The locker room buzzes with pre-game energy—guys taping sticks, adjusting pads, engaging in the rituals that separate winners from losers. At least, that’s what we tell ourselves. The truth is messier, more complicated.
“Kingston!” Coach Barrymore slaps my goodshoulder, his face a mixture of hope and concern. “How’re you feeling?”
“Great,” I lie, the word so automatic it might as well be printed on my hockey card. Great. Fine. Ready to go. The mantras of a professional athlete, repeated until they become a form of self-hypnosis.
“Remember the plan.” He lowers his voice so the others can’t hear. “Easy minutes. No heroics. We’re just getting you back into the flow.”
I nod, but we both know it’s bullshit. There are no “easy minutes” against the Denver Blizzards. Especially not with Jonah Holt on their roster—my best friend, the guy who gave me his blessing to pursue his sister, even in my situation, now my opponent on the ice.
“How’s Maisie doing?” Coach’s eyes soften.
“Better than ever,” I say, which is true. Now that all’s forgiven and she has her health, she’s also loving community service. They gave her the “job” of playing cards with those at the retirement home.
Please.She’s lucky she’s so charming.
Coach nods, satisfied. “Good. Team needs you, King.”
Right now, the nickname sends a pang through my chest. A title I’ve worn since college, earned through blood and bruises and countless hours of practice. A title that might not be mine much longer if my shoulder gives out again. Or my health.
I finish suiting up, each piece of equipment sliding into place with practiced ease. The routine steadies me, pushes back the doubts. Shoulder pads. Elbow pads. Jersey—the blue and gray of the Trout, number 9, KINGSTON emblazoned across my back. The weight of it feels both familiar and foreign, like returning to my childhood home, the one down the hill from Meema, that’s now occupied by strangers.
“Thirty seconds, gentlemen!” the assistant coach calls out.
My stomach knots as I grab my stick, the custom-weighted Bauer that’s an extension of my arm after all these years. Around me, my teammates form our traditional tunnel, sticks raised to create an archway leading to the ice.
McDavid catches my eye. “Good to have you back, Kingston.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
And then we’re moving, the tunnel of sticks giving way to the open expanse of the arena. The roar hits me like a physical force—thousands of voices merged into one deafening wall of sound. Blue and gray fills my vision, fans on their feet, banners waving. A sea of humanity united in their hope that we—that I—won’t let them down.
“And returning to the ice after a nine-week absence,” the announcer’s voice booms, “Boise’s own number nine, BROOKS ‘THE KING’ KINGSTON!”
The crowd erupts, the noise cranking up another impossible notch. Signs wave in the stands—”LONG LIVE THE KING” and “WELCOME BACK KINGSTON.” My throat tightens. These people believe in me, in the myth of me. The indestructible hockey star who always comes through in the clutch.
I raise my stick in acknowledgment. The weight of their expectations presses down on me, heavier than it ever has.
We circle the ice in warm-up, and I test my shoulder, taking soft shots, making easy passes. It holds. For now. The Denver players eye me from their half of the rink, assessing, calculating. They know I’m the weak link. The wounded animal. Hockey players can smell blood in the water better than sharks.
That’s when I see her.
At first, I think I’m hallucinating—some desperate projection of my subconscious. But no, it’s really her. Sydney Holt, standing rinkside with a KBSN microphone, her blond hair swept back in that professional look she always wears on camera. My heart stutters mid-stride, nearly sending me sprawling onto the ice.
What the actual fuck?
Jonah made it sound like Sydney was turning down the offer from KSLA and staying at KBVR. I thought she was more than happy to be home where she belongs. But here she is, in Boise, looking like everything I’ve been trying not to dream about since our world imploded.
Our eyes meet across the ice, and for a moment, time stops. The crowd fades to a distant hum, the arena shrinks to just the space between us. Her professional mask slips for just a second—surprise, maybe even pain, flickering across her features before she rebuilds the wall. She gives me a small, tight nod. Professional. Distant. Like we’re acquaintances, not two people who’ve seen each other naked in more ways than one.
My brain short-circuits, scenarios rapid-firing: she took a job in Boise?
“Earth to Kingston,” McDavid snaps, skating past me. “Game time, lover boy. Eye on the puck, not the press.”
Right. The game. The reason I’m here, risking what’s left of my shoulder and my career. I tear my eyes away from Sydney, forcing my focus back to the ice, to the warm-up drills, to the impending face-off. But her presence is like a magnet, constantly pulling me back in.
The warm-up ends, and we gather at the bench. Coach Barrymore goes through the usual pre-game speech, emphasizing defensive positioning, clean zone entries, staying out of the penalty box. I hear maybe every third word,my mind still reeling from seeing her.
“Kingston.” Coach’s voice cuts through my fog. “Ten minutes max per period. No penalty kill. If it starts to hurt, you’re done. No arguments.”
