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.
