Coach summoned me to his office. Not asked. Not requested. Summoned, like I was twelve years old, and he caught me putting gum in someone's hair. The locker room banter faded behind me as I walked the green mile—Hog's booming laugh cut off mid-sentence when he saw where I was headed, and even Pickle stopped scrolling through TikTok long enough to shoot me a sympathetic look.
Half of me expected to walk away, pink slip in hand. The other half was already rehearsing something cocky to say about how Thunder Bay would miss my sparkling personality and ability to inject crowd appeal into the warm-up skate.
The door was open, but Coach didn't have me sit immediately. He leaned back in his ancient desk chair, working his gum like a cow with cud, giving me a brutal stare that coaches perfected in some secret academy where they learned to see straight through your bullshit.
"Riley." He finally gestured to the chair across from his desk. "Sit."
I sat.
He kept chewing and kept staring. He was quiet for long enough that I began mentally composing my resignation speech.
"You've still got ice time, but don't waste it performing."
I tilted my head to the side. His comment wasn't what I expected. Not even close.
"Performing?"
"You know what I mean." He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "All that dancing around and trying to turn every shift into a highlight reel. Playing for the cameras that aren't there."
I opened my mouth to joke—probably something about how cameras loved me, had he seen my follower count?—but the joke died in my throat. He was right. Fuck, he was so right it hurt.
"I know you think you need to prove something. Show everyone you're more than the memes." He sat up straight again. "Here's the thing—you already have. To the people who matter."
Suddenly, the room was a little warmer.
"Coach—"
"I'm not done." He held up one hand. "You want to know what I see when you're out there? When you're not trying to be someone else?"
I waited.
"I see a player who reads the ice like a book. Who makes his teammates better by being on their line. Who gives a shit about winning, not just looking good while you lose." He paused and chewed his gum more. "That's the guy I want on my team. Not the guy trying to rehabilitate his image."
He had just cracked me open, like an egg waiting to hatch.
"I want to stay." The words rushed out of my mouth. "Not to rehab my image. Not for the headlines. Because this..." I gestured vaguely at the office, the photos, the whole beautiful mess of it. "This feels like something real."
Rusk nodded once, sharp and decisive. "Then play like it."
He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out something small and black—a practice puck, battered and scarred from countless drills.
"Here." He tossed it across the desk. "Reminder. This isn't about being perfect. It's about showing up."
I turned the puck over in my hands, feeling the nicks and scratches under my thumb. It was ugly and honest and what I needed.
"Thanks, Coach."
"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when you've earned it."
I stood, pocketing the puck like it was solid gold. At the door, I paused.
"Coach?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks anyway."
"Get out of here, Riley. And don't make me regret this."
