But at least we're making progress.
Chapter twenty-five
Silas
I lace my skates over, under, through. Pull tight.
"You good, cap?" Matthews, our starting goalie, asks from across the room.
"Perfect," I lie, yanking my laces harder than necessary.
The room buzzes with pre-game energy. Guys taping sticks, adjusting pads, going through their weird superstitions. Brennan's eating exactly six orange slices. Vasquez is listening to the same pump-up playlist he's apparently used since high school. Normal. Routine. Everything I need to ground myself.
Except Felix is too quiet, and Liam's hands shake slightly as he tapes his stick for the third time.
Two years. Two years since she walked out. And here we are, about to play hockey regardless.
"Silas." Coach appears in the doorway. "You ready to lead this team to victory tonight? Brookfield's tough."
"One hundred percent," I say firmly. No room for doubt in my voice, even if my chest is full of it.
He studies me for a beat, then nods. "Good. The whole town's counting on this win to kick off the winter festival right. Don't let them down."
He's right, and I'm not planning on failing them.
Felix appears beside me, already half-dressed in his gear. "You see her out there?"
"Haven't looked."
"Liar."
Fine. I looked. Scanned the gathering crowd during warm-ups. Didn't see her. Doesn't mean anything though. Not yet.
"Doesn't matter if she's here," I say, trying to convince myself as much as him.
"Right." Felix sighs, then pulls on his jersey. Number 19.
Liam joins us, fully dressed, stick in hand. "Five minutes to ice."
I stand, roll my shoulders. The C on my jersey feels heavier tonight.
"Listen up!" I call out, almost an alpha bark, and the room quiets. I've got the captain voice going even though I feel like I'm fragmenting inside. Fake it till you make it.
"First—" I pause, making eye contact with Matthews, Vasquez, Brennan. "I owe you all an apology. The drama this week, the uncertainty about whether we'd even play tonight... that's on us." I gesture to Felix and Liam. "On me. You deserved better from your captain."
A few guys shift uncomfortably. I don't think they're not used to apologies in locker rooms.
"But that ends now." I grab my stick, lean on it. "Brookfield's coming in here thinking we're distracted because we can't wait to enjoy the festival. They're probably placing bets on how much they'll beat us by."
"Fuck that," Matthews mutters.
"Exactly." I look at each player. "Brennan, their left winger telegraphs his shots when he's tired. Third period, you're gonna read him like a book from the crease. Vasquez, number 18 can't handle pressure on his backhand, crowd him when he's in your zone."
Vasquez grins, predatory.
"Felix, their center's been nursing a shoulder injury. He's hiding it well, but watch how he protects his right side in the corners. Use that when you're battling for the puck." I continue down the line, reminding each player of their strengths, their advantages.
Not about the date. Not about her. About the ice. About the game.
