Page 49 of Coach's Temptation

The Nest is packed—fans standing shoulder to shoulder, jerseys tight over winter layers, green and gray scarves held high.

A single spotlight illuminates center ice, where a lone singer grips the microphone.

"Oh, say can you see…"

My hand finds its way over my heart as the National Anthem blares around the arena.

I scan the rafters, taking in each banner. Names and numbers immortalized in green and gray. Not a single empty seat. Twenty years I've chased this dream, first on the ice, then behind the bench.

Now we're here. My team, my shot.

Natalie stands in the tunnel, arms crossed over her chest. Even from here, I can see the stress in her shoulders, the way she's biting her lower lip.

Our eyes meet across the distance. The air changes, everything else fading away for a split second. Her lips part, and I know that look. She wants to say something, probably something that'll shake my focus right when I need it most.

Or maybe she'd wish me good luck.

After last night, I'm not sure what the hell is going on.

My knee throbs like hell tonight. Like it knows who’s on the other side of the ice. Like it remembers what they did to me.

I press a little more weight onto my good leg, shifting so no one sees.

I won’t give them that.

Won’t let them see what still lingers after all these years.

The final note of the anthem soars. The crowd explodes to life, drowning out whatever might have happened between us as I laid her down in that bed.

The moment is gone. The puck is about to drop. The battle is about to begin.

I turn, game face locked in.

The puck drops.

The roar around the arena hits me hard. Years of coaching, and I've never heard anything like this. The sound reverberates through my chest, rattles my bones, drowns out everything but the clash of bodies and steel on ice.

Blake wins the face-off clean, but Vancouver's defense pounces. Their forwards are everywhere, like sharks circling prey. The speed of their forecheck catches us off guard.

"Move your feet!" I bark as Connor scrambles to cover his post. The puck ricochets off the boards, a blur of black rubber and flashing blades.

My fingers curl around the barrier, knuckles white. These aren't the same Canucks from twenty years ago, but watching their jerseys swarm my zone sets my teeth on edge.

Ryder takes a hit to make a play, buying time for Logan to clear the zone. The crowd surges with each collision, every near-miss making them lean forward in their seats.

"Reset! Reset!" I call out line changes, tracking Vancouver's patterns.

They're faster than our game tape showed, their transitions smooth as silk. They're here to play. My mind's already racing through adjustments – shorter shifts, tighter gaps in the neutral zone.

Blake battles for position, muscles straining as he pins their center against the boards. The puck squirts free to Connor, who sends it up the wing with a flash of his stick.

My system is solid. We've drilled these plays until they could do them in their sleep. But Vancouver keeps coming in waves, testing every seam, every connection.

The game clock ticks down. Five minutes gone, and we're already in the fight of our lives.

In a flash, Vancouver are on the offense. Three dead-eye passes and they've got a wrist shot right on target.

But Connor explodes across the crease, his glove flashing up like lightning. The puck disappears into leather, and the arena erupts.

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