Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
“Hell of a barn,” he says, craning his neck to take it all in. “Makes you want to behave. You feeling good?”
I tug my mask from its hook and turn it slowly in my hands, the weight familiar. I worked with an artist on this one. Someone who understood that a goalie’s mask isn’t decoration but rather armor with a story.
The base is matte black, but it isn’t flat. Under the arena lights, faint texture emerges—like rippling steel beneath water. Along the sides, deep forest green fractures into shades of blue-black, the color shift subtle unless you know to look for it. Etched through the design are thin, precise lines that resemble pressure gauges and dive cables, disappearing and reappearing like they’re submerged.
Across the crown, barely visible unless you’re standing over me, is a latitude-and-longitude grid warped slightly out of alignment. The coordinates are real. I had them pulled from one of Birdie’s dive logs. All the artwork on my mask is a tribute to the bravest person I know.
I run my thumb along the edge, feeling the slight ridge where paint meets carbon fiber, and for a moment, I think about my sister breathing recycled air in a steel tube, waiting days to come back to the surface.
I set the mask down and finish getting dressed.
“I’m feeling great,” I reply, taking stock of my emotional temperature. I’m in the zone.
“I’ve played a lot of games.” Arch’s expression is thoughtful as he looks up toward the ceiling, listening to the crowd through layers of concrete and steel. “I have never felt anything like this before puck drop.”
Remy Dunn grins from his stall next to Arch, one skate already on, the other dangling as he tightens the laces. “Wait until the lights hit,” he says. “I heard they programmed the intro like a damn concert.”
Arch snorts. “Figures. Rowe doesn’t do subtle.”
I finish fastening my chest protector, the familiar weight providing comfort. My eyes drift across the room to where Juno stands at the far wall, watching as Evan films. He walks the perimeter of the room, trying to remain unobtrusive, and admittedly… I think everyone’s gotten used to them.
Before camp started, the entire team was reminded that the locker room allowed mixed-gender access. This isn’t just for Juno and her documentary, but it applies to a variety of females who are allowed in, including reporters, trainers, equipment employees and the like. It’s quite the norm these days and no one really bats an eye if a female comes wandering through while we’re gearing up or stripping down.
They all know when to look away, and no one ever films guys who are naked. There’s no real modesty in rooms like this. Men change. Sweat dries. Bodies exist without ceremony.
That part has never bothered me or any of the other guys, really.
I’ve noticed Juno in particular, settling into the etiquette of being a woman in this male-dominated space. She knows when to look away and when to give room. She never pushes anyone to participate, and she’s become adept at identifying those—like myself—who are not as comfortable as others. As such, she’s already developed some trust.
Coach Monahan steps forward and the noise fades without him asking. Conversations taper off, sticks still, bodies subtly reorient toward him.
He doesn’t raise his voice but then again, he doesn’t need to. “This isn’t about winning tonight,” he says evenly. “It’s about introducing ourselves.”
He lets that sit for a beat, eyes sweeping the room—slow, intentional, catching each of us in turn.
“You’re going to feel it out there,” he continues. “This new building. A feral crowd. The weight of first impressions.” A faint huff of breath escapes him, almost a smile. “That’s normal. Anyone who says they don’t feel it is lying or checked out.”
A few guys shift. Arch rolls his shoulders. I drum a soft beat against my thigh with my fingertips. The energy prickles under my skin, my nerves coiled and ready to release.
“This city’s been waiting for a team to call its own,” Monahan says. “They’re going to be loud. They want a team they can believe in. That doesn’t mean perfection. It means effort.”
He taps the iPad against his palm once, sharp but controlled. “You don’t owe them a miracle. You don’t owe them highlights. You owe them honesty.”
His gaze settles briefly on the younger guys, the ones still fighting for certainty. “Every man in this room belongs in this league. You don’t get here by accident. You don’t hang at this level because you’re lucky. You’re here because you can play—and you can play against anyone.”
A ripple moves through the room. An acknowledgment of potential.
“We’ll clean up details later but tonight we skate our systems. We communicate and we back each other.” He pauses, eyes knowing. “And when it goes wrong—and it will—you don’t shrink. You figure out how to fix it, and you move on.” He nods once, decisive. “That’s how teams are built.”