Page 41 of Player Misconduct
No one talks. Sticks thud into bags. Helmets clatter against metal. Someone’s crying in the showers, maybe a rookie who can’t handle the sting of his first playoff loss.
Coach moves through the room, one hand heavy on each shoulder he passes. “Hell of a season, boys. We’ll rebuild over the season break. We’ll come back stronger and ready for a win.”
When he stops beside me, his voice drops. “Good work, Mäkelin. You’ve got the heart of a veteran. Just make sure next year, you keep it on the ice.”
“Yes, Coach.”
He squeezes once and walks off.
I sit there for a while, staring at my hands, my ‘wedding ring’ still on my finger.
This isn’t how I wanted to end the season. Not the game. Not her. Not any of it.
When I finally drag myself out to the hallway, the noise from the press pool echoes from the far tunnel. And there she is, standing just outside the door, clipboard in hand, exhaustion softening her face.
She looks up when I stop beside her.
“Rough night,” I say.
She nods. “You played hard. You should be proud.”
“Doesn’t feel like enough.”
“It rarely does,” she says quietly.
For a moment, we just stand there, shoulder to shoulder, both staring at the floor like it might give us answers.
“Are you heading home?” she asks finally.
“Yeah. Helsinki. I promised my nephew I’d help coach his team this summer. Haven’t seen him in two years.”
“That’ll be good for you,” she says softly. “You deserve a break.”
Ask me to stay. I want to blurt out.
Tell me not to go.
But she doesn’t, and I know that my nephew is waiting for me.
“What about you?” I ask. “You seeing family?”
Her mouth tightens slightly. “No. Just work. The guys are staying here for rehab and off-season training.”
“Sounds like you. Dedicated to the cause.”
She actually smiles, small and rueful. “Someone has to keep you all alive.”
“Guess that’s your specialty.”
We stand there another beat. There’s so much I want to say, and no good way to say any of it.
Behind us, the new PR rep, Chelsea—finally someone who could survive the media storm after Tessa Powers left for Aspen with her husband, Lake—gives me the nod. The press is waiting. Always waiting.
“Guess this is it, huh?”
“Guess so.”
Her eyes flick up to mine, and for one suspended second, we’re right back where we started. Back in that motel two nights ago, in the dark, with nothing between us but skin and breath, wrapped up in sheets with the dangerous illusion that the world outside didn’t exist.
