Page 2 of Hearts on Ice
His gaze moved across the room, steady and assessing. A couple rookies straightened in their stalls. Jester stopped tapping his blade against his skate.
“We finished last season without two important people,” Coach continued. “Ryan Bennett and Alexander Harrison worked their way up to the naff. They earned it. We’re proud of them. For us, it means there’s space to fill—on the wings, and in leadership.”
A pause. Not long, but long enough for the words to land.
“As of today, we don’t have a captain.” He didn’t dramatize it; he just told the truth.
“We’ll rotate alternates during the preseason. The letter on your chest is an outcome, not a starting point. Show me how you lead—on the ice, and in this room. We’ll make the decision when the team makes it clear.”
A low ripple of acknowledgment passed through the room—veterans giving short nods, a few murmuredyes, Coachunder their breath. The rookies went still, the weight of his words settling over them. Nobody spoke, but everyone straightened a little, like they’d just been handed something worth earning.
That was the thing about Mack. He didn’t need volume or bravado. He spoke like a man who expected to be heard—and somehow, you wanted to listen. He wasn’t the kind of coach who barked orders just to fill silence; when he talked, it was to make you better.
Ryan had been our voice in the room last season. With him gone, it was quieter, more uncertain. But as Mack looked around the benches, meeting each player’s eye for a beat longer than necessary, something steadied.
He’d only been behind our bench for five full seasons, but the respect was already there. Not because he demanded it—because he’d earned it.
Coach uncapped a marker and drew a few clean lines on the whiteboard—nothing complicated, just the bones of how we’d start: breakout lanes, responsibilities on the half wall, reminders to support the puck so no one got stranded. No jargon. He explained each spot as he mapped it.
“If you’re pinned along the boards,” he said, “your first job is to protect the puck. Get your body between the pressure and therubber. Then make a simple play—up to the point, or off the glass and out. It won’t get you a highlight, but it wins shifts.”
His eyes found Devin for one beat. Not a call-out. A signal. Devin dipped his head.
He moved on. “Defenders—keep your sticks low so our goalie can see. Screens are part of the job, but if Rodriguez can see the puck, he’ll stop it.”
He finally looked my way. “Rodriguez.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“I’ll lean on you during camp. Help the young guys read where the shots are coming from. Keep the talk going out there so everyone knows what you see.”
“I’ve got it.”
That was our whole exchange. It still warmed something in my chest—the trust of a man who’d stood in these rooms for the last five years.
Coach capped the marker. “We’ll keep things simple today. Short sets, good habits. If you’re new, speak up if you need to look at a drill twice. If you’re returning, take care of each other. We get better faster when we do it together.” He gave the room one final glance, not to intimidate anyone, but to tell us he was paying attention.
“Questions?”
“Will Jester be banned from jokes until the second week?” Tank asked, deadpan.
Laughter rippled through the stalls. Jester threw an arm around Tank’s shoulders like he’d been waiting for the cue. “I’m an essential service.”
Coach almost smiled. “Keep it within reason.” Then he nodded to the hallway. “Ten minutes to gear up. Equipment staff is outside if you need new edges or adjustments. Let’s go to work.”
That was how it always went. He could loosen the room without losing it. The best coaches had that gift—the line between approachable and in charge drawn so neatly you never had to guess which side you were on.
The hum returned—voices low, gear buckles snapping, the soft pull of tape over socks. Beau unpacked his bag with the tidy movements of someone who’d done a lot of miles in this league; he checked each piece twice, then sat with his elbows on his knees for a moment, just breathing the room in. He didn’t try to take up space he hadn’t earned yet. It told me more about him than any speech would have.
Devin kept his eyes mostly on his hands. When the tape finally lay flat across his blade, he exhaled like he’d just finished a sprint. Jester wandered by and tapped the top of Devin’s stick with his own. “Good line. That thing’ll last you longer than your first shift.” The joke softened the edges. Devin managed a real smile this time.
I glanced back to those old stalls—Ryan’s and Xander’s—and pictured them in new colors now, under brighter lights in different cities. They’d both made it, chasing their dreams all the way to the big leagues. Good men. Good players. They’d found something rare—on the ice and off—and held onto it.
The ache that pressed behind my ribs wasn’t jealousy. It was time, ticking a little louder every year.
I ran my glove over the two black rings of tape I’d just set on my blade. Small things kept me centered. When I stood, my knees creaked the way they do after too many butterfly drops and busrides, and I told myself the sound meant I’d worked hard, not that I’d gotten old.
At the bench gate I always made space for one quiet moment before the noise swallowed us. I pressed my glove to my chest twice and breathed the words I’d said since I was a kid, when my mother kissed my forehead through the cage before peewee games.
