Beneath the Glass

“Another season, another stack of bills that could choke a Clydesdale,” Maura stated, not looking at Jason, her gaze fixed on the grey-white blur of the arena beyond the grimy office window. Her breath, a faint cloud in the frigid air, briefly fogged the glass, then dissipated. The faint smell of stale popcorn and disinfectant clung to the space, a familiar, comforting, yet suffocating odour. Jason shifted on the worn plastic chair, the material groaning in protest. He had scraped a hand opening a rusted locker earlier, and the faint sting was a constant, low thrum against his palm. “It’s the usual, Maura. Except… perhaps a little more severe this time. The boiler’s a ghost, and the ice plant sounds like it’s chewing rocks.” He spoke with a measured cadence, a pragmatic counterpoint to her frayed edges. Maura finally turned, her dark eyes, heavy with exhaustion, met his. There were faint smudges beneath them, the tell-tale signs of too many late nights poring over spreadsheets and too many early mornings troubleshooting electrical faults. Her hair, usually a controlled cascade of dark waves, was pulled back in a loose, functional bun, a few tendrils escaping around her temples. “The usual is hardly sustainable, Jason. We’re on a precipice. The community trust, the children’s dreams… they hang by a thread. A very expensive thread, it seems.” She rubbed at her temples, a gesture of deep weariness. “And the ‘Spirit of ’98’ fund, as your father so grandly calls it?” Jason queried, a hint of dry humour in his voice. He knew the answer before she even spoke it; everyone in the small town of Blackwood Harbour knew. They just didn't speak of it aloud, not to Maura, anyway. Maura let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. “The ‘Spirit of ’98’ is as ethereal as a snowdrift in July. It’s a legend, Jason, not a ledger entry. My father’s memories don’t pay for new skates or electricity. They certainly don’t mend a failing ice plant.” She gestured vaguely around the cluttered office, towards the wall lined with faded team photos and a cracked, yellowed newspaper clipping celebrating the O’Connell Junior Jets’ improbable championship win back in ‘98. That was Declan’s glory, his enduring legacy, and now, Maura’s heavy burden. The room felt colder, or perhaps it was just Maura's internal temperature dropping. The hum of the ancient fluorescent lights overhead pulsed, a subtle headache-inducing rhythm. She fiddled with the string of her worn hoodie, a nervous habit she’d picked up from her son, Cian. His face, earnest and hopeful, flashed in her mind, tying a knot in her stomach. He was fourteen, still young enough to believe in Christmas miracles and hockey heroism. “We have the meeting tomorrow, Christmas Day,” Jason reminded her, his voice soft, almost apologetic. “With Mr. Albright. His people are… particular. They expect promptness, professionalism. And results, naturally.” He adjusted the collar of his woollen jacket, the fabric scratchy against his neck. Jason had known Maura since they were children, had seen the club through its highs and, more recently, its precipitous lows. He respected the O'Connell legacy, but he also saw the cold, hard numbers. “Christmas Day,” Maura repeated, the words tasting like ash. “Because the precarious future of Blackwood Harbour’s junior hockey club simply couldn’t wait until Boxing Day. The grand gestures of the powerful, eh?” She walked to the frost-coated window, pressing her forehead lightly against the cold glass. Outside, the town's colossal Christmas tree, erected annually in the square adjacent to the rink, blazed with a thousand tiny, multi-coloured bulbs. It was a beacon of defiant cheer, a stark contrast to the quiet desperation in her chest. She wished for a moment that she could just melt into the warmth of those lights, away from the chill of reality. A sharp rap on the office door startled them both. “Still here, Maura? Thought you’d be off tucking the boy into bed, telling him tales of old Saint Nick and the glory days of the Jets!” Declan O’Connell’s voice boomed, a familiar, slightly gravelly sound. He entered, a blast of colder air accompanying him, bringing with it the scent of fresh pine needles and something faintly metallic, like damp skate blades. His heavy woollen coat was dusted with a fine layer of snow, his cheeks ruddy from the biting winter wind. Declan, a man whose frame still hinted at the formidable defenseman he once was, paused, his gaze sweeping over the office. He took in Maura’s tired posture, Jason’s solemn face. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his features, then vanished, replaced by a theatrical grin. “Still strategising, are we? Good. That’s the O’Connell spirit. Never surrender. Never concede. Remember that, Maura.” He thumped a fist gently against the old, scarred wooden desk, sending a small tremor through the surface, rattling a few forgotten pucks. “Father,” Maura began, her voice strained, “we were discussing the present, not the glorious past. The present, regrettably, is rather… insolvent.” She chose her words carefully, attempting to inject a formal solemnity into the uncomfortable truth. She knew how much the club meant to him, how his entire identity was woven into its faded banners and lingering echoes of cheers. Declan waved a dismissive hand, a habit she found both endearing and infuriating. “Insolvent? Nonsense. We’ve faced worse. Remember ’92, Jason? The storm that took out the roof? Everyone said it was over. But we rallied! The whole town, buckets and tarps, patching her up. That’s what we do. We endure. And we win.” He leaned back against the doorframe, a slight sway in his stance, a testament to the long, cold shift he’d just worked overseeing the rink’s basic maintenance. Jason cleared his throat. “With respect, Declan, the challenges are different now. Costs have escalated. Competition for young talent is fierce. And the infrastructure… well, it’s not just a patch-up job this time.” He glanced at Maura, a silent plea for her to hold her ground. Jason, though loyal, was a pragmatist. He saw the world in ledgers and deadlines, a necessary counterbalance to the O'Connell family's romantic attachments. “Infrastructure!” Declan snorted, pushing off the doorframe to inspect a framed photo of his old team, frozen in a triumphant pose. “That’s just a fancy word for ‘we need to work harder.’ This place, it’s got soul, Jason. More soul than any of those gleaming, corporate-sponsored monoliths in the city. And soul, my boy, that’s what wins championships. It’s what built this community. It’s what will pull us through.” He tapped the glass of the frame. “See these faces? Every one of them, pure grit. They believed. That’s all it takes.” Maura felt a familiar weariness settle over her. It was a conversation they’d had a hundred times, always circling the same unbridgeable divide between his unwavering faith and her pragmatic despair. The weight of his legacy, of that ‘Spirit of ’98’, pressed down on her, a physical ache behind her ribs. It wasn’t just a hockey club; it was her father’s heart, the community’s identity, and increasingly, her own burden. --- ### The Unspoken Demands of Belief She walked over to the old metal filing cabinet, its paint chipped and peeling in places, like an ancient bark. She pulled open a drawer with a screech, rummaging through folders overflowing with invoices and player registrations. The faint scent of old paper and dust motes danced in the pale light. Her fingers brushed against a faded drawing Cian had made years ago, a stick figure hockey player with a huge, joyful smile. It was pinned to an old schedule. She tucked it back in, a pang in her chest. She had to fight for that joy, for his future, for all the kids who laced up their skates on this ice. “This isn’t about belief, Father,” Maura said, her voice softer now, tinged with a raw edge of frustration. “It’s about balance sheets. It’s about utility bills that arrived this morning. The hydro alone… it’s staggering. And the insurance, the repairs, the equipment… it all adds up. And we simply do not have the funds.” She pulled out a thick envelope, its corners dog-eared, a stark testament to its frequent handling. Declan turned, his expression softening, the boisterousness momentarily fading. He looked at the envelope in her hand, then back at his daughter. He’d seen that look on her mother’s face many times, a quiet determination mixed with an almost desperate vulnerability. He reached out, his calloused hand briefly touching her shoulder. “Your mother, God rest her soul, always said you had a good head for numbers. Better than mine, certainly.” He forced a chuckle, but it sounded hollow. “And she always said you had a good heart, Father,” Maura retorted, a hint of defiance in her tone. “But a good heart, I’m afraid, does not pay for new compressors. Mr. Albright’s meeting is tomorrow. He is our last, best hope. And I fear his generosity will come with… expectations.” She lifted the envelope, a subtle tremor in her hand. The paper, rough under her thumb, felt heavy, not just with bills, but with the future of the O’Connell legacy. Jason nodded slowly, rising from his chair. “He’s a businessman, Maura. A very successful one. He isn’t doing this purely out of altruism, much as we might wish it. There will be terms. We must be prepared for them.” He adjusted his jacket, a small, unconscious gesture of readiness for a difficult conversation. He glanced at the Christmas tree lights, a gentle hum coming from the electrical box, a small, mundane detail, but one that made the whole festive scene feel more grounded. The scent of melting snow from Declan's coat mingled with the disinfectant, a weirdly comforting mixture. “Terms,” Maura mused, the word tasting like rust on her tongue. “He’ll want control, no doubt. A seat on the board, perhaps. Influence. My father’s club, in the hands of a stranger.” She looked at Declan, whose gaze had returned to the faded photographs, a wistful, almost melancholic expression on his face. She knew how much it would wound him, the idea of relinquishing even a fraction of what he had built. “It is not about control, Maura, it is about continuation,” Declan said, his voice surprisingly quiet, devoid of its usual bluster. He turned from the photos, his eyes meeting hers, a rare, profound vulnerability there. “This club… it is more than just a place to play hockey. It is where boys become men. Where community binds itself together against the long winters. Where we teach them what it means to be O’Connell.” He tapped his chest. “Honour. Perseverance. Fair play. This cannot be lost.” His words hung in the cold air, dense with unspoken meaning, heavy with the weight of generations. Maura’s throat tightened. Her father, for all his bluster and stubbornness, was speaking from the depths of his soul. He wasn't just talking about a hockey club; he was talking about their identity, their history, everything they were. And she, the modern woman, the numbers person, was tasked with preserving that intangible spirit with very tangible, very scarce resources. She felt a knot forming in her stomach, an unpleasant mixture of filial duty and outright terror. “And what if his terms… compromise that, Father?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. “What if his vision for ‘continuation’ is not ours? What if it means… changing who we are?” She thought of the pristine, sterile, high-tech arenas in the city, the kind of places Mr. Albright frequented. They lacked the smell of old wood, the faint echo of past cheers trapped in the rafters, the scuffed marks on the boards from a thousand rough-and-tumble games. They lacked the character, the grit, that made the O’Connell rink unique. Declan sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weariness of all his sixty-odd years. He walked over to the window, standing beside Maura, and looked out at the twinkling lights. For a moment, they stood in silence, father and daughter, separated by a generation but united by the immense weight of their shared burden. A stray snowflake, fat and lazy, landed on the glass, then dissolved, leaving a brief, wet smear. “Some changes,” Declan said slowly, his voice laced with a bittersweet resignation, “are inevitable. The world turns, Maura. The ice melts and refreezes, but it is always ice. The game, however, remains the same in its heart. You must discern, my clever girl, which changes are cosmetic, and which threaten the very core.” He turned from the window, his gaze now fixed on her, sharp and piercing. “And remember this: an O’Connell does not beg. We negotiate. We stand firm. And we protect what is ours.” His words, a blend of wisdom and pride, settled around them, a chilling reminder of the expectations she carried. --- ### The Unseen Hand of Tomorrow Maura wrapped her arms around herself, trying to ward off a sudden shiver. The Christmas lights outside felt like mocking eyes, too bright, too relentlessly cheerful. She had to protect this place, this legacy. Not just for Declan, but for Cian, for the next generation of Blackwood Harbour kids who needed the ice as much as they needed the air they breathed. She could hear the faint, distant strains of Christmas carols drifting in from the town square, a saccharine melody that somehow deepened her resolve. The world outside was celebrating, but in here, battles were being waged. “Mr. Albright also mentioned,” Jason interjected, breaking the quiet spell, “that he would be bringing someone else to the meeting. A… consultant, he called her. To review the club’s current operations, financial models, and, quote, ‘future potential’.” Jason paused, letting the implications hang in the cold air. “He was quite insistent. Said she has a very keen eye, a reputation for… streamlining. Making things efficient.” He fidgeted with his hands, his gaze flicking between Maura and Declan, sensing the heightened tension. Maura felt a jolt of unease. A consultant. That sounded less like a partner and more like an auditor, an outsider dissecting their family’s life’s work. Her grip tightened on the worn envelope. “A consultant,” she repeated, the word sour on her tongue. “So, not just an offer of aid, but an assessment of our failings. A preamble to dictation, I suspect.” Her voice was sharper now, a brittle edge to it. This was not the ‘hopeful future’ she’d been imagining beneath the shimmering Christmas lights. Declan’s jaw hardened, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “Another pair of eyes, eh? To tell us how to run our own club. This ‘streamlining’ always means cutting, Maura. It means reducing a living, breathing entity into lines on a spreadsheet. It means losing the very things that make this club what it is.” He looked at Jason, a silent challenge in his eyes. “You trust this ‘Albright’ fellow, Jason? His intentions are pure?” Jason held up his hands, a gesture of placation. “Pure? I cannot say, Declan. He is a businessman. His intentions are… business. But he is a substantial figure, and his interest is, at the very least, genuine. He could save us.” Jason’s words, though logical, felt like a cold stone in Maura's gut. The stakes were getting higher, the future more uncertain. The Christmas lights outside seemed to twinkle with a menacing cheer, a stark reminder of the fragile peace she was trying to maintain for her son. Maura walked back to her desk, her movements stiff, almost mechanical. She picked up a well-worn puck, its rubber smooth and cool beneath her fingers, scarred with the marks of countless impacts. “Then we must prepare. For business. For their ‘keen eye’ and their ‘streamlining’.” Her voice was low, resolute, masking a tremor of apprehension. The meeting, set for eleven sharp tomorrow morning, now felt less like a negotiation and more like an interrogation. Christmas Day. What a time for a reckoning. She looked out at the Christmas tree again, its vibrant colours a stark contrast to the monochrome dread in her heart. The promise of a hopeful future seemed to flicker, momentarily, uncertain. She put the puck down, its thud against the wood echoing faintly in the cold room. This was not merely about a financial transaction; it was a test of resilience, of their very spirit. She felt the cold seep deeper, not from the window, but from the sudden, stark realisation that the choice ahead was not just about the club, but about the very honour of the O’Connell name, and the decision she made tomorrow would ripple through seasons yet to come, for better or for worse.