On my next shift, I hunt the puck, not the man that I want to take out. When their veteran gets it on his tape near the half wall, I don’t blow him up like I want. I strip the puck from him without so much as a shoulder check.
It’s like the building takes a collective breath as they watch us battle it out. Stick on stick until the puck is gone, and then I’m gone, too, legs pumping and lungs burning. It’s just me, my stick, and the puck.
I cut inside the last defender, fake out the goalie, and tuck it back short side with a flick I haven’t trusted in months.
The place explodes.
I don’t hear my name. I don’t point to anyone. I don’t even smile. I skate through it, bumping fists past the bench, until I climb the half wall and let my forehead rest on the curved glass for one second. It’s cold. It’s real, I realize, as my eyes go straight to row six. Aubrey is on her feet, both arms thrown up, sign forgotten, mouth a perfect O around a scream I can’t hear. Oakley is laughing, head tipped back, the kind of sound that used to live in my kitchen like a light.
She catches me looking and mouths,That’s my captain.
I don’t deserve the wordmy. It still hits anyway.
As we head into the third period, we’re leading 2-1. They win the faceoff and try to wear us down by keeping us in their end for two minutes straight. I eat a puck off the knee but don’t feel it until I’m back on the bench. The pain proves I’m here.
Thorn keeps our minutes heavy. He doesn’t ask if we’re good. He assumes, because that’s the job.
I am good. Finally. Not because the anger’s gone, but because I’ve given it a lane and told it to stay between the lines.
With ninety seconds left and an empty net across from me, their coach tries to get clever with a mismatch. I jump over the boards before Thorn calls my name, and he doesn’t stop me. The puck pops free near our blue line, and for a stupid heartbeat, I consider trying to play hero alone.
Instead, I chip it to Rooks and let him cash it, because that’s what he needed after the hit—the reward for staying on his edges when that dude rang his bell.
When the horn finally rings for good, I don’t know if I’ve exhaled in twenty minutes.
We tap gloves. I leave my stick with the trainer, because my hands are shaking and it’s easier to pretend I need to get to the room quick. I cut the corner of the bench and look up once more to row six.
They’re making their way down. Aubrey skips down the steps like they’re a game of their own, one hand in Oakley’s, the other out for balance. Oakley’s careful on the crutches as she keeps both tucked under one arm. People move aside for them without being asked. Who knows if it’s smalltown manners or Voltage loyalty.
“Cap!” Some kid slaps the glass near the tunnel. “Cap! You’re a beast!”
Not tonight. Tonight, I’m a man who finally found a place to put it.
In the locker room, it’s the usual chaos: gloves off, pads tossed, media guy getting swatted away with wet towels. Thorn does the shortest post-game of the year: “Better.” That’s all. We don’t need more.
I strip down to shorts and a T-shirt and sit for a second with my elbows on my knees until the buzzing in my muscles stops. Rooks drops onto the stall next to me, hair stuck up at stupid angles.
“You back?” he asks.
“For now.”
He nods like that’s all either of us can ask.
There’s a knock at the back door of the room before our ops guy sticks his head in. “Family is all on the secure side.”
My chest does that weird jump again. Family. That’s what we’ve made, isn’t it? Me, Aubrey, and Oakley Kate.
I stand, and my legs remind me I’m not twenty. The knee I blocked with is already thinking about swelling. I ignore the throb as I grab a towel and head down the short hall that leads to the little concrete room where the security gate is.
Aubrey barrels into me at a speed that would draw an interference call on the ice. I catch her under the arms and haul her up, pretending her weight is nothing. The grunt that follows earns a snort from Oakley Kate.
“You did it!” Aubrey mumbles into my neck. “You were like—” She pulls back and mimics my goal with sound effects that are ninety percent spit.
“Thanks for the expert analysis, kid.” I drop a kiss on her temple and breathe in the moment. “Where’s your sign?”
She twists to show it tucked under her arm, glitter raining down on my shoulder. “I almost dropped it when you scored, but Kate saved it.” She beams. “She said glitter is forever.”
“Unfortunately,” I say, glancing at Oakley.
