By the time warmups roll around the next afternoon, my heart won’t stay in my chest.
It’s not the crowd. It’s not the opponent. It’s the echo of my father’s voice in my head. Calm and poisonous always was his style. He’d called twice this morning. Said he was “coming to get what’s his.”
Aubrey isn’t his. Blood or not, she’s mine to protect.
I force the laces tighter, double-knot, then triple-knot like the pressure alone can keep me from breaking apart. The locker room hums with the guys’ building adrenaline. I look over at Rooks as he curses a stubborn skate blade. Glancing around the room at my team, I realize how out of it I’ve been not only this week, but this season. I don’t know these guys’ gameday routines or practice routines. Their superstitions. Hell, I don’t know most of their families.
Some captain I am.
Colton’s music can be heard through his earbuds, some country song that is at least a decade older than the boy. Thorn stalks the aisle.
“Eyes up today,” he says, voice steady and sure. “We have a job to do, and we protect our own.” His eyes travel as he speaks, but I hear the double meaning in his words. “We play our game. No passengers today.”
I tug my sweater over my pads and try to breathe through the cage. My phone’s buried in my bag, powered off, because if I look again, I’ll start checking the feed from the front door camera, and then I’ll be useless out there.
Oakley’s last text from an hour ago still lives behind my eyes anyway:
She’s painting ornaments with Hannah. I’m folding laundry. Pretend the puck is your dad’s face.
It wasn’t about danger. Just her knowing me well enough to pre-empt the way I pace. It should have soothed me. Instead, it made me think of their hands on glitter and string while mine are taped for a fight I can’t finish.
Rooks leans into my stall until his helmet thumps the metal. “You with me, Cap?”
“Yeah.” It comes out rough. I clear my throat and add, “Always.”
“Good. Because the kids are buzzing, and I need you loud if we’re going to keep them out of the box.”
I clip my chin strap, tap his shin pad with my stick as we all make our way into the tunnel. “We play clean.”
He snorts. “You’re a liar.”
It’s almost enough to tip my lips up, but I’m betting it looks more like a snarl. I’m not in the mood to let anyone skate through me tonight, and the guys can sense it.
We hit the mouth of the tunnel, and the cold moves up through my skates. The boards rattle with the excitement of the crowd.
When we step onto the ice, the air changes. Sound sharpens. Time stretches.
I take my lap, shoulders loosening with every stride. I do a quick edge check at the blue line and look up—habit, scan, find threats—and my heart jolts in a way that has nothing to do with hockey.
Row six. Center section. Right behind our bench.
Aubrey’s wearing my number. The sweater hangs off her like a dress, sleeves bunched in her fists. She’s grinning at me so hard she might crack. The teeth she’s been worrying with her tongue for a week are still stubbornly in place. Good. She’d kill me if I missed the loose one falling out.
Next to her, Oakley’s got her boot propped on the empty seat in front of her, crutches hooked on the railing. Not sure what I’d do if she had shown up without her crutches. Probably force her onto the bench by Thorn.
Yeah, they’d have both loved that.
There’s glitter on her cheekbone and paint on her knuckles. She’s pretending to watch warmups like she doesn’t see me looking. But then she lifts two fingers to the brim of a Voltage cap that sits a little crooked over her messy ponytail, and the corner of her mouth tilts up.
I didn’t ask them to come. I didn’t want them to feel like they had to, but seeing them in the stands ready to support me knocks some air back into my sails. It doesn’t hurt that I know Hannah and her K-9 partner are patrolling the venue.
As both teams hit the ice for the faceoff, I try to settle whatever worries I still feel. Then the puck drops, and everything simplifies.
Find the puck. Keep the puck. Score.
First shift, I chase it. I’m half a step behind on every read, brain flicking to the security keypad at home. Did I change the code on the garage door? Yes. Did I set the alert for forced entry to ping Thorn and his cousin who’s the sheriff? Yes. Did I—
“Head up!” Rooker yells, and the pass hits my stick. I fumble, recover, dump it deep because I’m late on the entry.
