Page 16

Chapter sixteen

Colton: The Headline

I was on my third replay. Same shift. Same hesitation. A flick of my eyes left before I shot right—just a second, just enough for any goalie worth his pads to read me like a book.

I leaned back, the vinyl chair sticking to my bare shoulders, the laptop screen flickering like it was tired too.

My fingers traced my jaw, scruff catching against my skin.

The notepad beside me was a mess. Eye flick?

Shoulders? Who was I kidding—I wasn’t just trying to fix a tell.

I was trying to figure out who the hell I even was.

Hockey had a formula. Mistakes had fixes. Plays, systems, tape to study. You screw up, you correct. You train until the correction becomes instinctive.

But Riley?

There was no slow-motion replay, no arrows on a whiteboard. No breakdown, no instruction manual. Just me, sitting here, trying to figure out a future with nothing but scattered thoughts and shaky conclusions.

I scrubbed a hand through my hair and let my head fall back against the chair. The laptop screen dimmed—it was in power save mode. It was telling me to shut it down, too. So I did.

Sleep didn’t come. But morning did.

I’d beaten sunrise to the rink. Cold air wrapped around me as I stepped onto the concrete, my gym bag thumping softly against my back.

Inside, the ice stretched out smooth, untouched.

The hallway lights cast a pale glow, but the rink itself stayed dark, the windows barely catching the earliest spill of dawn.

I walked the length of the boards once.

Twice.

The Zamboni had already done its thing—fresh ice, smooth as glass. I liked it best like this. No skates yet. No noise. Just the chill and the sharp smell of resurfaced ice. My breath fogged in front of me as I gripped the edge of the boards, waiting for what? I didn't know.

Behind me, the door creaked.

"You planning to haunt this place, or just moving in early?"

Coop’s voice cut through the silence, a mix of amusement and genuine confusion. I turned to find him holding two to-go cups, steam curling into the cold air. His hoodie was half-zipped, like he’d dressed in the dark, and only one side of his hair looked brushed.

"Couldn’t sleep," I said.

He raised an eyebrow. "So you thought, hey, I’ll go skate ghost laps in the dark? You okay, man?"

I shrugged. "Trying to lose the tell."

Coop stepped beside me, elbows resting against the boards, handing me the coffee. I took it.

"You know, some of us do that by watching tape. Not lurking in an icebox like a lost ghost of Christmas past."

"I watched tape," I muttered. "A lot of it."

He nodded, then waited. Coop was annoyingly good at that—letting silence do the work.

"I don’t know what I’m doing anymore," I hesitated, then let out. "With Riley, with the team. With... everything. But I know how to train. So that’s what I’m doing."

"Huh." He sipped his coffee. "Well, that’s more honest than I expected. And less dramatic than your usual epiphanies. Proud of you."

I gave him a look. He grinned.

"No, really," he said. "Showing up early? Staying late? Who are you and what have you done with the guy who used to sleep through morning skate and blame the traffic?"

"He’s tired of screwing everything up."

Coop didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stretched his arms overhead, his hoodie riding up slightly with the motion.

"Alright, emo hour’s over. Let’s go see if you still shoot like someone who peaked in college."

The door banged again.

"Speak of the devil," Coop muttered. The goalie—Finn—stepped onto the ice, already in partial gear, nodding at us.

"Let’s get to work," I said, stepping onto the ice.

The blades bit into the surface with a sound I’d always loved. A sound that said you’re here now. Whatever else is going on, you can do this. This at least made sense.

Finn squared up. I slid into position, puck at my stick.

"Ready?"

He nodded.

I took the shot.

He blocked it. I reset.

Again. Again.

Each one cleaner. Tighter. No flick. No tell.

Just me.

Trying to be better.

Even if I didn’t know what better looked like yet.

“Hey, Colton!”

I turned at the sound of the head coach’s voice, sharp and clear across the ice. He was standing in the tunnel just past the benches.

“When you’re done, swing by my office.”

No explanation. Just seven clipped words.

Finn looked over at me, brow raised. “Wonder what that’s about.”

“I have no idea,” I said, even though my shoulders had already tensed.

I skated back past center ice, jaw tight, breath pulling in short through my nose. Fix the shot first. Spiral later.

I bent my knees deeper, resettled into the drill.

Stick to the drill. Keep your hands steady. Skate Fast.

“Again,” I told Finn, voice steady.

We worked for another fifteen minutes. Focused. Clean. Sharp.

I stepped off the ice and pulled at the Velcro on my gloves; that tight coil inside me started winding again.

Each step down the hall toward the coach’s office felt heavier than the last.

Was the hall always this long?

Whatever this was, it was about my future.

A future someone else might be deciding for me.

My hand clenched around the damp tape on my stick. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what came next.

The coach didn’t look up right away when I knocked on his open door—just gestured for me to come in while he finished typing something on his screen. I stood there, half expecting a reprimand, a transfer notice, or some quiet version of disappointment.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair and said, "I’ve been hearing good things, Colton."

I blinked. "Yeah?"

"You’ve been showing up early, staying late, putting in the work. It’s not just me noticing. Your teammates are talking. Coop mentioned it. Even the strength coach said you’ve been pushing harder than anyone else lately."

He paused, then added, "And I hear you've been working with the rookie. That’s leadership material. And I see Finn has been trying to train that tell out of you?" he smirked.

I didn’t know what to say. My jaw had been tight since the walk over, but it started to ease a little.

The coach leaned forward slightly, elbows on the desk. "I actually called your buddy Ryan the other day. Wanted to give him some credit for whatever progress you’ve been making."

That caught me off guard. Ryan hadn’t mentioned anything.

"He didn’t take it," the coach said, with a dry smile. "Said it wasn’t him. Said it was you. And Riley."

I froze at the mention of her name.

"Yeah, I asked him the same thing," the coach went on. "Why Riley? He told me he figured you didn’t need another guy barking drills at you. Said maybe you needed someone who didn’t care about hockey. Someone who could see past the attitude, the stats, the press."

My throat tightened. Wait, Ryan kept the babysitting requirement from management?

The coach let that hang for a beat. Then he added, "Look, Colton. I’ve worked with some of the best NHL coaches out there. None of them could get through to you the way that girl—or maybe those damn dogs—somehow did."

"She's definitely scarier than the dogs."

“Scarier than the dogs, huh?” He tipped his head back, breath coming out in short bursts like he was trying—and failing—to hold back a laugh.

"So here’s what I’m thinking," he continued. "I’m going to free up two hours a day for you to be at the rescue. Not just for you—it matters to the team. That place is battling some kind of legal mess, and I don’t pretend to understand all of it, but I know they need community support.

I want you to be our guy. Our representative. "

My chest tightened again—but this time, it wasn’t dread. It was something closer to disbelief.

He trusted me with that?

"I’ve already told the other coaches. They think I’m nuts, pulling you off the ice that much. It’s my neck on the line here, so I need to know you’re not just screwing around with it. You’re actually helping—with the dogs, with the people. You’ll report to Riley. And she’ll report to me."

I stood there for a second after he finished, not sure what to say. Two hours a day. Trust. Responsibility. Report to Riley? That part almost made me laugh—almost.

I didn’t know if this was a promotion or a setup. But either way, it felt like a chance. And those didn’t come around often.

On my way out, I passed the strength and conditioning coaches in the hallway near the training room. One of them, Nate, the one with the shaved head and eternal clipboard, looked up from his notes.

"Hey, Hayes. Heard you’ve been putting in some unconventional off-ice hours."

I stopped. "At the rescue? Yeah. Been helping out a bit."

He grinned. "So, you moving hay bales or what?"

I shrugged. "Mostly lifting bags of dog food and reaching for stuff on the top shelves. Apparently, being tall makes you everyone’s stepstool."

"You feeling it anywhere?"

"A little. Lower back sometimes, shoulders if I overdo it. Nothing major."

Nate tapped the edge of his clipboard. "I might swing by. Watch you work. Could help adjust your mechanics—make it part of your strength training."

I blinked. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. Functional training in a real-world setting. Plus, the team should probably show its face around there a little more, considering the support they need."

I nodded. "I’d appreciate that."

He hesitated, then added, "Also… we could maybe work in some prehab. Just a few minutes before and after your shifts. I know it’s not the sexy stuff, but it keeps guys on the ice."

Usually, I would’ve blown that off. Rolled my eyes and brushed past it.

But not today.

"Yeah, alright. Let’s try it."

His eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he clapped me on the shoulder and kept walking.

I stood there for a second longer, then headed toward the locker room.

Huh. Not the day I expected.

Maybe I’d slipped into an alternate reality where things weren’t so complicated.

***

The next morning, I was on the training room floor, holding a side plank while Nate timed out the last seconds of a pre-hab circuit.

The place smelled like disinfectant and sweat.

Nothing fancy—just a small corner of the training room with some bands, mats, and a muted flat-screen TV mounted above the doorway.

I wasn’t paying much attention to it. My eyes were on the wall clock, counting down the seconds in my head. Just get through the set, then—

Something moved across the screen. A slow scroll at the bottom.

FORMER NHL STAR NEEDS LOCAL DOG RESCUE’S APPROVAL TO STAY IN MINOR LEAGUE LINEUP