It was a bell-ringer. Absolutely beautiful.
And if we had any fans, they would have gone wild for a play like that.
At least the celebration was good.
Oh, fuck. Thecelebration.
He skates to the glass right in front of one of the only sections with some seated fans, pointing directly at a blonde in a Bears jersey. He throws his hockey stick over his shoulder, turning it into a fishing rod and mimes reeling her in.
The camera zooms in and shows the pretty girl laughing as she leans over the barrier. Beck meets her halfway and a full, verytongue-involvedkiss that lasts at least three seconds too long for league standards, plays out for the entire country to witness on live TV.
On the laptop screen, Beck pulls back, winks directly into the camera, and skates away blowing kisses.
“Damn. I look good in high-def.” In the office, the real Beck lets out a low whistle.
“You took a penalty for unsportsmanlike conduct thirty seconds later!” Colin screeches. “They scored on the power play!"
"We lost all momentum," Coach Pearson adds.
“Worth it?” Beck hesitates, still admiring his own handiwork. “She was hot.”
Mason clears his throat, his voice dry as desert sand. “She also knew the way back to the mansion, apparently. The walls are thin, Beck. Some of us try to sleep.”
Beck flashes him a middle finger, still grinning.
Colin looks like he might actually combust. “This is exactly what I’m talking about! You’re acting like this is some extended beach vacation with a side of hockey!”
Ah. There it is.
Beck snorts. “I mean, the beach part is a pretty sweet perk. You gotta admit.”
I don’t admit it out loud, but fuck yeah, it is.
That was the whole point. Beck sold me on this gig with three things: the beachside mansion we get to live in for pennies, the year-round sunshine, and the fact that we'd be the face of a brand-new franchise in a beach town wouldn’t have the same pressure-cooker expectations as an original six team.
It was supposed to be easy. Show up, play hard, go home to a palace overlooking the Pacific.
No media scrums dissecting every shift. No legacy breathing down our necks.
Just… coasting through life in a way we never did as kids.
But then we started losing. A lot.
And now Holden is sweating through his shirt, and the 'beach vacation’ is looking more like a sinking ship.
Coach Pearson’s quiet, gravelly voice cuts through the room. “The league has had enough.”
We all turn to him.
“They didn’t invest in Beachside for a novelty act,” he continues, his eyes moving from Beck to me. “They invested for a professional hockey team. The attendance numbers are soft. The buzz is the wrong kind. And if we don’t make a significant improvement this season, if we don’t at least show progress toward playoff contention…”
He lets the sentence hang, but we all know what he’s not saying.
We're not fucking stupid.
The NHL doesn’t keep failing franchises around for the scenery. If the Beachside Bears don’t start winning, they fold. Poof. Gone. Our easy ride vanishes, along with the mansion, the beach, and the first thing in my life that felt like a reward for all the years of being the responsible one.
For the first time, I feel a slight pull in my gut. Not panic. Just…irritation.
