It felt strange, but good.
On the ice, Heath took his position. His knees were bent this time. His eyes moved, tracking threats instead of tracking the puck. When the play came his way, he didn't freeze—he shifted, adjusted, and stayed between his man and the net the way he was supposed to.
He didn't get hit. The game kept going. Minutes later, the buzzer sounded, and the world exploded.
Final score: Storm 4, Wolves 2. Victory.
I was over the boards before my brain caught up with my legs, skating into the scrum at center ice, where bodies werealready piling up in that beautiful chaos of celebration. Someone grabbed me—Desrosiers, I think—and spun me around. Someone else pounded my back hard enough to rattle my teeth. The crowd screamed.
I screamed back.
Not words. Noise.
Hog caught me in a hug that lifted my skates off the ice. "Good game, gremlin."
"Good game yourself, old man."
He set me down and shoved my helmet sideways. I shoved him back. Neither of us stopped smiling.
The ice was chaos—beautiful, earned chaos. Jake had Evan in a headlock that was probably supposed to be a hug. Heath stood at the edge of the group, looking overwhelmed and thrilled and like he might cry, which meant someone needed to tackle him immediately. I volunteered.
"YOU SURVIVED!" I slammed into him hard enough to stagger us both. "You're official now. No returns."
Heath laughed. "I barely did anything."
"You got up. That's everything." I grabbed his helmet with both hands and made him look at me. "Welcome to the Storm, rookie."
His eyes were bright. He blinked fast and looked away.
I let him. Some moments needed room to breathe.
The crowd kept roaring. Sticks tapped the ice. Somewhere in the stands, someone had started a chant—"Storm Warning, Storm Warning"—and it spread like fire, a rhythmic stomp-stomp-clap that rattled the glass.
I spun in a slow circle, arms out, taking it all in.
It was everything. This was the reason I'd learned to skate before I could read, and why I'd spent my childhood in frozen rinks while other kids were doing whatever normal kids did.
I wanted to hold it. Bottle it. Keep it somewhere safe for the days when my brain wouldn't stop telling me I was one bad shift away from being forgotten.
I looked toward the tunnel.
Adrian was there.
Half in shadow. Camera up, lens pointed at the ice.
At the celebration. At me.
The world narrowed.
The crowd noise faded to static, and the bodies around me blurred. The cold, the sweat, and the ache in my legs—all of it dimmed until there was nothing left but him.
He wasn't moving. He was just watching.
No.
He was seeing.
The way he'd seen me in the parking lot with Biscuit.
