Page 11 of Cross Check

I’m not going to let Grant Everett get the best of my team for a second time this season.

We lose 3-2.

After a tie game at the end of regulation, the Stars scored the winning goal two minutes into overtime, and our guys hang their heads while they trudge to the locker room.

“Damn,” Jude mumbles. “Really thought we were going to snag that win.”

“They played well. Miller and his team just played better,” I say. “Good news is we still get a point, so the loss doesn’t totally hurt us. We’ll get the next one in Detroit.”

“Sure, the point is nice. And in the grand scheme of this season, the Stars aren’t making it to the playoffs while we’ll hopefully have a deep run,” Jude says. “I just don’t like losing to Brody Saunders. Seeing him smile is a creepy.”

“He definitely wins as the league’s grumpiest asshole.”

“I’ll make sure everyone is behaving. Showers, media availability, packing up for the bus.” Elliot gives us a salute. “See you all in a minute.”

“Our local network will want to talk to me. Team building, things we’re going to work on before our next road trip stop. Anything to keep the governors happy. I’m going to get that out of the way.” Jude looks at me. “Are you good to bring up the rear?”

“Yup. Meet you in the office in ten.”

“Thanks, Green.”

Jude stops in the tunnel when Jasmine, our team reporter, gestures to the microphone she’s holding. I grab the dry-erase markers we went through while the public address announcer calls out the names of the Three Stars of the game, awarded tonight to Maverick Miller, Ethan Richardson—the one with the game-winning dagger—and Liam Sullivan.

They might be our opponents and own the series between us, but I’m allowed to recognize good hockey. Those guys have grit and heart. The Stars are going to be a problem in a few years, and I’d be shocked if they don’t win the Cup sooner rather than later.

A double-check shows me there aren’t any water bottles or helmets left behind, and I smile at the equipment manager who scoops up a rogue glove someone forgot.

“Kids,” I say, and he laughs.

“I won’t tell Coach Hunter. I don’t want to be responsible for extra laps at practice tomorrow.”

“You’re a good man, Wilson.”

Careful in my heels, I step out of the player’s box and onto the ice. I don’t know why I’m not heading to the locker room. I don’t know why I’m moving in the direction of the Stars’ bench where Grant is chatting with a woman wearing a team polo, but before I fully realize it’s happening, I’m in front of him. He’s jumping off the ledge he’s sitting on and pinning me with a sharp gaze, as if he was waiting for me.

Finally, the look says.

It took you long enough.

“Coach Green,” he says. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. “Good game tonight.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t look good on you, Everett,” I answer.

“But winning sure does.” He turns to the brunette woman next to him. “Thanks for the help, Lex. I’ll be by in the morning so you can stretch out my hamstring.”

“See ya then, G-Money.” She tosses me a smile. “Have a good night.”

When we’re alone, I shift on my feet. Grant clears his throat and looks at his skates.

“So, how did⁠—”

“Your skating has⁠—”

We both break off and he laughs, the deep sound filling the space around us.

Comforting and full. A life well-lived.

That’s the best way to describe it.