Atlas is the opposite.He doesn’t tap.Doesn’t wave.Doesn’t smile.He scans.Always scanning.He makes a slow loop around the near circle, shoulders rolling beneath his pads like the tension inside him is coiling tighter with every stride.But when he passes me, his gaze flicks down—quick, sharp, checking.Making sure I’m here.Making sure I’m okay.
Kael skates past without a single acknowledgment, but I’ve learned that means nothing.He’s locked in, steady, orchestrating the ice like it’s his second language.He fires a pass cross-ice, tape-to-tape, then positions his hips so perfectly for the next angle that I swear he sees plays three seconds before they happen.
The anthem blares.Lights dim.The place explodes.
And then—
The puck drops.
The sound hits first: the roar of twenty thousand voices punching the air at once when Finn wins the opening draw with a quick flick of his wrist.He dances through two defenders before the shift even settles.I’ve seen him skate a hundred times.I’ve never seen him skate like this.
He looks wild.Free.Elusive.
Beautiful, if I’m being honest.
Atlas’s line jumps over next.The opposing winger tries to cut through center ice and Atlas meets him chest-on.The thud shakes the glass and sends the man sprawling.The entire arena reacts—half outrage, half awe.Atlas doesn’t even glance back.He just pivots, digs in, and drives the puck back out of the zone.
The energy floods into my bloodstream like adrenaline injected straight into a vein.
“Trainer!”one of the rookies calls, lifting his stick in the familiar signal.
I’m already moving, grabbing a fresh visor cloth and sliding along the bench.He leans down so I can wipe a smear of sweat and snow off his cage.It takes three seconds.By the time I hand him water, the play is already turning.
Kael’s on the ice again.
His presence changes everything.
Lines shift.
Opponents reroute.
Even the crowd quiets for a second, like they can feel the ice rearranging around him.
He wins a battle along the boards, kicks the puck free with his skate, then feathers a pass to the slot so effortless it looks accidental—until Finn appears out of nowhere, collects it, and snaps a shot that rings off the post.
The entire bench groans.
Finn circles back and taps the glass right where I stand.
As if he’s saying:
Saw you flinch.
It was cute.
I swallow a laugh.
The game builds like a storm cell—pressure rising, lines shifting, the ice a blur of color and speed and muscle.I work nonstop.Water.Towels.Tape.Adjusting a loose lace.Checking a shoulder that smacked the boards too hard.
The Reapers get a power play late in the first.Kael quarterbacking it from the blue line, hands steady on his stick.Finn darts in and out, playing keep-away with three guys like he enjoys making them chase him.Atlas plants himself net-front, a wall in human form.
The puck cycles.
Kael fakes a shot.
Defenders bite.
Finn snaps it cross-crease to Atlas.
