Page 106 of Pucking One Night Stand
He opens a sleek black case. Inside, glinting under the spotlight: a golden-plated replica of Coach’s first championship ring.
“And this,” he gestures to a staffer, who steps forward with a framed jersey. Black, silver & red with bold white letters: McCallum 22.
The applause explodes, and Dad takes the mic. Then blinks. “I didn’t think I’d cry tonight,” he starts, which already sounds like a lie. “But then again, I didn’t think I’d still be standing after coaching some of these guys through puberty, either.”
Laughter erupts, loud and sharp.
“I’ve been lucky. To work with players who never stopped fighting. Staff who showed up, every damn day. And to see this city become home, not just to me, but to something much bigger than me. We built something here. Together.”
He stops and breathes in through his nose. “Now I get to go fishing with Brody. Maybe.”
The place erupts. Standing ovation. Flashes from cameras slice through the darkened room. I look over and Blake is clapping hard, saying something to the other coaches that I can’t hear, but I see Dad sit down, a little stunned, as people come up to pat him on the back, say things like “hell of a run” and “no one’ll fill your shoes.”
I slide out of my seat and make a beeline across the floor, ducking around waiters and brushing past a media crew trying to film someone mid-toast. Chloe’s face is a jelly crime scene. I wipe it clean in two swipes.
“Mommy, I had two bowls of ice cream,” she tells me, thrilled.
“Yeah, I can see that, Picasso.”
I straighten up and look across the room. Dad's trying to keep up with four conversations at once and losing all of them. I glance, instinctively, at Blake. He sees me looking.
Dad rises as I get close, and I wrap my arms around him. Tight. No words. Just that feeling. That massive, hollow warmth that only comes when you know something is over, and it mattered.
Then—
Randall Vaught steps back up. He raises one hand. Not a showy gesture. Just enough. The room quiets like someone threw a blanket over the crowd.
“There’s one more thing,” he says, steady. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight is, of course, about honoring the legacy of one of the greatest coaches the NHL has ever known.” He pauses. “But with every transition, there comes the question: What comes next? Who will carry this torch forward?”
A ripple moves through the guests like someone shifted the gravity in the room.
“I won’t drag this out. After long discussions with our board, extensive deliberation, and careful thought about the future ofthis team, we’ve reached a decision. The next head coach of the Las Vegas Aces will be…”
A silence swallows us whole.
“Brody Mason.”
A whole second. Nothing.
Then—
Heads whip around. All eyes land on Brody, who’s mid-sip of something probably alcoholic and extremely earned.
Bishy cackles. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” and smacks Brody’s shoulder.
McAvoy laughs so hard he nearly tips his chair. Reporters leap to their feet. Phones are up and cameras zoom.
Brody just stands there, his mouth parted in disbelief. Then he lifts both hands in a what the hell just happened shrug and starts laughing, loudly, the kind of laugh that says I absolutely did not expect this today.
Randall grins. “I’d say you might want to make your way up here, Coach Mason.”
The whole room jolts awake. Electric.
Brody steps up, adjusting his jacket like he’s not sure it still fits. “Well,” he glances over at Dad. “Guess we should cancel that fishing trip then.”
Laughter reverberates around the room again.
“In all seriousness. I learned from the best. I’m standing here because McCullum believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. He made me better. He made all of us better. I’ll do my best to keep this team worthy of everything he built. And I promise not to break too much along the way, following in his footsteps, which, believe me, won't be easy.”
