Austen.
He wasn’t cheering, didn’t have a foam finger.Watching, as if the whole sheet of ice were another chalkboard and he planned to grade it.
The ref tapped my pad.“Ready, goalie.”
I nodded and shuffled back into the crease, pulse louder than the drums.
We led 3–0 with thirty-nine seconds left when their coach yanked the goalie.Six skaters swarmed.Caribou won the draw, swung it to the far point, quick D-to-D, then a low snap pass to the back door like the film warned.I launched across, right pad flat.The shooter tried to roof it; puck clipped my mask cage and ricocheted into the corner.
The horn chased the rebound, and helmets slammed my shoulders—Ryan, Javier, and a couple guys whose names I hadn’t pinned yet.The bench emptied.I stayed upright long enough to tap both posts, then let myself believe the scoreboard.
FINAL: NRU 3 – CSU 0.
The building shook.Through the mess of gloves and blockers, I glanced north again.Austen was on his feet now, still silent, hands in his pockets.He turned to the woman next to him, said something, and was already moving toward the exit.
The locker room was a riot.
It smelled of victory, which mostly meant champagne (cheap stuff Ryan had smuggled in), sweat, and someone’s Axe body spray.Someone needed to put a stop to that nonsense… fast.Had to be a freshman.No adult would wear that stuff unless their goal was to repel the opposite sex.
Someone cranked the stereo to a level that vibrated my fillings.The bass line of a hip-hop track thudded against the metal lockers.
Ryan stood on a bench, shirtless, whipping a towel around his head like a helicopter rotor.
“That’s how we do it in our house!”he screamed, his voice cracking.“That’s how we do it!Whose house?!”
“OUR HOUSE!”the team roared back, twenty voices merging into one primal shout.
I put the catcher and blocker on the bench before peeling off my mask, hair plastered to my forehead.My ears were ringing.
Javier Morales slammed into me, wrapping me in a headlock.
“You stone-cold bastard!”Javier yelled into my ear.“That glove save?Are you kidding me?You’re a freak!”
“Let go, Javi,” I wheezed, laughing despite myself.“I need oxygen.”
He released me, slapping my chest protector hard enough to make a hollowthud.“First star, Carter.First star.You earned the shower beer.”
He tossed a can of cheap light lager at me.I caught it, fumbled it slightly before gripping the cold aluminum.
“Drink!Drink!Drink!”the guys chanted, pounding their sticks on the rubber floor.
I cracked the tab.Foam spilled over my jersey.I took a swig—warm and tasted like horse piss, but in that moment, the best thing I’d ever tasted.
I looked around the room.Chaos.Loud.Everything I was supposed to want.
But my head was pounding.The adrenaline was crashing, leaving behind a jagged edge of exhaustion.
Coach Harper stepped onto the rubber flooring.Conversations clipped instantly.The music didn’t stop, but someone turned the volume down to a dull roar.And the guys hid the alcohol and Coach pretended not to notice.
“Solid work,” she said, voice carrying.“Glove transition still late on high cycles—fix it before Tuesday.Once you’re showered and changed, I’ll need O’Connell and Morales for press.”
Then, she turned and looked at me.“Good start, Carter.I won’t make you step in front of the press tonight, but I can guarantee you’ll receive a few emails to your student email account.Just politely forward any of them to the Athletic Department’s media account.Don’t respond directly.We don’t want to encourage that behavior.”She turned to leave.Without looking behind she said, “And make sure you take any evidence of the alcohol with you.You know you can’t have that stuff on school grounds.”
She retreated.Chaos resumed—music back up, yelling, towels snapped like whips.
I showered fast, let scalding water hit the bruise on my shoulder, then dressed in jeans and a fresh team hoodie.My phone lit up with celebratory pings; the screen showed three missed calls from Dad, one unread text from Mom-figure #4 in New Jersey, and a group chat exploding with demon emojis.
I responded to none of it.
