Page 100 of Uncoachable

“We don’t hope for the win tonight,” I finish, my voice rising just enough to hit the back walls. “We earn it. One shift at a time. Let’s go.”

The roar that goes up from the boys is enough to vibrate the lockers.

We head out into the tunnel, the sound of the crowd growing louder with every step until it’s a physical force.

The game is a bloodbath from the opening face-off.

The Wolves are playing a heavy, physical game, trying to punish us for every inch of ice. Within the first five minutes, I’ve taken a cross-check to the ribs that’s going to turn purple by the second period, and Leo has already been sent into the boards by a hit that sounded like a car crash.

I’m on the bench, chest heaving, watching the play.

Iveline is standing right behind me. I can feel her presence like a heat lamp. She’s leaning over the rail, shouting instructions to the defensemen.

“Gap control, Marcus! Don’t let him turn the corner!” she yells.

She isn’t panicked.

Even when the Wolves score the first goal on a lucky bounce off a defenseman’s skate, she doesn’t flinch. She just checks her clipboard, whispers something to Rick, and then taps me on the shoulder.

“Callahan,” she says, her voice cool and clinical against the roar of twenty thousand screaming fans. “Their left side is cheating on the pinch. If you win the draw, look for the chip and chase. Nico has the speed to beat their veteran pair.”

“Got it,” I say, pulling my helmet on.

I head out for the next shift.

I see their defenseman cheating up just like she said. I chip the puck past him, a soft touch off the boards, and Nico is already gone. He’s a blur of purple and black, flying down the wing.

He gathers the puck, fakes a shot, and slides it cross-crease to Leo, who buries it.

1-1.

I skate past the bench, and I catch Ivy’s eye. She doesn’t celebrate. She just points at her head—stay smart—and then turns back to the defense.

The game grinds on.

It’s 2-2 by the middle of the third period.

The ice is getting chewed up, the players are exhausted, and every hit feels like it’s being delivered in slow motion.

This is the part of the playoffs that the cameras don’t capture—the sheer, agonizing fatigue of trying to play perfect hockey when your lungs are on fire and your feet feel like they’re made of concrete.

With four minutes left, I’m back on the ice.

The pressure is suffocating. Philly is throwing everything they have at us, pinned in our zone. I block a shot with the side of my calf—God, that’s going to sting—and manage to clear the zone.

I’m skating toward the bench for a change when I see it. Carter Hale has the puck behind our net, but he’s trapped. Two Wolves players are closing in on him.

He looks tired. He looks like he’s about to make a desperate play.

“Carter! Reverse!” I scream, abandoning my change and skating back toward him.

He hears me. He reverses the puck, sending it behind the net to the other side where I’m waiting. I pick it up, avoid a lunging check, and find Marcus in the neutral zone.

We transition. Fast. Just like the drills we’ve been doing for weeks.

I’m trailing the play, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Marcus drops it to another defenseman, who blasts a shot from the point. Their goalie makes the save, but the rebound is sitting right there in the crease.