Meet Me at the Graveyard

MILA'S POINT OF VIEW Life shifts in an instant. One moment, you're standing on the podium as a women's world hockey champion. The next, you've vanished into obscurity. Life transforms in an instant when failure strips away your ability to contribute to what matters most. The moment you stumble, everyone abandons you, because second place means nothing when all you have done is be first place. The weight crushes you. Self-loathing seeps in. Depression takes hold, and every certainty you once possessed crumbles into doubt. That was me, Mila Novikava, two months ago, when everything shattered. I led a Moscow women's ice hockey team to more championships than I bothered counting. The best player in Russia, perhaps the world, if you'll forgive the arrogance. But none of that matters now. The roar of the crowd becomes addictive. When you consistently deliver results and dominate your game, people don't just admire you, they worship you. They crave your success, study your moves, wear your jersey. That adoration fuels something primal inside you, pushing you to raise the bar higher each time you step onto the ice. Winning stops being a choice; it transforms into an obligation, to the fans who chant your name, to yourself, to the sport that defines you. Every practice becomes a battle against mediocrity, every game a chance to prove you deserve the pedestal they've built. Because losing isn't just defeat, it's betrayal. And you'll sacrifice everything to avoid that fall. The higher you climb on the radar, the harder you fall. And I fell hard. One mistake, that's all it took. Suddenly, everyone who had loved me, praised me, turned on me. The ridicule came swift and merciless. They forgot I'd been the best. Now they fixated only on my failures, on that single moment I didn't deliver. Three months ago, I injured my leg. Despite the pain, I played hockey anyway, the championship was on the line. We lost, and it was my fault. My damaged leg betrayed me at every crucial moment, unable to deliver when the team needed me most. Everything changed after we lost the game. The blame came first, swift and merciless. Then the fans turned on me. Ridicule flooded my social media. Threats followed from strangers who'd never met me. With my leg still injured, the team asked me to "take a break", a polite way of saying I was out. I couldn't control any of it: the hatred, the injury that refused to heal, or the decision that stripped away everything I'd worked for. I lost all hope. My life in hockey, over. Depression consumed me as I sat on the sidelines, unable to play in the game that had defined my entire existence. That changed two weeks ago when the call came, an invitation to coach a men's hockey team in New York. The offer stunned me. Someone, somewhere, believed I could do this. I'd never coached before, yet here they were, asking me to lead their team. I seized the opportunity without hesitation. Questions about their choice, why they'd select someone like me, a failure, to coach champions, never left my lips. The mere fact that the hockey world had opened its doors again silenced my doubts. Asking would have exposed every insecurity, every inadequacy I possessed. I refused to reveal such a weakness. Instead, I summoned my belief and declared I could deliver results. Today I was meeting the New York Rangers' board of directors, general manager, and senior staff, a gathering that would either launch my career or destroy it before it began. The phone call changed everything. Right now as I headed to the meeting, my hands trembled as their words echoing in my mind: they wanted me as their coach. Me. The pressure threatened to crush my chest, and black spots danced at the edges of my vision. What if I couldn't live up to the person they imagined? They had invested their time, their trust, their expectations in someone who might crumble under the weight of it all. The elevator climbed toward the top floor, carrying me toward a meeting that could change everything. I smoothed my black tailored suit, jacket, trousers, shirt, and tie, all obsidian except for the wine-red stiletto heels that clicked against the floor with each shift of my weight. My blonde hair sat pulled into a severe bun, wine-red earrings catching the fluorescent light. The numbers ticked upward. My heart matched their rhythm. Soon, I stepped out of the elevator. My heart hammered against my ribs as I straightened my back and forced confidence into my stride toward the conference room. I knocked once, then pushed open the door. A dozen pairs of eyes turned toward me, faces I recognized from my research on the New York Rangers, now scrutinizing me in person. "Welcome, Miss Mila," the man at the far end of the conference table said. He sat in the middle chair, commanding the room, the club president. His relaxed demeanor caught me off guard. I'd expected someone intimidating, like the president back at my old team, whose mere presence made everyone tense. A smile crossed my lips as I forced myself to appear grateful for the welcome. "Thank you, sir," I replied, praying my voice wouldn't betray the fear coiling in my chest. "We are all gathered here to welcome you, Miss Mila, to the team," the president said, his eyes scanning the room before settling on me. I shifted in my weight standing, heart racing. "I know you're surprised we invited you, it was sudden and we get it." He paused, letting the weight of those words sink in. "We're grateful you accepted, especially given the circumstances." His professional tone sharpened. "We also know this is your first time coaching, but don't let that concern you. Our head coach will guide you through everything you lack. Support will be there when you need it, you just have to ask." "Before we continue, do you have a question?" another man asked. He was the general manager. This guy radiated authority, the kind that didn't tolerate mediocrity. I could see it in his eyes, the set of his jaw, the way he commanded the room without moving. And me? I was the definition of mediocre. Which meant we were already on a collision course. I drew a deep, quiet breath. These doubts and questions gnawed at me, demanding answers I couldn't ignore. "Why me?" I finally asked, the words escaping before courage could abandon me. The managing director's eyes bore into mine. "Do you believe you're not cut out for this role, Miss Mila?" he asked, his voice cold as steel. "Honestly, yes," I said, deciding to come clean. No use playing the coward and dodging what truly mattered. "I've never coached anyone in my life. Why would you assign someone like me to this position? What makes you so certain I'm what you need?" I had to know what they saw in me that others didn't, that I couldn't see in myself. Why choose me when qualified coaches existed all over the world? "You are the best hockey player I have ever seen," the general manager said, and I froze. Did he just call me the *best*? He had to be lying. No way he believed that. I was good, solid, even, but hearing him say I was the best felt wrong. The words rang hollow, insincere, like a trap waiting to spring. I am the biggest hockey fan out there and the best hockey player in Russia, was the best hockey player in Russia, but even I could acknowledge I wasn't the best hockey player to ever play. Yes, I had led my team to championships but that was because I had my team. My team was the best, I wasn't. I had seen far much better hockey players and seeing someone better than you, humbles you to see how lacking you are and you work hard to improve on what you lack. That's why we always won. Because we worked on what we lacked, as a team. If I never had a good team, I would never have shone bright into the spotlight of hockey. My team made me shine. I locked eyes with him. "You're lying," I declared, and gasps rippled through the room. My accusation hung in the air like a blade, shocking everyone into silence. "You are right, I'm lying," the general manager said. I blinked, the corners of my mouth twitching. His frankness stung, yet I craved it. Truth cuts deeper than hollow praise, I knew firsthand how devastating false compliments could be. "But calling me out is precisely why you'll get this job," he continued, leaning forward. "That took courage. It showed awareness of your own limitations. Someone like you sees what others lack, and that's one of a coach's most valuable qualities." A test. He'd been testing me all along. I stood there, speechless. "Do you accept the job?" the general manager then asked me. Silence hung between us. My heart hammered against my ribs. This wasn't just any job, it was my last chance to stay connected to the game that had defined my entire life. Hockey had been everything: my passion, my identity, my future. Now, with my playing career shattered, this unexpected offer felt like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man. Too convenient. Too perfect. Yet I couldn't shake the feeling that walking away would mean losing hockey forever. "I accept the job," I replied, my voice steady despite the weight of what I'd just agreed to. Soon after more discussions about my job, the contract sat before me, unsigned, as they outlined expectations I barely understood. Then came the real surprise: they assigned me to work under the head coach, someone who would mold me into what they needed. I was just an assistant coach, a title that felt both thrilling and terrifying. Still, gratitude overwhelmed everything else. This opportunity could change my life, if I didn't mess it up first. Soon, the meeting ended and the head coach led me to the team. I was eager to meet everyone, to see what they were made of. But nothing could have prepared me for what, or rather, who, I was about to encounter.