The momentum shifts. We’re back in the game, pushing Denver harder, forcing them into mistakes. The third period begins with the score tied 2-2, the arena electric with possibility.
My shoulder is aching, a dull throb that intensifies with each shift. I ignore it. Coach eyes me suspiciously but doesn’t pull me. He knows what’s at stake—not just this game, but my confidence, my identity.
With five minutes left, we get a power play. Coach sends me out with the first unit—a vote of confidence that makes my chest tight with emotion. We set up in the offensive zone, passing the puck around the perimeter, looking for an opening.
I find myself with the puck at the half-wall, Denver’s penalty killers collapsing toward me. Instead of forcing a shot, I spot our defenseman sneaking in from the point. The passing lane is tight, threaded between two defenders. It’s a high-risk play, the kind I wouldn’t have attempted in the first period.
But I’m not the same player I was one period ago.
I thread the pass through, the puck sliding perfectly onto Zimmerman’s stick. He one-times it past the goalie before anyone can react.
3-2 Boise.
The arena explodes. My teammates celebrate at center ice while I glide back to the bench, trying not to wince as pain radiates from my shoulder down my arm. Worth it. So fucking worth it.
The minutes tick down with excruciating slowness. Denver presses, desperate to tie the game. We bend but don’t break, clearing pucks, blocking shots, sacrificing bodies.
Coach sends me out for a defensive zone face-off. Another show of trust that means more than he could know.
“Just win the draw,” he says as I hop over the boards. “Nothing fancy.”
I nod, settling into the circle opposite Denver’s center. Not Jonah this time—he’s on the bench, watching with the intensity of someone who hates losing more than he loves winning. I know that feeling intimately.
The linesman drops the puck. I win it clean, pushing it back to our defenseman. Relief floods through me as he clears it down the ice. That’s when I see him coming—number 44 for Denver, all six-foot-four, two-hundred-twenty pounds of him, charging like a freight train with bad intentions—as always. I brace for impact, turning to take the hit on my good side.
My skate catches a rut in the ice, turning me just enough that when 44 connects, it’s my bad shoulder that connects in the collision.
The arena spins as I crumple to the ice, my stick clattering away. Through the haze, I hear the whistle, the crowd’s gasp, the concerned shouts of my teammates.
“Kingston’s down,” the announcer’s voice says, the concern evident even through the PA system.
But I check my shoulder, and I’m pretty sure it’s fine. I think at the angle I hit, my back took most of the brute force. Either that, or somehow I’ve lost all feeling in it. I don’t know, but worse than that, my head’s not right. So much my vision blurs, and I can’t see.
Our trainer appears beside me, his face grim. “Can you move it?” he asks quietly.
I can but tell him I don’t know because I need a reason to get off this ice. With his help, I make it to my feet. The crowd applauds—that tentative, concerned applause reserved for injured players who can still stand. I raise my good arm in acknowledgment, forcing a smile I don’t feel.
My vision returns as I skate toward the tunnel, the game resuming behind me, and I catch sight of Sydney. The color has drained from her face, her hand covering her mouth. Our eyes meet across the distance, and in that moment, all the walls between us crumble. I see her fear, her concern. Her love.
The tunnel swallows me, the sounds of the game fading behind me. In the locker room, the medical staff waits, faces serious. I sit heavily on the bench, allowing them to help me remove my jersey, to probe the damaged shoulder with careful fingers.
I tell them it’s not bad, I’m fine, but I need a break. After an assessment, I’m cleared to head back to the ice.
But I can’t go back in. I need to get my head right.
34
Locker Room Talk
SYDNEY
The locker room smells like sneakers and sweat—a pungent cocktail of testosterone and funk. I hover at the entrance, my press pass clutched in my hand like a lifeline, wondering if I’ve finally lost my mind. Three days ago, I was clutching a cardboard box of my career remains and drinking wine straight from the bottle while sobbing to Adele. Yesterday, I was interviewing for this job at KBSN, Boise Sports Network, and today, I’m doing my first sportscast at The Boise Arena, with a brand new job and city to live in. One that’s close to Dickens and my heart.
The quick turnaround will make moving a bitch, but I’ll figure it out.
Professional distance evaporates,and I cross the room, ignoring the curious glances from the staff readying towels and gear. I head to the back, and through the glass doors of a sauna with the heat off, I see him, icing his shoulder, still half in his gear, staring at nothing. His chest heaves with short, rapid breaths, his face ashen beneath the flush of exertion. I recognize the signs immediately—the same panic that’s gripped me countless times, turning the world into a swirling, suffocating nightmare.
My heart lurches painfully. Brooks is in there having a full-blown panic attack. The same man who once took a slapshot to the face and finished the game with stitches and a smile.
