck straight through the kid goalie’s pads.

The place goes nuclear.

Her teammates dogpile her like she just scored the game winner in OT. She pops up red-faced but grinning like she owns the damn rink.

I hold up my glove for a fist bump. “See? Told ya.”

We keep running the scrimmage—me tossing out chirps, the kids eating it up like Halloween candy. Every pass, every shot, every tiny win starts stacking up until they’re all skating better now than when they arrived.

And when the camera crew swarms in, shoving mics in my face, I don’t even flinch.

Because for the first time in… hell, maybe ever…

I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

By the time Coach blows the whistle to wrap it up, the kids are still buzzing like they’ve just downed three Pixy Stix and a Mountain Dew. The second their skates hit the boards, Madeline and Harper sweep in.

“Alright, Mega Mites!” Madeline’s voice carries across the rink, bright and peppy as if she’s been waiting all day to unleash her inner cruise director. “Who wants free Slammers gear?”

You’d think she was handing out PS5s the way the kids swarm her.

Harper’s already rolling a cart full of mini foam fingers, Slammers slap bracelets, beanies, ball caps, and tiny replica jerseys toward center ice, all with Slammy waddling along behind them. The big fuzzy bastard’s got a stack of stickers in one hand and a Sharpie in the other, all set for autographs.

I lean on my stick, watching the chaos unfold with a stupid grin on my face.

Tommy comes barreling toward me, helmet lopsided again. “Coach Foster! Coach Foster! Can Slammy sign my helmet?”

Before I can answer, Slammy’s already there, pulling Tommy into a dramatic mascot hug and signing his helmet with exaggerated flair.

Tommy spins around, wide-eyed. “BEST. DAY. EVER.”

“You’re the real Slammer, Slammy!” one of the kids yells, high-fiving the mascot like I’m chopped liver. I fake clutch my chest, grinning like an idiot anyway.

After glancing up, I find Mia standing a few feet away, clutching one of the foam fingers to her chest. She meets my eyes, shy but beaming, and I swear I feel something crack wide open inside me.

Madeline waves me over toward the cameras. “Brogan, you’re up!”

I skate over, wiping the sweat from my brow, still catching my breath. Harper’s already rolling, her camera light blinking like we’re live on ESPN or some shit, but I think it’s just WDIO in Duluth.

“Today was about more than just hockey,” I start, my voice steadier than I feel. I glance back at the kids, who are all still buzzing around Slammy, showing off their new gear. “It’s about showing up. About believing you can do something even when it feels impossible. That’s what these kids did today. I’m really proud of them.”

Coach Duff steps in beside me, nodding like a proud dad. “Brogan’s a natural,” he says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Not just out here skating with ‘em, but connecting with ‘em. That’s what makes the difference.”

Harper turns the mic to the kids. Tommy practically tackles it. “Coach Foster taught me how to check! And he let me try his stick!” His face is about to split from smiling so hard.

Mia edges closer, clutching her foam finger. “He helped me not be scared of the puck anymore,” she whispers, awed by the entire experience.

The camera crew eats it up, getting close-ups of the kids, Slammy, the whole scene. I hang back, watching it all unfold—their excitement, their pride, their joy—and it hits me harder than any open-ice check I’ve ever taken.

I might suck at playing right now. But this feels like winning.