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Coach doesn’t let up. “We’re here to work not perform circus acts, Foster! Maybe that’s the problem—you think this jerseygets you a free pass just because it says Foster on the back. It doesn’t. You either earn it, or you lose it. If you can’t take this seriously, maybe you should consider a career change. Maybe clown school? Lord knows your music career is already over.” His voice booms across the rink, turning a few chuckles from the guys into coughs.

As drills resume, they’re twice as hard and half as forgiving. Each pass, each check, feels like a battle, and I’m right there, pushing through the mud in my skates, determined to pull my weight, to prove I’m more than just the team jester.

Practice ends with heavy breaths and tired limbs, but as we shuffle off the ice, the guys come around, tapping their sticks on the ground in a rhythmic salute. It’s a hockey player’s hug, rough but real. “Shake it off, Brogan,” Shep calls out, his grin back in place. “You’ll nail it next time.”

Their camaraderie doesn’t erase the sting of humiliation, but it reminds me why I still lace up—to be part of this team, this family. And as I head to the locker room, my resolve hardens. I’ll be ready for the next practice, the next game. No more spills, just thrills.

As I yank off my gear, the weight of the morning’s disaster still pressing down on me, my phone vibrates against the wooden bench. I swipe to answer, half-expecting another ribbing from one of the guys. Instead, it’s Pru’s no-nonsense tone that greets me. “Brogan, get yourself up to the front office. Franklin wants a word.”

A word.

That phrase hits harder than any slapshot to the ribs.

I scrub a hand down my sweaty face and let out a breath that doesn’t do a damn thing to settle my stomach. My pulse’s already doing suicide sprints, imagining every worst-case scenario—from being benched to being shipped off to God-knows-where in the middle of the season.

I don’t move right away. Just sit there, staring at my skates like they’re gonna give me some kind of out. They don’t. Finally, I peel off my gear, every motion stiff and tight like my body already knows something bad’s coming. I hit the showers, standing under the hot spray longer than I should—like maybe if I stay here long enough, Franklin will forget he asked for me.

He won’t.

By the time I’m dressed, my hands are still a little shaky. Jeans, hoodie, jacket. I lace up my boots slower than necessary, dragging this out even though I know I’m just delaying the inevitable.

I check my phone for no reason. No missed calls. No texts.

No miracle to get me out of this.

I blow out another breath, rub the back of my neck, and push out the locker room door like a guy walking into his own funeral.

As I trudge through the echoing hallways of Miner’s Memorial Arena, each step feels heavier than the last. Virgil waves from his perch atop the new Zamboni, but I barely manage a nod in response. My mind races with every possible mistake I’ve made, not just today but throughout the season. Could this meeting be the end of my time with the Slammers? I can’t even imagine it. I’ve never played hockey without my brothers beside me.

Reaching the front office, I pause outside Franklin’s door, my hand hovering over the knob. The plaque reading ‘Franklin Baker - Team Owner’ seems to glare at me, reminding me of the gravity behind this unexpected summons. Taking a deep breath, I knock softly, almost hoping he’s changed his mind and left the office. No such luck.

“Come in, Brogan,” Franklin’s voice calls from inside, steady and sure. With a shaky breath, I push the door open and step into what feels like the lion’s den, bracing myself for what comes next.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

The office of Franklin Baker feels like a shrine to hockey, walls lined with framed jerseys and black-and-white photos of Slammers legends. The air smells faintly of leather and the old wood polish that gleams under the fluorescent lights. I enter, my heart thumping in my chest like it’s trying to escape. Franklin sits behind his massive oak desk, a fortress of paperwork and memorabilia, looking every bit the team patriarch.

“Your contract is going to be up for negotiations soon. You’re playing like shit, son. Raise your game or risk becoming unemployed.” Franklin wrinkles his brow, his voice carrying a mix of disappointment and urgency that makes me wince. “I can’t allow the Foster name to carry you indefinitely.”

He’s right. I need to up my game. The words echo in my head, a mantra that’s both a whip and a lifeline.

Britt, my agent and my friend Holden’s wife, is dressed impeccably in a sharp business suit that makes her look both formidable and out of place in this dusty hockey temple. She taps her pen on the table, drawing my gaze. “I won’t be able to do much for you if your numbers aren’t on point with what similar players are producing.”

I try to muster a smirk, an armor against the dread tightening around my ribs. “So what you’re saying is, I’m officially your problem child now. Guess your winning streak’s about to take a hit, huh?”

The joke lands with a thud, Britt’s eyebrow arching in that ‘really?’ way she has. Franklin doesn’t even crack a smile; instead, he shuffles some papers, his fingers thick and callused—hands that have worked, fought, and built this team from the ground up.

Outside, Virgil’s Zamboni hums faintly, a lullaby for the ice that I can barely hear over the storm in my mind. Am I really about to lose everything I’ve worked for? Britt’s gaze softensfor a moment, and she leans forward, her voice lowering to something both stern and gentle.

“Brogan, listen. It’s not just about the numbers. It’s about showing that you care enough to fight for your place here. Prove that to Franklin, to the team, and to the fans.”

Her words are a cold splash of reality but also a beacon. I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat, the resolve settling in. I’m not out of the game yet, not if I have anything to say about it. Franklin watches me, his gaze measuring, then nods slowly, as if deciding something crucial about my future right there and then.

“Good,” he grunts, finally breaking the silence that had started to suffocate the room. “Now steel your spine. Next time, show us what you’ve got, Foster. This team needs you at your best.”

I stand, my legs steady despite the turmoil inside. “You’ll get it, sir. No more clowning around.” The promise feels like a vow not just to them but to myself, too.

As I leave the office, the door closing behind me with a soft click, the weight on my shoulders feels lighter yet somehow more substantial. This is my chance to turn it all around, and I won’t waste it.