Then I saw Heath.
Legs and arms a little too long. Freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose. A smile that looked almost accidental.
I couldn't stop watching his throat when he swallowed.
The bar felt smaller as he moved closer.
I shoved off toward the boards, skating hard enough that my thighs screamed for mercy.
Heath tensed and made himself smaller when I said he'd played well in preseason. Like he didn't quite believe me when I spoke the truth.
I'd pushed back. Told him it wasn't charity. And Heath had gone still. His eyes steady on mine, deciding whether to believeme. My skin had gone hot. Face, throat, the back of my neck. Not subtle. Not safe.
My phone buzzed again. This time I skated to the bench and looked.
Three missed calls. Two texts. One headline notification.
Agent:Kier! Let's connect tmrw. Wheels are turning. Big things coming.
Scrolled past it.
The headline loaded.
IRONHAWKS' OPENING NIGHT: CAN DONNELLY PUSH MATHERS FOR ICE TIME?
Read it twice.
I'd been expecting articles like that. Heath and I played the same position. Media saw us as legacy versus raw hunger. Analysts would frame it as internal competition, like the coaching staff was running some kind of Darwinian experiment to see who deserved the most minutes.
"With contract talks looming for Mathers and roster uncertainty for Donnelly, opening night could set the tone for who really belongs on that top wing."
I clenched my teeth. The story was neat. Marketable.
It was also entirely wrong.
We weren't competing. Heath wasn't pushing me, and I wasn't defending anything.
Imagining otherwise was catnip to the media. An easy invention. It cast me as an obstacle for Heath, the gatekeeper between a kid and his dream.
Another lap. Faster this time. I bore down. Edges sharp. Weight transfer seamless.
My body executed on autopilot. No adjustments needed. No thought required.
Perfect.
That's what people said about my game.He plays the right way. Never out of position. High hockey IQ.
Translation:He does what he's supposed to.
They praised me that way my entire life. Disciplined. Reliable.
I used to think it mattered.
Now, I thought about Heath standing in net-front traffic during preseason. He'd planted himself just outside the crease. Elbows out, skates wide. Their defenseman leaned into him hard enough to move most players, but Heath absorbed the contact and kept his stick active.
When the puck squirted loose, he'd been precisely where he needed to be. He didn't drift when traffic got uncomfortable. He stayed to finish the play.
I'd watched from the bench, expecting him to get knocked down. Instead, he stayed there. Stubborn and absolutely committed to being where he was supposed to be, even if it hurt.
