“Alright!” he bellows, clapping his hands together. “Bring it in.”
We form a loose semicircle around him, shoulder-to-shoulder, helmet-to-helmet. Regardless of the plan for me to stay benched for the majority of the game, you never know what’s going to happen, and I’m still dressed like the rest of them. The sound settles into something low and collective as Coach’s eyes sweep over us all.
“The Reapers are gonna play dirty tonight. You know it, I know it. They’re coming off a loss, and they’re hungry. Butyou,” he points the end of his marker at the group, “you’re better than them. Faster. Smarter.Meaner.”
Gordo nods like he’s ready to bite someone.
“Keep your heads and remember what I told you: no cheap shots, and no stupid penalties,” Coach continues. “Play the puck. Support each other, and make sure you lock the neutral zone. We stay tight, we win this.”
Then he looks at me.
“You sit until I say otherwise,” he growls. “You get one shift.One. That’s the deal.”
I nod once.
“Understood.”
Theo elbows me subtly. It’s a silent warning:don’t push.
Coach finishes with a bark: “Let’s get it done.”
Gloves slide tight as sticks thud against the floor, and my heart thumps in a familiar way.
This is the moment it always becomes real.
*
The tunnel to the ice is narrow, but brighter than ours back home. Red River spent a shit load of money on this place not too long ago; filling it with polished concrete underfoot and LED strips that run the length of the ceiling in their team colors. We’ve played here a dozen times, but it never stops feeling like walking into enemy territory.
Cold air blasts toward us, and the hum of thousands of fans rolls through the walls: a low roar, layered with heckling, chanting, plastic thunder sticks smacking together in uneven rhythm. Lights flash across the rafters, bright white strobes that pulse with the bass of the arena speakers. The Reapers have a habit of turning pre-game into a show, as though it’ll hide the fact their defense collapses under pressure.
Someone from warmups slams into the glass, and the boards shudder beneath the hit, sending a vibration straight through the tunnel floor.
Good. Let them get their early-game ego out.
Theo steps onto the rubber mat first, stick balanced in one hand. Marco and Connor follow, laughing under their breaths about something as Gordo and Dylan file in behind them, mid-argument about who’s going to get the first shot on net.
I take up the rear, helmet off, gloves dangling from my fingers, letting the cold sting my face.
The tunnel opens, and for a second, the full arena hits like a punch. Home fans pack out most of the stands, a sea of navy and white. Their crow mascot parades along the glass banging a drum, its creepily oversized foam break snapping in mockaggression. Kids lean over the railings waving signs, and some even shout my name—half cheers, half jeers.
“WOLFE! SHOW US THE BAD SHOULDER!”
Huh. Real classy.
The starters hop over the boards and settle into warm-up laps, catching sight of Reapers players doing the same. There’s the usual tension: a few rivalries, and a few grudging friendships. Theo fist-bumps one of their defensemen he played juniors with as Connor chirps one of their forwards about his haircut. I don’t miss the way that Marco shoulder checks a guy a little too hard “by accident” as I drop onto the bench, settling into the familiar rhythm with an elbow on my knee and my eyes scanning the sheet of ice; tracking movement, watching stride lengths, checking for tight hips, misaligned shoulders, or signs of fatigue.
I pointedly don’t look at the tunnel. I don’t look at the corridor, either. I don’t look for—
Goddamn it.
There she is.
Emery cuts around the corner, slipping past the trainer and the arena medic with her bag slung over one shoulder and her jacket zipped high to her chin. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold air, her dark hair tucked into a beanie, and her sweet omega scent threads through the cold air like something alive.
She takes the tiny gap next to the team medics, moving past the extra equipment and closer to me. She’s right where she has the perfect view of the ice, and where I can’t pretend I don’t notice her.
She glances at me briefly, professional and neutral, but her eyes flick over my taped shoulder with a precision that feels like a touch. My instincts prickle, and I shove them down.
