Jax was a force even sitting still, earbuds jammed in,“One Shot”blasting loud enough that I could catch fragments of the beat from three feet away. He slammed the butt of his stick against the floor in rhythm, as if he was already hitting bodies.
Theo leaned back, legs stretched out, earbuds tucked low, head tilted with that half-asleep posture he wore before games—like nothing touched him until he decided it should. The calm wasn’t an act. It was control.
Chase was the opposite. Methodical. His gloves rested on the bench in front of him, laid out with surgical precision. He slid his hands in one finger at a time, adjusting the leather until it fit just right, eyes locked forward on some target only he could see.
I pulled my laces tight until the pressure bit into my ankles then tighter. Flexed forward, testing the give.
Scouts and coaches were in the building—jackets, clipboards, eyes that didn’t blink enough. Michigan. Boston. Wisconsin. Ohio. Harvard—to name just a few. Coach warned us before warmups—don’t screw around tonight. A few coaches had already reached out, letting me know they’d be there tonight.
The guys didn’t talk about it, not really. Jax didn’t need to—his game consisted of bruises and intimidation; scouts and coaches knew that already. Theo wore his usual half-lidded calm, as though the suits weren’t worth his energy, though I knew he clocked every detail. Chase tuned it out, locked into systems and positioning because that was who he was. And Logan? He looked jumpy, too aware of who might be watching.
I couldn’t ignore it. Every name landed, a marker on the ice. Michigan was the one that mattered.
My dad said Wharton. Philadelphia. Business first, last, always. I’d already played out the fights in my head. The lecturing. The spreadsheets. The pedigree speeches. If everything fell apart, fine—Berkeley, Harvard. They were respectable colleges and a degree he could stomach.
But Michigan was mine. One of the top D1 programs in the country, a team built on grit and legacy, the kind of place professional team scouts circled because half the roster ended up in the NHL. Their business school wasn’t Wharton, maybe not even Berkeley—but it held its own. More than enough. Michigan didn’t care who your father was, only how well you skated and how you did once you hit the ice. That was theweight I wanted. The noise. The chance to carve something that belonged to me.
And it wasn’t just mine. Back when things between us weren’t broken, Mila had talked about Michigan too—the art program there, the professor she admired, one of those rare names who actually made it in the industry and went back to teach. We’d joked about it, half-plan, half-dream, as if maybe we could end up in the same place without Blackwood tying us down. Now? Who knew what the future held.
I dropped my elbows to my knees and let the buzz sharpen. Mila flashed through me, a clean hit—how one brush of her hand could drop me to my knees faster than any check. She had no idea. Maybe I didn’t either until recently. It wasn’t weakness. It was the opposite. She could gut me with a look then make me believe I could take on the world anyway.
Coach kicked the door with his heel. “On me.” He swept the room from under that worn cap, every line in his face sayingdon’t be stupid. “Keep your heads where they need to be. Crestview’s going to come at you hard, but we win by staying disciplined. Don’t chase their hits, don’t get sucked into their scrums. Clean lines, quick transitions, make them play at our pace. And for the love of God, keep your asses out of the box—I don’t want to hand this game to them on penalties.”
Last time we played Crestview, Mason—their hammer, their golden boy—was out. The one who never saw a fight he didn’t back down from and made damn sure everyone saw him win it. He played as though it were street rules: elbows, bad intentions, no mercy. The kind of guy who’d throw an elbow behind the play then flash a grin, pretending he hadn’t just rattled your molars. Coaches let it slide. Scouts drooled over the raw edge. Now he was back, and the whole team played meaner with him on the ice. I didn’t care about the hype. I just wanted to hit him hard enough to make him remember who he was up against.
We filed out. Helmets clicked. Sticks tapped concrete, then boards, then ice. The cold hit my lungs, a slap that woke everything up.
Warmups were quick. Edgework. Transitions. One-timers until my hands remembered in a way my head didn’t need to. Students pounded on the glass, faces painted, signs shoved up with terrible handwriting. Scouts were visible this time—up in the elevated VIP box, center ice. Suits and quiet murmurs, their gazes locked on whoever they were here to watch. I didn’t care if it was me or Mason or someone else. Let them watch. I was already tracking every move Mason made. But it wasn’t just him I noticed.
Mila was in her usual seat. Next to Avery, on the other side of the plexiglass behind the bench. Hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. She wasn’t watching Mason. She was watching me.
National anthem. Helmets off, gloves tucked under arms. The arena stilled, breath held in one collective pause. My jaw tightened, lungs working slow, deliberate. Every nerve coiled, waiting for release.
When the last note faded, sticks cracked against the boards. Helmets back on. Gloves pulled tight. I skated to my mark and dragged the blade of my stick across the circle, carving a shallow groove only I would notice. Jax nudged my shoulder once. Ready.
The puck dropped and everything snapped into focus.
Mason lined up across from me.
They came fast. Wings who could fly and a defenseman who loved to pinch, trying to trap us early. My first shift put me on the right side, Theo at center, Jax on the left. Chase anchored the blue line—voice rough as gravel, directing without ever needing to raise it.
Faceoff win. Theo snapped the puck toward me, and their winger clamped me against the boards in a heartbeat—hipssolid, stick driving for the puck. I rolled with it, spun, kept my feet, chipped it past and chased, legs chewing up ice. First shot I took was just to send a message—low on the stick side, hard—but their goalie had good eyes. Kicked it into the corner. Fine—note taken.
Next rush, Mason made his move. Stick came down across mine so hard the vibration lit up my wrist. Ref’s arm shot up—two minutes for slashing. Didn’t bother him. He grinned as he skated to the box, as though he’d already won.
The tempo stayed brutal. We traded rushes. Our student section roared at everything and nothing. Then a bad bounce at our blue line turned into a footrace we lost. Their winger beat our second D pairing wide and slipped the puck under our goalie before he could close his pads. One–zero, them.
I didn’t look at the bench. Didn’t look at the clock. Took it like a body shot and skated back to center. Next play.
We answered five minutes later. Theo picked a pocket at neutral ice, flew across the blue with me trailing wide. He baited the D, slid it behind his heel. I snapped it without thinking—no dust, no drag. Top right, over the glove. Net.
Glass shook. We were even.
They tried to show off—started mouthing off in front of our net. The next shift, their captain slashed at the back of my legs after the whistle. Jax saw it. He didn’t drop gloves—Coach’s rule—but he planted the kid three seconds into the next play with a hit you could feel in your fillings. Clean. Shoulder through chest. Boards thundered. Whistles blew but no one called it. Crowd lost its mind.
By the end of the first it was 1–1. My lungs burned clean, the good kind of ache that told me I was in it.
On the bench, Coach leaned down. “They’re leaning on your side. Use it. Theo—sell the fake at the faceoff, then pull it the other way. Walker, keep your stick hot.”
