Page 37 of Hockey Nanny

“I see them!” Henry pointed to the ice, singling out Dawson, Boone, and Gage as they circled through warm-ups.

I locked my phone and slid it into my pocket before my face could do something unhelpful. Somewhere in the mess of it all, I tried to find the excitement he wanted to share but it was no use. He grinned wide as the guys lined up, and I forced a smile. I was going to have to bullshit my way through this. For the kid’s sake.

The noise crested around us, and something inside me gave way. Not all at once. Just enough to let the day seep in. The flight. The uncertainty of my position in this job. Dawson’s distance. Boone, like a live wire under my skin.

And now this.

My one steady thing pushed back to some undetermined date on the calendar.

The lights dimmed further, with a spotlight tracking the guys. The home crowd surged to its feet again, sound punching straight through me.

Henry cheered, full volume, joy uncomplicated.

I stayed seated for a beat longer, phone heavy in my pocket, smile fixed in place, telling myself I could hold it together. At least until the noise drowned out everything else.

The opening faceoff snapped the arena into motion without ceremony. Sticks clacked, and skates bit the ice. Bodies surged at once, like the place itself had sent them flying.

Dallas Stars came out heavy. Nothing flashy, but determined to make their mark. They closed space fast, swarmed whoever had the puck, and drove the Knights back into their own end within seconds. One of their defenders shoved into Boone along the boards hard enough that the impact echoed up to our seats. Boone popped back upright, jaw set, and chased the play without looking back.

Henry gasped beside me. “Did you see that?”

“He’s fine,” I said, more to myself than him. He wasn’t the one worried about how that was going to bruise later.

The Knights scrambled. A pass meant for Boone skipped past his stick and slid straight to a Stars winger, who turned it up ice. Dawson cut across, late by a stride. He reached anyway. And somehow missed. Dallas kept it and forced the Knights to retreat again. The crowd grumbled. I muttered curses under my breath.

It wasn’t a disaster yet, but it felt off. Like watching two gears spin without quite catching.

Halfway through the first period, Gage crashed in to fix it.

He barreled through center ice and slammed a Stars player off the puck, sending both of them sprawling. The puck squirted loose. A Knight scooped it up and dumped it deep to buy the team a much-needed breath. Gage got back to his skates and stayed there, muscling his way into the corner again before the Stars could reset.

Henry bounced in his seat. “Is that Gage? He’ll show ‘em.”

“Mm,” I replied. “He sure will.”

The next shift told the same story. Dallas clogged the middle. Boone cut wide, calling for the puck with a tap of his stick. Dawson held it a beat longer than usual, then sent it back to defense. Boone slowed, checked back, frustration flashing across his face even from this distance. Dallas intercepted. Another turnover. Another rush the wrong way.

I pressed my lips together.

They never played like this. Boone and Dawson usually moved like magnets, pulling the play into shape around them. Tonight they kept missing each other by inches. A half-step too far. A pass released too late. Nothing obvious. Nothing you could point to and say that’s it. But all the missed chances stacked up. Each small thing nudged the game closer to the edge of coming apart at the seams.

Dallas tested the goalie early. A shot from the point, and another from the slot. Pads kicked out. The crowd rose and fell with every save, tension winding tighter.

Gage threw himself into the mess again. He won a draw clean, tied up two Stars at once along the boards, and freed the puck with his skates. Boone jumped on it and flew down the wing, finally with space. He cut toward the net. Dawson streaked alongside him.

This was it. I leaned forward, only vaguely aware that Henry had clambered up to stand on his seat again.

Boone tried to slip the puck across, but Dawson wasn’t there. He’d peeled off a fraction early, angling for a rebound that never came. The pass skittered behind him to the soundtrack of miserable groans from the crowd. Dallas grabbed it and turned the play on its head.

A Stars forward split the defense and ripped a shot that rang off the post. The sound shot through the arena. The goalie covered the rebound. Whistles. Boos. Boone slammed his stick once against the ice and skated past Dawson without looking at him.

My stomach twisted. This was my fault. It had to be. Whatever line Boone and Dawson usually walked together, I’d knocked them off it. I could see it now, written in the space they kept missing.

Henry tugged my sleeve. “Why do they keep losing it?”

“They’ll figure it out,” I said, even though my own doubts crept in.

The rest of the first period was much the same grind. Dallas pressing. The Knights absorbed hits and gave them back where they could. Gage stayed glued to the action, crashing into corners, tying up sticks, dragging the game back from the brink again and again. He took a hit that sent him into the boards shoulder-first, bounced off, and went right back into the fray. The crowd fed off of it, breaking off into a chant to lift the guys’ spirits. He nodded once in the direction of the bench, reading a signal from their coach, then lined up for the next draw.