Power Play (Noah Sebastian Hockey AU)

Chapter 2

The Uber screeches to a halt outside the fortress-like walls of the Rooks' practice facility, and I scramble out clutching my visitor's pass. After a few tense moments convincing the stone-faced security guard I'm not a crazed fan, the gates swing open. I stride up to the front doors, emblazoned with the iconic blood-red chess piece flanked by two onyx knights - the Santa Monica Rooks logo.

Though they only joined the NHL a couple years back, the scrappy expansion team has already captured the hearts of LA hockey fans - including my dad, former assistant coach for the Kings. When the Rooks came calling, offering him the head coach position, we were over the moon. Now I never miss a game even if it's just on the TV. I know the players by name, the chants by heart. This team is family.

And today, I got a glimpse behind the curtain.

The frosty air envelops me as soon as I step foot in the rink, sending a shiver down my spine despite my long sleeves. I cross my arms, bracing against the chill. As the team takes the ice to warm up, my eyes follow their every move with a nostalgic fondness. The sound of skates carving into the fresh sheet, the slap of pucks hitting boards - it all washes over me like a warm blanket. I let out a contented sigh, transported back to simpler times when I would gaze upon this familiar scene as a wide-eyed kid.

The players glide across the ice, circling each other in a blur of black and red during their warm-up laps. Legs churned in rhythmic strides as they maneuvered the puck through the cones. The only sounds were blades carving arcs and pucks slapping plastic. Every movement was executed with precision—their concentration evident as they tuned out the world, zeroed in on their drills. At the other end, some stretch and joke around, loose and relaxed. The heavy guitar riffs of AC/DC's "Thunderstruck" blast through the speakers—dad's preference, as always. I can't help but smile. This ice, this team, this music...it all feels like home.

From my spot high in the stands, I admire my dad's confident presence on the bench, his gaze intent as he surveys the players before him. Wearing the team's fleece zip up over his well-muscled frame, the dark fabric accentuating his rugged features. A beanie sat jauntily atop his artfully graying locks, complementing his trademark goatee, still as impeccably groomed as ever. He exuded an air of casual confidence - the easy charisma of a man who gets things done with style. Arms folded, he exchanges nods with Jack, leaning in to examine the clipboard that holds the secrets to today's strategy. Never did make it to the big leagues, but he just loved the chess match, the cat and mouse of setting up the perfect play. The thrill of that last second stretch pass springing the winger for a breakaway. The subtle joking with the refs, giving as good as he got. Win or lose, we lived for that locker room camaraderie. Yeah, he was born to bleed the colors, even if the pros weren't in the cards.

I make my way down towards the gleaming glass, the barrier between me and the warriors below, scanning the colorful jerseys for familiar names. There's number 42, Sanchez, the promising new center we acquired in the off-season. And McClain, number 18, our stalwart in goal, broad-shouldered whether in pads or street clothes.

Two skilled players glided smoothly across the ice, giving each other a friendly shoulder nudge and helmet tap as brothers in arms. Ruffilo sported jersey #22, zipping down the right wing with nimble speed and agility, always quick to jump on a scoring chance. Alongside him skated Sebastian, wearing #13. As right defenseman, he partnered on the blueline with the venerable Karlsson (#62). Together they formed the league's dream defensive pairing, scouted eagerly by rival teams year after year, yet steadfastly loyal to their coach through it all.

"Sarah!" My dad's voice thunders across the rink, making me jolt in surprise. I bolt toward him, nearly slipping over my feet in my excitement. Jack grabs my arm to steady me as we scramble into the box where Dad waits with open arms. I fling myself at him, breathing in the comforting scents of cinnamon and Old Spice that mean home. Though it's been months, as soon as his strong arms fold around me, no time has passed at all. I cling to him, my protector and hero, never wanting to let go.