Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 114951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 575(@200wpm)___ 460(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 575(@200wpm)___ 460(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
There was no time for deep sighs. We had a game to win.
“Sandin, you’re in.”
He hopped off the bench immediately. Fortunately, we weren’t far into the first period — he should have still been warm from warmups.
When Sandin nodded at me that he was ready, I could have sworn I saw his gaze slide up to the suite Nathan Black was in.
Our new general manager had been getting cozy with quite a few players — particularly the younger ones. If I were being a calm, rational coach, I’d see it for what it was. He was getting to know the team, earning their trust, convincing them that Tampa was a great place to call home, and this team would be all they’d need in their career. He wanted them to play hard and win for us, so of course he was investing time in them.
But the side of me that couldn’t help but be suspicious wondered at it, at why he was so attentive to some players and virtually invisible to the others.
I didn’t like the way my stomach twisted as Sandin dropped into the crease for his first play, like my body knew something my brain didn’t.
That feeling only intensified as the game played on.
Sandin was completely erratic, and not in the “backup goalie nerves” way I’d expected.
One shift he was hyper-aggressive, charging out of the crease to poke-check a puck he had no business going after, leaving the net wide open and making the entire bench gasp. The next, he was late to track a shot he should have swallowed up without blinking — like his eyes were half a second behind the puck. Twice he froze when our defense shouted for him to cover it, letting play continue when any goalie instinct would have smothered the rebound.
And then, just to keep me from yanking what little hair I had left, he’d make some impossible, physics-defying save purely by accident — like the puck hit him because he wasn’t squared to it.
Every shift was a coin toss.
Heads: miraculous.
Tails: disastrous.
The Railers didn’t know how to read him, and honestly? Neither did I.
I kept glancing up at the suite, feeling my jaw tighten every time I caught a ghost of movement through the tinted glass. I didn’t know what I expected to see. Nathan holding up flashcards? Signaling plays like a damn third base coach?
Ridiculous.
And yet…
I couldn’t shake the unease crawling under my skin.
But hockey is a cruel game — sometimes chaos works. And somehow, we clung to a one-goal lead through the third period. The final horn blared through the arena, the crowd roaring, stuffed fish flying onto the ice as was tradition, and the scoreboard flashed a win we had absolutely no business earning.
Sandin skated to the bench like he hadn’t just given me a cardiac event for sixty straight minutes.
The boys slapped him on the back, helmets knocking, gloves thumping. I congratulated them, gave Sandin an extra look I couldn’t help — part suspicion, part genuine relief — and then ducked into the tunnel, my pulse still misfiring.
I took a second in my office, breathing deep before dialing Perry.
He picked up on the first ring.
“Well, that was a shit storm.” His voice was croaky and worn.
“You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I am.”
“He’s not. He’s been pacing and vomiting into a trashcan this whole time,” I heard in the background. Chloe, his wife.
“Yeah, Daddy is bad at being sick,” his daughter Ava echoed.
I chuckled. “How are you? Feeling any better?”
“No,” he groaned. “I don’t know what happened. I was fine, and then suddenly…” He trailed off, swallowing. “I just wasn’t. I don’t know, Coach. I’m sorry. I didn’t see it coming.”
Again, that twist in my gut, like there was something afoot that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
“Nothing to be sorry for. It happens, and this was just one of those times you couldn’t play through it,” I said. “I’m glad you’re home. Get fluids. Sleep. Text me if you get worse.”
“I’ll be back for the next game.”
“I have no doubts. Rest,” I reiterated. “I’ll check in tomorrow.”
We hung up, but the call didn’t do what I’d hoped. If anything, the pit in my stomach deepened. Perry getting sick out of nowhere. Sandin’s bizarre performance. The way his eyes had flicked to Nathan’s suite. The win that felt more like a warning than a triumph.
Something was off.
I didn’t know what yet.
But the ice wasn’t the only thing that felt slippery tonight.
The boys filtered into the locker room for the post-game talk, and I went through the motions — praising work ethic, highlighting key plays, calling out what needed tightening before our next matchup. They were buzzing, smiling, chatting with media, riding the high of a win.
And I tried to match their energy. I really did.
But the whole time, the wrongness gnawed at me.