“No problem, Coach. I brought cookies,” I blurt, thrusting the box toward him like I’m passing a live grenade. “It’s a weird mix, because I couldn’t decide between chocolate chip and those maple ones, and then they had these pistachio things that looked like alien eyeballs, so I just got some of everything.”
Powers takes the box with a raised eyebrow. “Thanks. Sounds fun. Come on in.”
I follow him through a foyer with ceilings high enough for a giraffe, past framed jerseys and photos that probably tell the story of his career, but I’m too nervous to really look. The house smells amazing—garlic, herbs, something roasting.
“Good drive up?” he asks, leading me into a kitchen that’s roughly the size of my entire house.
“Yeah, fine. My Jeep doesn’t love hills, though. It’s more of a flat-road enthusiast.” Shut up, Beck. “I mean, yes. Good drive.”
Powers laughs, which seems like a positive sign. “Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to a stool at the massive kitchen island. “Beer? Water?”
“Water’s great, thanks.” Last thing I need is to get buzzed and point out that hockey sticks are basically just permission for hockey players to carry weapons in public as long as they’re wearing matching outfits.
He slides a glass of water my way, then returns to chopping vegetables. There’s already something simmering on the stove that looks like sauce, and a pan of what might be lasagna cooling on a rack.
“So, Beck,” he says casually, “first, I want to say congratulations on those back-to-back wins. Sixty-six saves on sixty-seven shots is impressive at any level.”
My stomach flips. “Thanks, Coach.”
“You know why I wanted to meet with you?” He doesn’t look up from his chopping.
“To tell me to stay out of the beer league?” I venture.
He chuckles. “Well, there’s that. Though, I’m more impressed than angry that you shut down the Plague. Those guys have a reputation.”
I relax slightly. “They weren’t nice people.”
“Nope.” Powers stops chopping to look at me. “They’re notorious assholes. And helping out the Stickhandlers was a standup thing to do. It shows character. Not that I want you to do it again.”
“Okay,” I say, genuinely surprised. “Got it.”
Powers moves to the stove and starts stirring something. “But that’s not why you’re here. You’re here because I saw something in your game recently that I didn’t see earlier in the season.”
I blink. “You review Ice Cats games?”
“When I can. You guys are our farm team. Part of my job is tracking who might be ready to move up.” He gives me a pointed look.
My heart rate kicks up. “Even the backup goalie?”
“Especially goalies.” He turns and leans against the counter. “Look, I’m going to be straight with you. Your numbers at the start of the season were concerning. Your confidence seemed shot. But something changed.”
I swallow hard, thinking about a certain bearded bartender who scrambled my brain right around the time my game improved. “I, um, found my footing.”
“Good. Because the Beck James I scouted in college was fearless. He played his own style, didn’t care what anyone thought. That’s the goalie the organization wants to develop.”
I’m temporarily speechless, which might be a first in my life.
“Two things changed last week,” Powers says as he plates up some kind of amazing pasta dish with grilled chicken. “First, your technical game improved. Your angles, your rebound control—it all tightened up.” He slides the plate in front of me. “But more importantly, you started playing like you were having fun again.”
I stare at him, stunned.
“Hockey’s a job, sure,” he continues, serving himself. “But the best players, they never lose that joy. That’s what I saw in your last few games—a guy who remembered why he loves stopping pucks.”
My throat tightens, because he’s right. Something did change. And it wasn’t just Forest, though he definitely had a part in it. It was remembering what it felt like to stop pucks for a team that appreciated it. To feel like I belonged somewhere.
“Now,” Powers says, sitting across from me at the counter. “Eat up and tell me what you think about Desjardins’ high glove side. I’ve been trying to get him to fix that release all season.”
“The thing about Desjardins,” I say, relaxing even more, “is that he telegraphs that shot by opening his shoulders too early. It’s like he’s wearing a billboard that says, I’m Going Glove Side, in neon letters.”
