February 7th, 2000

I spat a pink stream onto the worn rubber mats covering the floor of the dressing room. My lungs burned with a fire that was becoming familiar, a satisfying ache. We'd run drills until my legs felt like wet noodles. Coach was pushing us, and for the first time all season, we were pushing back harder.

I slumped against the cold concrete wall, peeling the sweat-soaked layer from my torso. The air was a thick cocktail of sweat and the aerosol deodorant that Sean insisted on hosing himself with after every practice.

"We're actually doing it, huh?" Sean said, not looking up from his task.

"Doing what?" I grunted, tossing my shirt into a laundry bag that was already overflowing.

"The undefeated streak, you tool," he said, looking up. "Five games. Remember when we were praying for one?"

"I try not to," I said, but a grin was already tugging at the corners of my mouth.

It was a different locker room now. The banter was lighter, laced with confidence. We were a team starting to believe in itself.

The door creaked open, and a hush fell over the room. Coach Patterson walked in, his tracksuit zipped up to his chin, a clipboard in his hand. He scanned the room, his gaze lingering on the piles of discarded gear and the exhausted faces of his players. He stopped in the center.

"Thirteen and fourteen," he said, his voice quiet but clear as a bell. "A month ago, I would've called that a miracle."

He let out a slow breath.

"You boys... you've found something," he continued, his eyes sweeping over us.

He paused, tapping his clipboard against his thigh.

"I'm not gonna stand here and bullshit you and say we're gonna win it all. But we've got five games left in the regular season. Five. And you've put yourselves in a position nobody outside this room thought you could be in. The wildcard spot." He looked at each of us. "Don't piss it away."

Coach Patterson let the silence stretch for a beat before tapping the clipboard with a knuckle. "Speaking of putting yourselves in a position..." he said. He held up the clipboard.

"This is the call list. This is the list of agents who've called the office in the last two weeks, asking about specific players. Asking for film. Asking for character references. These are the guys who've put themselves on the map."

The post-practice exhaustion was vaporized, replaced by alertness. Eyes darted to the clipboard. Guys sat up straighter.

Coach cleared his throat.

"Alex Rafferty."

A couple of guys clapped Alex on the back. The corner of his mouth twitched. He tried to hide it by ducking his head, but I saw it.

"Sean Toffoli."

A wolfish grin spread across his face. He leaned back, propping an arm up on his shoulder pads, the very picture of satisfaction.

Coach rattled off two more names, a defenseman and a third-liner, and that was it. He lowered the clipboard.

"Alright, get your gear off," Coach said, his voice back to its usual business-like tone. "Good work today."

Guys started moving again, the clatter of pads and zippers filling the space. There was a new chasm in the room, a visible line between the chosen and the forgotten. I felt a bitter knot tighten in my stomach. I wasn't surprised. At 5'7", I wasn't exactly what scouts were dreaming of. I was fast, I was crafty, but I didn't have the size. It was a song I'd heard a million times.

I focused on unlacing my skates, pulling the knots loose with more force than necessary.

"Raj."

I looked up. Coach Patterson was standing in the doorway to his office, looking right at me. He gestured with his head.

I sighed, pushing myself to my feet. I walked toward him, my bare feet sticking to the grimy floor.

He held the door open for me, and I stepped into the cluttered space. The air smelled of stale coffee. A space heater hummed in the corner, fighting a losing battle against the February chill.

He shut the door, closing off the noise of the dressing room. He leaned against his desk, crossing his arms. He was looking at an old framed photo on the wall of his daughter who I had met a handful of times, both of them in hockey gear, smiling from the bench of a peewee tournament.

He let out a slow breath.

"Okay," he said, still not looking at me. "Full disclosure. I didn't get any calls about you."

The words hit me like a solid punch, even though I was expecting them.

He finally turned, his eyes meeting mine. He looked tired. "But I did have a conversation with someone who is interested."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Claire," he said. "My daughter." He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, Raj. I'm just gonna be straight with you. She and her husband are going through a divorce. Nasty business. She needs a project, and since you didn't get any calls, I thought of you."

"Why?"

"Because you deserve to be called about. You've got 58 points in 27 games. You're our leading scorer. You're the reason this team has a pulse." He leaned forward, his hands on the edge of the desk. "You're a leader on this team, kid. You're smart, you've got a head on your shoulders, and you're tough as nails. Any college would be lucky to have you, even if you're not six-foot-two."

"Thanks Coach," I said back to him. I mumbled a small, "I guess..." under my breath.

A knock echoed on the thin wood of the office door.

Coach's shoulders, which had been slumped, went rigid. He shot me a look that was part apology, part warning. He pushed himself off the desk.

"Right on time," he muttered, running a hand over his face. He straightened up, pulling the door open. "Claire."

"Hi, Dad," she said, her voice smooth. A polite smile was fixed on her lips, but her blue eyes were doing a full assessment.

"Claire, this is Raj Dhami," Coach said, his voice gruff. He gestured vaguely between us. "Raj, this is my daughter."

"A pleasure," she said, extending a hand. Her grip was firm. "I've heard a lot about you. All good, I assure you."

"I doubt that," I said, a smirk on my face.

Her smile widened just a fraction. "Okay, maybe not," she conceded. "But all impressive."

Coach Patterson clapped his hands together. "Right. Well. I'll let you two... talk." He gave me a look that screamed 'Don't fuck this up'. He sidled past his daughter, and disappeared into the noise of the dressing room, pulling the door shut behind him.

For a second, neither of us spoke. She stepped further into the room, her heels clicking softly on the worn linoleum.

"You know," she began, stopping to look at the team photo from last year's dismal season, "my father has three modes. Grumpy. Very grumpy. And pre-coffee grumpy."

I leaned against the desk, trying to project a confidence I wasn't feeling.

"That right there, was a fourth mode," she said, turning from the photo to face me fully. "Proud Dad. You don't see it often."

She took two steps toward me, closing the distance. She was close enough that I could see the fine lines around her eyes, the gloss on her lips. She was older than my mom.

"I'm not going to beat around the bush, Raj," she said, her eyes pinning me in place. "I sold closet organisers in Calgary for three years."

"Closet... what?"

"Organisers," she said. "I could sell a $5,000 walnut system to a guy with two shirts to his name."

She took another step closer. "It's a simple philosophy, really. You find a space that's undervalued. You show the world what it's truly worth."

My brain was still stuck on the closet organizers. "What does that have to do with me?"

"Everything," she said. "You are the walk-in closet. You are the project."

"I'm not a project," I shot back, a little too quickly. "And I appreciate the offer, but I think I'll just... wait. See what happens. Someone else might call."

"They might," she conceded. "Or they might not. And even if they do, what kind of offer do you think you'll get? A division-three school in rural Minnesota that will pay for your books and give you a cot in the basement? A tryout for a junior B team in Moose Jaw?"

Her words were sharp.

"While you're 'waiting'," she continued, "Your teammates are going to be on the phone every night, weighing offers. They're going to be taking recruiting trips. You'll be here, hoping."

She stopped, turning to face me again, her hands on her hips.

"This isn't about me needing a project to get over a divorce. This is about the best player on this team, the smartest kid in that locker room, getting completely overlooked because of five inches of height."

She took a final step, now only a foot away. I could see the fire in her eyes.

"You think I can't sell you?" she challenged. "I'll have every Division-I coach from Thunder Bay to Texas begging you to take their scholarship. I will make them see you. I will make them want you."

I pushed myself off the desk, creating a bit more space between us. "Look, I appreciate the... sales pitch," I said. "But you don't have to do me any favors. What about your job?"

"I quit," she said back. "My ex-husband," she explained, "owned the company." She shrugged a single shoulder. "It felt... prudent to remove myself."

She took a step back, and leaned against the doorframe of her father's tiny office.

"As of right now, you would be my sole focus," she stated. Her gaze was unwavering. "My only client. My only project. My walk-in closet."

It felt like my entire hockey career was boiling down to this one decision in a cramped office to a very, very persuasive woman.

"Okay," I said. "Okay. Let's... let's do it."

"Smart," she said, her voice brisk. She pushed herself off the doorframe. "You won't regret it."

I wasn't so sure about that, but I just nodded anyway.