Their D takes a cheap shot that rubs my shoulder against the glass harder than necessary. I don’t take the bait. Not yet. I peel off, push the puck out to (NAME), and try to stay open. The puck pops free of the boards, and Colton whacks at it like he’s chopping wood. It dies under the goalie’s glove.
Whistle. Freeze. Reset.
Back at the dot, I force a breath in, then out. Okay. Enough. Put it where it belongs.
The next draw is clean. Rooks wins the puck, almost sending it too deep, but our defenseman keeps it in our zone. I win it back, rotate to the net front, and take a crosscheck to the shoulder blades that make my teeth buzz. The refs don’t call the penalty, so I keep driving forward.
When the shot comes, I get my stick on it just enough to change the angle. It’s all crossbar, too far left. I swallow the groan and fight for the rebound.
Both teams trade chances and hits through the rest of the period. I keep it clean like I promised—mostly. I finish every check. I finish every backcheck. I finish every thought with the same sentence: She’s here. They’re here. Keep them here.
On the bench, I drink water I don’t want and stare out at the crowd until I find them again. Aubrey’s dangling a homemade sign over the railing that saysGO CAPin bubble letters, glitter piled so thick it probably weighs more than the poster board can handle. Oakley leans in to say something to her, and Aubs nods like she’s being given a secret mission.
My chest loosens. For one shift. Then the vise returns.
Between periods, Thorn doesn’t say much. He doesn’t have to.
“Good structure,” he tells the room. “Better at our line changes. Keep legs short. Crash their blue. Harrison—”
I meet his eyes.
“Skate the sheet you’ve got. Make it the one you want.”
There’s no arguing with that. I nod and tape my stick blade again even though the tape is fine.
Rooks bumps my shoulder, quiet. “Breathe, big guy.”
“I am breathing.”
“Uh-huh.” He swigs from his bottle, wipes his mouth with the back of his glove. “Then stop breathing like a freight train’s parked on your chest.”
Chapter 32
Silas
The second period starts with a shove I’ve been expecting. Their top line decides to test whether my legs got left in the room. They try to stretch us north, lean on our weak side, run a set faceoff play that’s worked on three other teams this preseason.
Not us. I studied this team’s film, memorized what I could, then passed that knowledge along to the guys.
I jump the route before their winger completes his curl and pick off the pass with enough time to look the goalie in the eye from the top of the circle. His huge body fills the net. No shot.
So, I hold, hold, hold, until their center commits to me, then slide it to Colton on the weak side, flat and mean. He rips it. Bar down this time, not out.
The horn goes, and my world cracks open just enough to let in something like relief.
I don’t go to the glass, but my eyes travel just behind the bench. I skate to Colton, tap his helmet with the heel of my glove, and tell him what he already knows: “Best damn play I’ve seen all night.”
He grins around his mouth guard, a baby still, but hungry for more. “Thanks, Cap.”
The next few shifts are work. Nothing special. It’s the kind of minutes we train for. Keep the routes tight. Keep the sticks clean. Keep your mouth shut unless it’s to call a switch or defend our own.
Then it happens. One of their veterans decides he’s tired of being boxed out by me and takes a late run at Rooks instead. Blindsided, Rooks eats the boards and slides down it. I know he’s fine, because he pops up quick, but I see red anyway.
For a breath, the anger and the threat I thought I’d locked away scratch at the door.
Open it, and I hurt someone else. Close it, and I hurt me.
I choose the middle ground. I choose hockey.
