"Ducks After Dark"
The season was theirs.
Not for the Olympics. Not for sponsors. Not even for the press. This win was for them — the Ducks. Older now. Around 18 or 19. Stronger, sharper, and standing on the edge of adulthood. This season had been tough, but they’d pulled through one last time as a team. Their bond wasn’t just about hockey anymore — it was something deeper, like family.
To celebrate the win — and the end of an era — Coach Bombay and Michelle McKay surprised the team with a weekend camping trip in the deep woods of Minnesota. No skates. No schedules. Just firelight, fresh air, and time together before life swept them in different directions.
The sun had dipped low by the time they hiked into the clearing. Trees stood tall and quiet around them, casting long shadows over the fallen leaves and uneven ground. The dirt trail that had brought them this far was barely visible now under the thick canopy.
“You guys better hurry. We’ve got, like, fifteen minutes until it’s pitch black,” McKay warned, adjusting her backpack with a teasing smile.
Chaos ensued as everyone scrambled to set up tents before darkness swallowed the clearing.
Charlie Conway barked out instructions, trying to keep things organized. “Fulton, the pole goes there. No — the other side!” Fulton Reed raised an eyebrow and followed his best friend’s lead, easily pounding in the tent stakes like they were toothpicks.
Adam Banks squinted at the instructions. “Are these in Swedish?”
Goldberg spun in circles, trying to untangle his sleeping bag from his hoodie, while Averman narrated every fail like a camp announcer. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re watching a live performance of How Not to Survive in the Wild, starring Greg Goldberg!”
Luis Mendoza, still the fastest guy on the team, zipped around the site setting up his tent and others', shouting, “Hurry up! I don’t want to sleep in mosquito land!”
Dwayne Robertson laid out a plaid blanket beside his tent, twirling his rope lazily and tipping his cowboy hat back. “Y’all are fussin’ like squirrels in a rainstorm,” he drawled. “It’s just a tent.”
Dean Portman, shirt already off despite the cold, was trying to light the fire prematurely with a pocket lighter. “Let’s get some heat goin’, baby!”
Eventually, after a mess of tangled ropes, flashlight failures, and sarcastic bickering, the tents were up. Some leaned to the side. Some flapped suspiciously. But they stood.
The team gathered around the fire pit in the center of camp. Flames crackled and spit sparks into the crisp night air as they sat in a messy circle on logs, rocks, or blankets. Hoodies zipped, marshmallows skewered, and the first true night of their camping trip began.
Coach Bombay and McKay sat nearby, quietly sipping coffee from thermoses and watching the group laugh and bicker like they always had — but different now. Grown. Closer.
“You think they’re ready for life out there?” McKay asked softly. Bombay gave a slow nod. “Maybe not. But they’ll figure it out — because they’ve got each other.”