Heavier—because this time, I’m starting to understand what it might cost me.
Coach McCarthy strides in, whiteboard in hand, and the room goes quiet. “Listen up. Harvard’s fast on the transition. We shut down their neutral zone, we win. Simple as that.” He maps out the defensive coverage, calling out assignments. When he gets to my line, he pauses. “O’Connor. I need your head in this. You’ve been somewhere else all week.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Tonight, you’re here. Understood?”
“Understood.”
He moves on, but the words sit in my chest.You’ve been somewhere else.
Yeah. I have.
The thing is, I don’t even know where “somewhere else” is. Some lab where a girl with graphite-stained fingers tells me my voice sounds orange. Some dojo where she moves through forms like physics made flesh. Some imaginary breakfast table where she finally says yes and I get to see that dimple again.
“All right, boys, bring it in!” Mason’s voice cuts through my spiral. We huddle up, gloves in the center. “One, two, three?—”
“IRON HOUNDS!”
The roar echoes off concrete. We file out toward the tunnel, skates clicking on rubber mats, and the sound of the arena hits—seven thousand people, half of them already screaming our names.
The Dog Pound erupts when we take the ice.
I scan the student section out of habit, even though I know she’s not there. Red and white everywhere, faces painted, signs waving. Someone’s holding a poster with my number and a bad pun about scoring. A group of girls near the glass scream when I skate past.
She’s not here. You know she’s not here. Stop looking.
The puck drops.
We play well.Not great, but well.
Harvard comes out fast like McCarthy warned, but we adjust. I pick up an assist on Dalton’s goal in the first,then another on Reed’s wrister in the second. The crowd’s electric, chanting, pounding the boards every time we touch the puck.
But something’s off.
Third period, we’re up 3–2. I get a clean look from the slot—Riley feeds me a perfect pass, goalie cheating left, top corner wide open. The angle’s right. The timing’s right. I’ve buried this shot a thousand times.
I set my feet. Load. Release.
The puck rings off the post and kicks out.
The arena groans. Coach is yelling something from the bench, but I don’t hear it. I’m already skating back, head down, replaying the fraction of a second where something went wrong.
Not the read.
Not the shot.
The calibration.
Where’s your head, O’Connor?
In Queens. On a bus.
We hold on for the win. Barely. Final horn sounds and the team mobs each other, sticks raised, crowd losing their minds. I go through the motions—tap gloves, slap helmets, skate the victory lap.
It feels hollow.
The reporters catchme outside the locker room, microphones up, cameras rolling.
