On a beautiful February morning, three teenage players from the Southern Alberta Mustangs were doing what they’d done countless times—driving to practice with the early light just beginning to brush over the highway. It was part of a rhythm that many junior hockey teams share, one that is based on dedication rather than acclaim. It was routine, rooted on repetition. But the route that morning was interrupted by a crash so horrific it stopped more than traffic—it suspended a whole community in shock.
The crash at the north entrance to Stavely took the lives of three teammates: Cameron Casorso, an exceptionally focused goaltender from Kamloops; JJ Wright, a left winger with a strikingly intuitive sense for open ice; and Caden Fine, a 17-year-old center from Birmingham, Alabama, whose decision to play in Canada had been particularly brave. They were not returning from a championship, not basking in the afterglow of a tremendous win. They were simply traveling to practice, chasing something gloriously commonplace.
| Category | Information |
|---|---|
| Team Name | Southern Alberta Mustangs |
| Home Base | Stavely, Alberta, Canada |
| League Affiliation | USPHL Premier Division (United States Premier Hockey League) |
| Incident Date | February 2, 2026 |
| Players Lost | Cameron Casorso (goalie), JJ Wright (left wing), Caden Fine (center) |
| Nature of Tragedy | Fatal highway collision en route to practice |
| Community Response | Vigils, tributes, memorials, national statements, NHL silence before game |
| Cultural Role | Grassroots developmental program fostering young hockey talent |
| Official Site | www.southernalbertamustangs.com |
What followed was an outpouring of grief that was neither transitory nor performative. Hockey families paused throughout Alberta and beyond. NHL teams like the Edmonton Oilers held a moment of silence. Junior clubs shared helmet stickers. Olds, Sundre, and even Humboldt—familiar with unimaginable loss—reached out. The sentiments, notably heartfelt, weren’t veiled in marketing terminology. They were raw acknowledgments of a common wound.
By combining every small act—placing sticks outside doorways, attaching names on the boards, or lighting candles at the rink—the Mustangs’ extended family began establishing a sanctuary for remembrance. Stavely Arena became less a training area and more a gallery of recollection. Casorso’s jersey stood straight, flanked by Wright’s headshot and Fine’s number scribbled onto the same board that formerly diagrammed forecheck exercises.
Junior hockey isn’t merely a stepping stone. It’s a forge, where young athletes learn how to manage tiredness, how to lead from the bench, how to respect bus drivers and billet parents in equal measure. For many, it’s the final place they’ll wear a jersey competitively. It serves as a launchpad for some. But for everybody, it’s a second home.
I once traversed the corridor of that identical Stavely rink while reporting on the economics of rural hockey infrastructure. What struck me wasn’t the age of the bleachers or the chill of the locker rooms—it was the way parents talked about the players. They enquired about their arithmetic results. They remembered birthdays. The town didn’t merely house the team. It held them in a common embrace.
The Mustangs’ coaching staff, evidently rattled, published a letter asking for privacy—worded softly, but with a depth that traveled far. “These young men were more than hockey players,” it said. That phrase, repeated across eras, resonated strongly. It felt extraordinarily clear. It was the kind of phrase whispered quietly in kitchens, not created in PR offices.
The mother of JJ Wright’s girlfriend posted an intimate, heartbreakingly detailed statement online. She wrote about late-night calls filled with laughing, about “just because” flowers, about JJ’s voice ringing down halls despite rules regarding curfews. Her account made something brutally obvious: these weren’t merely potential athletes. They were people shaping and being formed by love, regularity, and belonging.
Fine’s move north from Alabama wasn’t only geographic. It required a leap of faith. His performance had considerably improved since joining the Mustangs, integrating technique with a serenity that belied his age. Casorso, usually calm under pressure, has become a quiet leader between the pipes. Wright’s play was efficient, his passes timed with a precision that often shocked defenders.
Junior hockey has momentarily changed due to distant training during the outbreak. This loss now posed a threat to something more permanent. However, there is an undercurrent of resolve even in this pain. Conversations about legacy began—scholarships, renamed wings of the arena, permanent banners. But maybe the ultimate memorial will be found not in stone or steel, but in how the Mustangs persevere.
By emphasizing character alongside competition, this team had already built something very efficient—not only on the ice, but in life lessons extended far beyond it. Now, the remaining comrades won’t be able to skate with the rhythm of three well-known voices. Coaches will draw up lines with heavy hearts. But the community, however traumatized, remains quietly unshaken in its support.
There’s a desire to romanticize tragedy. However, Stavely’s answer is based on action and continuity, which are far more beneficial. The puck will fall once more. Practice will restart. New players will lace up, carefully absorbing the weight of what came before. And yet, three names—Casorso, Wright, Fine—will remain present, sewn into routines and stories.
For those who perceive junior hockey as minor or peripheral, this may seem like an outsized reaction. However, this makes perfect sense to anyone who has given out granola bars after a 5 a.m. road trip or sat in a chilly arena supporting a child who just scored his first goal. Because junior hockey doesn’t only generate players. It fosters faith.
Southern Alberta will not forget this loss. But more significantly, it will carry it forward—with quiet resilience, unusually strong ties, and an unyielding feeling that even after the lights go down at the rink, memory persists.
