Page 49 of The Parent Playbook
I clench the railing, the 1-1 tie in the second period making my bones itch.
The cold bites into my hands, the noise of the crowd a distant roar. We need to switch up our strategy, find a weak spot in their armor, but right now, all I can think about is how every pass, every shot, needs to count more than it ever has.
We’re in this game, sure, but we’ve got to bring something more if we’re going to pull out a win.
I’m proud of how our boys are holding up, considering how we are a new team. But these guys are among the league’s best and something gnaws at me—a twist in my stomach that tells me we’re constantly a half-step behind. The Jacks are extra slick, coordinated, their plays unfolding with a precision that our guys haven’t quite matched yet. Every time we slip or miss a beat, I can feel the game slipping, the control edging away.
I’m on the edge, shifting from one foot to the other as I keep my eyes locked on the ice, glancing occasionally at the glowing digits of the scoreboard that are not in our favor. We need more grit, more speed.
“C’mon, boys, push!” I call, but it’s barely audible above the roar of the crowd.
The game intensifies as the second period nears its end. Our defense is tight, but there’s a gap, and I see it a split second before it happens—a quick pass from the Jacks’ winger slides through our line like a sharp knife. “Watch the wing!” I shout, too late, as their center catches the pass on the fly, a textbook give-and-go that has our goalie scrambling.
The shot comes—a blistering slapshot that sails past our goalie’s glove side. The red light flashes, the siren wails, and a wave of cheers erupts from the visiting section. It’s a gut punch, seeing that puck hit the back of our net. The Jacks’ fans are on their feet, cheering wildly, and the sound feels like a physical blow.
We’re better than this, I know it. My gaze sweeps over my team, their shoulders slumping slightly as they regroup.
“Heads up!” I call out, clapping my hands to get their attention. “We’re not done yet. Let’s turn this around, tie it up again!”
We need to recalibrate, tighten our defense, and be more aggressive on the attack. As they assemble for the face-off, I’m already plotting the adjustments for the next break. Every second counts now, and we need to make them all matter.
It’s not solely about the game anymore. Forget anything about a comeback. I want this win—not for the glory, not for the record, but for what it represents for Angel, for the ranch, for every kid who might get a chance because we played our hearts out tonight.
But it’s not going to happen.
Final score, 2–1. For the Lumberjacks.
Doug throws his clipboard and my eyes scan up to see Zach Hart, arms crossed, and a very unhappy look on his face.
After last night’s poor performance, I know I have to get these forwards in shape.
I’m pacing back and forth, my skates carving shallow grooves into the ice beneath me. My voice echoes off the rink walls as I try to direct the forwards, but frustration builds inside me. They’re not syncing up, passes are sloppy, and our setups are falling apart before they even begin. It’s not like me to get riled up, but today, my patience is thinning fast.
I can’t stand it anymore.
I blow the whistle, sharp and commanding, halting the drill midway. The players look toward me, some bewildered, others frustrated.
“Line up,” I call out, my tone leaving no room for argument. “Play on, but watch closely.”
I push off into a smooth glide, skates slicing through the ice with a satisfying hiss. The cold air whips past me as I pick up speed, weaving between makeshift defenders. I’m not just showing them a drill—my soul is in this. Stick handling with precise, sharp movements that I haven’t used in years. I dodge a defenseman, pull the puck back, and send a no-look pass to the waiting forward at the goal mouth.
The puck hits the tape, and the shot rings off the post and in—a perfect execution.
I come to a stop, my breath visible in the chilly air, heart pounding from the exertion, the thrill, and the frustration under it. I turn to face the team, expecting to jump right into feedback from them.
Silence hangs heavy for a moment, then, out of nowhere, applause breaks out.
It starts with one, then two, and suddenly the whole team is clapping. I’m taken aback, cheeks hot, not from the skating. I hadn’t expected that. Maybe they’re just surprised to see the old man still has it.
I manage a sheepish grin, brushing off the shaved ice from my jersey.
“See?” I say, catching my breath. “Anticipation and positioning. If I can still do it, then there’s no reason you guys can’t make it happen every time.”
My voice is steady now, the earlier frustration washed away by a wave of adrenaline and a touch of pride.
“Let’s reset and do it again,” I instruct, the applause dying down as they swiftly line up. “This time, think about your spacing and timing. Let’s nail it.”
I try to act cool as I move to the sidelines, and that’s when I see Lily in the stands.
