“That’s what Boone said,” I observe.
“Boone’s a wise man.” Holden shrugs. “We’ve all been watching you two orbit each other since high school. It was getting painful.”
“Painful is an understatement,” Shep adds. “The longing looks. The almost-touches. The way you’d stare at her across the room and then pretend you weren’t staring. Academy Award-worthy denial.”
“I wasn’t that obvious.” I think about the junior prom photo behind Mom’s bar. Years of obvious, apparently.
Could’ve saved us both a lot of time.
“You were that obvious.” This from Heath, who I didn’t even realize was paying attention. “We had a pool going about when you’d finally figure it out.”
“A pool.”
“Shep started it. I had money on next month.” Holden shrugs. “So thanks for costing me twenty bucks.”
The chirping continues—good-natured, relentless, exactly what I should have expected from a locker room full of hockey players who’ve been waiting years to give me grief about this. But it doesn’t feel like an attack. It feels like... acceptance. Like they’re welcoming me into the space I’ve been standing outside of for too long.
“Alright.” I raise my voice just enough to cut through the noise. “Practice in ten. Let’s see if you can play as well as you gossip.”
“Doubtful,” Shep says cheerfully. “But we’ll try.”
Practice is different.
I notice it immediately—the shift in energy, the way the guys respond to my calls without the usual hesitation. They’re looser. More present. Moving together instead of bracing for impact.
For the first time in months, it feels like we’re actually a team.
“Power play sequence,” I call. “From the top.”
They line up. The drill begins.
It’s clean. Not perfect—we’re still the Slammers, still a team that’s been struggling all season—but clean in a way we haven’t managed in weeks. Passes connect. Positioning holds. Communication flows instead of stutters.
“Again.”
We run it again. Still clean. Better, even.
“What’s happening?” Shep asks during a water break, wiping sweat from his face. “Did someone replace our team with professionals?”
“You’re playing together,” I say. “Instead of playing scared.”
“Playing scared?” He says it like the concept is foreign. Like we haven’t been playing scared for three months while I was drowning and pretending to swim.
“Every practice this season, you’ve been bracing for me to lose my shit. Waiting for the moment I’d start screaming about discipline and control.” I meet his eyes. “You’re not bracing anymore.”
The observation lands. I can see him processing it—the realization that my constant tension has been affecting the team more than any of us admitted.
“So what changed?” he asks quietly.
“I did.”
Simple. Honest. The kind of answer I would have been incapable of giving a month ago.
Shep nods slowly. “The Gisele effect.”
“Partly,” I say. “But also the fact that we’re four wins from the playoffs and I’d like to get there.”
Shep’s grin sharpens. “We’re getting there, Cap. I can feel it.”
