Page 10 of A Match Made In Fall

“Sure.”

We continue walking and waving while the crowd cheers for us. Suddenly I spot Abby in the crowd, and then I see Isabella, that beautiful woman from the game with her.

This day just keeps getting better by the second.

After the parade, we head into a small media room for a press interview. Cameras line the back wall, the reporters crowd in front of us, and the flashing lights make the whole thing feel far more important than it probably is. Naturally, Coach Denton takes control of the conversation before anyone else even has the chance to speak.

And as usual his answers drag on forever.

Every question turns into a five-minute speech about discipline, culture, grit, and “trusting the process.” A few reporters exchange tired looks while he rambles from one point to another without ever really answering the question. If only the man could read the room. Even the media staff starts looking impatient near the end. Finally the questions are directed toward the players.

Most of us are comfortable speaking publicly, but others look relieved when someone else answers first. The questions are predictable. How are we feeling about the upcoming season? What are our expectations? Do we think we can repeat last year’s success?

Honestly, these questions are ridiculous. What professional team isn’t striving to get to the finals or win the championship? Nobody trains all year hoping for an average season. Of course our goal is the playoffs. Of course we want to get farther than we did last year.

But we still smile politely and give the same careful answers everyone expects to hear.

After the interview wraps up, we move to the fan section where several long tables have been arranged in a semi-circle. The Bears marketing team has put out stacks of programs, posters, and pucks laid out for autographs. Fans immediately begin forming lines the second we sit down.

I make sure to grab a seat beside Nick. Partly because he’s one of my closest friends, but also because I’m hoping Abby shows up—and brings friends with her.

The line starts moving almost immediately.

Most of the fans are great. The kids beam like they’ve just met their favorite superheroes, and their parents thank us for taking pictures. But every now and then, there’s always one critic. This is that one fan who thinks buying tickets makes him part-owner of the team. The one who believes he knows everything about the sport and how to run a professional sports team.

And that guy has arrived. He moves slowly in front of the tables, stopping at every player to offer his personal analysis of the season. According to him, our power play is weak, our defense is inconsistent, and Coach Denton has lost his edge. I listen as he critiques everything—how we play, how we skate, how we answer interviews, even the way some of the guys carry themselves walking through the arena. By the time he reaches me, I brace myself.

He gives me a curious look for a second before looking up at me with narrowed eyes.

“Austin Reed,” he says thoughtfully, like he’s about to deliver life-changing wisdom. “You’re just moving through the motions out there. What happened to the fire you used to have? Yeah, you still get the blocks, but you’ve been mostly lackluster this season.”

I keep my expression neutral and nod once. I’ve had years of training for these moments.

“I appreciate your opinion,” I say evenly. “I’m always open to ways I can improve.”

“But are you?” he asks, tilting his head curiously. “Because I pay good money every season. I want to feel like I’m getting something for it.”

“Absolutely.”

He crosses his arms. “I mean, I could spend my money on the Tigers instead. I’m already seeing big things from their season.”

“Yes, you can,” I reply calmly.

“I could drive the two hours to their games,” he adds.

I force a polite smile, even though internally I’m counting down the seconds until he moves on.

Thankfully, he finally does. Unfortunately for him, the next player in line is Nick.

And Nick is nowhere near as patient as I am. I wish I had some popcorn for what’s about to happen.

The guy immediately launches into a detailed explanation for Nick, demonstrating exactly how a goalie should stand in front of the net. He plants his feet wide apart, bends his knees, and waves his arms around like he’s coaching in the finals.

I really wish I had my phone out to record their interaction because Nick’s expression is priceless. He’s doing his best to remain polite, but I can see the frustration building. The longer the guy talks, the quicker Nick’s patience starts fading. One more suggestion and all of Nick’s composure might be gone.

Meanwhile, another family steps up to my table, pulling my attention away from the nearby drama.

“Our son plays hockey,” the man says proudly, resting a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Do you have any advice for him?”