Control matters now more than ever. My ritual is intact. My boundaries hold. Nothing gets through.
I stand. The gear groans, leather and plastic shifting like armor flexing around my bones. I grab my stick and tap the blade twice against the metal locker.Clack. Clack.Helmet next. Two fingers hook through the cage bars—rigid metal shifting against padding before I lift it free.
The air changes as I near the tunnel. Colder. Sharper. Threaded with ice and disinfectant. An electric whine hums from the lights, flickering faintly—too subtle for anyone else, impossible for me to ignore. Shadows stretch long down the narrowing hallway. Every sound—gear creaking, breath behind the cage—amplifies in that hollow space between my heartbeat and the ice.
I step into the tunnel. A lone sentinel in a narrowing world.
Locker room chaos fades, swallowed by the crowd’s distant roar—an animal pacing behind a door. Pads creak, weight settling on my shoulders like a heavy burden. Light shifts from sterile fluorescents to cold blue leaking through the end of the tunnel. Noise swells—drums, chants, clapping—and then it breaks open all at once.
I step out. The man falls away. The goalie takes his place.
First step onto the sheet—shock of cold, razor-sharp, biting at exposed skin. I lower my helmet; the strap clicks, sealing me inside. My blades bite the ice, carving scars into it. A mark of dominance. My claim. The gear settles, heavy and grounding. This is the only place that makes sense. The only sanctuary I have.
The world collapses into a rectangle of white.
Outside, noise sharpens. A puck slams against the boards—gunshot crack. Skates carve in a relentless rhythm—shh-shh-shh, slicing air. Drills whistle from the far end.
Focus. Pattern. Rhythm.
I skate a slow circle in my crease. My territory. Six feet by four. My job is to bleed for it. My privilege is to die for it.
The team blurs around me—navy, light blue, silver. Speed, chaos, precision. They move with urgency. I wait with purpose. They chase. I hold the line. My mind turns to machine—cold, clean, ruthless. I track the puck. Watch angles. Calculate probabilities.
A shot rings off the post.Ping.One.
Another drill—shot screams in, hits the bar.Thud.Two.
A stray puck whizzes past—Ping.Three.
There. Now. My glove meets the post, a familiar connection. My stick taps left, taps right. Order snaps back into place.
They call us headcases. Freaks. Voodoo priests. They’re not wrong. You have to be half-insane to stand in front of frozen rubber flying a hundred miles an hour. But I’m not insane. I’m in control.
Control is my religion. The crease is my church. The posts are my gods.
“Reid! Square up! Watch the fucking backdoor!” Coach Addison’s voice slices through the noise—sharp, commanding, a blade that cuts deeper than any puck.
I don’t look. I never do. I lift my chin, stick thudding against the ice in acknowledgment. The tone needles under my skin—too close to command, too close to pressure. I file it away, armor tightening around my ribs.
I drop into butterfly. Pads connect—solid. Low shot. Glove snatch.Thwack.Another puck: I kick it to the corner, effortless instinct, but I feel the weight of expectation deep in my bones. I don’t look at the scoreboard. Never before the anthem.
Everything feels precise. Sharp. Ordered. The scrape of skates. The distant call of a defenseman.
Pressure is a privilege. That’s what they say. But it’s a lie.
Lull. The team gathers for the final stretch. I drift back to my crease, rolling my shoulders, cracking stiffness out of my neck. My gaze skims the stands. Habit. Not curiosity.Threat assessment. Exits. The student section—drunk, sloppy, predictable. Any disruptions. Any break in pattern.
And then I see her.
Section 104. Three rows up. Off-center from my net.
She stands out like a dropped stitch in perfect symmetry. The chaos around her is an ocean, arms waving, phones flashing, drinks sloshing—but she remains unmoving. Stillness carved into the storm. A pocket of calm amidst battle.
That’s my thing. Silence is my territory, and she’s standing right in the middle of it. An irresistible anomaly.
She’s an anchor in the hurricane. Wrong. Off-pattern. A challenge I didn’t expect and don’t want. Dark jacket pulled tight like a restraint. Brown hair—almost black—bangs casting shadows over her face. A quiet desperation knotted tight with beauty. No cheering. No movement.
Just watching. Me.
