1
DECORATION KANE (WESLEY)
The puck ricochets hard off the glass and shoots down toward our end. I pivot, cut it off before their winger can touch it, and take the brunt of his weight as he slams into me. My legs hold. My stick eats the puck clean, and I push it up the boards.
Dmitri Sokolov is there, all speed and muscle, flattening a Shamrock into the wall so hard the guy’s helmet pops crooked. The crowd loses its mind.
“Boston weak!” Dmitri shouts, wild with adrenaline. “Defenders strong!”
I huff and angle my body back toward the crease, keeping the blue line covered. Boston tries to cycle, but they’re rattled. The puck comes to me again, and I fire it through traffic. Our winger catches the rebound, jams it past the goalie. The horn blares.
Madison Square Garden shakes so hard, I think the roof might lift off. Fans pound the glass. Kids in jerseys scream themselves hoarse. The holiday crowd wants blood and cheer in equal measure.
Dmitri barrels into me, smacking my helmet. “Merry Christmas, Bear!”
I push him off, grinning. “You’re an animal.”
He smirks, and I can’t help it. I love this guy.
For sixty minutes, hockey makes everything simple. You hit, you pass, you protect. You don’t think about anything else.
The locker roomafter a win is a zoo. Music blasting, players shouting, gear flying everywhere. The place reeks of sweat, tape, and whatever body spray Novak swears women like.
I’m halfway through unstrapping my pads when Tanner plops down beside me. “So, Kane,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear, “you heading home for Christmas? Back to Alaska? Gonna kiss a moose under the mistletoe?”
The guys howl. Dmitri bangs a fist against his locker.
I ignore it and focus on untying my laces.
“Wait,” Tanner says, lighting up. “This is the year Hannah got engaged to the cannery guy?” He draws out her name, savoring it. “Bristol Bay’s buzzing, huh? Poor Wesley Kane, dumped for the guy with the big diesel.”
Laughter erupts around us.
My teeth scrape so hard it’s a miracle they don’t shatter. “He’s a tender skipper.”
“High school sweetheart, right?” He doesn’t quit. “Bet the cannery already tagged their head table.”
Dmitri frowns. “A fish boat? Kane, you lose a girl to a man who smells of salmon and diesel? She’s not seen the Times Square billboard with your ass on it?”
The laughter spikes again. I rip off my skate. “Shut the fuck up.”
Tanner leans back, smirking. “Touchy.”
Yeah, touchy. Because it burns.
We were kids when Hannah and I got together. Both fourteen, braces, stolen kisses behind the rink. She was the first girl I ever loved. The only girl. She was my person. Everyone in town knew it. It was a given: Wesley and Hannah, forever.
Until she said she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t be “the girl who waits.” Couldn’t build a life around bus schedules, long road trips, months where I was gone more than I was there. She wanted roots. A ring. A man who could be home for dinner, not just on ESPN highlights.
She dumped me in her parents’ driveway with tears in her eyes, and two months later she was on another guy’s arm. The one who’d never leave Alaska, who’d never miss a family Christmas, who could promise her normal.
I can’t even blame her for it, but it still cuts deep.
Now she’s engaged. Everyone back home is probably already planning the wedding. The idea of walking down Main Street, of seeing her hand on someone else’s chest, that big ring flashing in the cold, turns my stomach into a knot.
I yank my gear off. A buckle cracks; Novak glances over but doesn’t say anything.
She chose the guy who stayed. The one who works the docks. The one who fits into Bristol Bay, who will never leave. And me, I traded boots for skates, honest work for a paycheck that comes from playing a kid’s game. And everyone back home knows it.
