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“Gage,” I mutter, “either work on your aim or quit pretending to have one.”

He grins like a kid who just got away with something. “It’s for charity, Bro. I’m fundraising awareness for poor hand-eye coordination.”

“Mission accomplished,” Bennett deadpans from across the room, not even looking up from his phone.

I finish the tape job and lean back, letting the buzz of the team wash over me. There’s something different today. Lighter. The stands outside are packed with families, half the town’s here to see us skate with a bunch of kids. No pressure. Just fun.

Coach Duff barrels in wearing his classic windbreaker and his face set to “grumpy uncle who hasn’t had coffee.” He claps his hands once. Loud.

“Alright, you delinquents, listen up—”

But he never gets the rest out.

Because that’s the moment a dozen Mega Mites bust into the room like a stampede of puppies on Red Bull. There’s screaming, giggling, someone has a horn, and I’m ninety-percent sure one of them is wearing a cape made out of a Slammers practice jersey.

“Coach D.U.F.F.!” one of them shouts, pointing right at him. “It means Dumb, Ugly, Fat, Friend!”

Shep snorts. “I love these kids already.”

Duff just stands there blinking. Then sighs. “Yep. This is hell. I’ve died. And this is hell.”

I try not to laugh, I really do. But it’s impossible. Even Bennett cracks a smile when one of the kids hops on his lap and tries to braid his uber-short hair.

“D.U.F.F. has a nice ring to it,” Boone says from behind me.

“Shut it, Foster 2,” Duff growls. “You’re not cute enough to get away with anything.”

It’s total chaos—but the good kind. The kind that makes you realize maybe hockey isn’t just about winning or stats. Maybe it’s about this. Laughter. Community. Being a part of something that matters to people who don’t even care how many points you have this season.

I glance around at my teammates—these idiots I’d go to war with—and I feel something in my chest shift. Like maybe, just maybe, I’m starting to figure out what comes next.

And for the first time in a long time, that thought doesn’t scare the hell out of me.

By the time we make it onto the ice, the place is buzzing. Parents in the bleachers, phones out. Kids practically vibrating with excitement. And in the center of it all, standing next to his pride and joy, is Virg.

Sleetwood Mac gleams under the rink lights. Not because he waxed it—he didn’t—but because that thing glows with the kind of love only a man who talks to machines could give. I think it almost killed Virg when the Mac got retired for the new Zamboni Model 552.

“I’ve got a schedule,” Virgil barks to no one in particular. “One kid at a time. Five minutes per Zamboni lesson. No steering. No horn. No snacks.”

“Why do I feel like snacks have been an issue before?” I ask, skating past him.

Virgil side-eyes me like I just accused his kid of shoplifting. “You put one banana peel in the ice resurfacer, and suddenly you’re the villain for life.”

I smirk. “Got it. Respect the Mac.”

He grunts. “Damn right.”

I leave Virgil to his Zamboni kingdom and start circling the ice with the kids. They’re split into loose groups, each one assigneda Slammers player. Mine are a gang of absolute gremlins—tiny elbows, lopsided helmets, and an alarming commitment to falling dramatically and pretending they’re dying.

One kid—Carter, I think—is already prone on the ice, yelling, “I BROKE MY BUTT.”

“Let me see,” I say, crouching beside him.

“No, it’s my secret butt,” he replies, totally serious.

Okay, then.

I help him up and hold his hand as we skate slowly across the rink. He wobbles like a newborn deer and beams at me like I’m Santa Claus and The Rock rolled into one.