I grabbed my towel and started drying off.
It didn't mean anything.
I needed to get my shit under control.
CHAPTER 7
HOME OPENER
JACE
The tape squeaked against my stick blade, high-pitched and grating, and I wanted to rip the whole fucking thing apart and start over. Again. For the fourth time in twenty minutes.
My hands weren't cooperating. The tape was too tight, then too loose, then uneven in a way that would bother me all game. I tore it off with more violence than necessary and started again.
Home opener against Vancouver Giants.
The Giants were fast, disciplined, and had just come off a road win in Montreal where they'd put up six goals. Their top line was dangerous—skilled forwards who could punish mistakes—and I knew their right winger, Adam Bowen, from junior hockey. We'd played against each other in the OHL, and he'd always been a chirpy bastard who got under people's skin. Last I'd heard, he was having a career year, leading their team in points.
“Hart, you wrapping that thing or proposing to it?” Finn's voice cut through my focus. “Because at this point it looks like a prom corsage.”
I grabbed a protein bar from my stall and threw it at him. It hit his chest, and he caught it reflexively, blinking at me.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “Pre-game shit. You're good.”
His face split into a grin. “Apology accepted via snack. This is growth, Hart.”
“Fuck off.”
I finished the tape job and looked up, scanning the room. Rook was watching me. Our eyes met, and he tapped his sternum once with his fist, slow and deliberate. I mirrored the gesture, tapping my own chest, and dragged in a breath that felt like it had been stuck behind my ribs for the past hour.
Warmups felt different tonight. The energy in the building was electric. Our fans wanted to believe.
I fired shots at Elias, working my way around the net, and on my third lap I skated past the Vancouver bench. Bowen was stretching near the boards, and when he saw me, he grinned. “Hartley! Heard you got a new coach. How's that working out?”
I didn't bite. Just kept skating.
“No, seriously,” he called after me, loud enough that his teammates laughed. “Must be nice having someone hold your hand through drills. Maybe he can fix that choking problem you've got.”
My stick tightened in my hands, but I kept moving. Chirping was part of the game. Let it go.
The lights dimmed for player intros, and when they called my name the noise hit me like a physical force. I raised my stick, skated to my spot, and tried to let it settle in my chest instead of turning into pressure. Rook glanced over at me and nodded once. Game face. Let's go.
The puck dropped and Rook won it clean, snapping it back to Volkov. Our breakout looked textbook—exactly what Coach had drilled into us all week. I took the puck wide on my wing,but their defenseman had good positioning and I had to dump it deep.
“That the new system?” Bowen skated past me, smirking. “Dump and chase? Revolutionary.”
“Fuck off, Bowen.”
“Touchy.” He grinned. “Heard your coach is already on the hot seat. That true?”
I didn't answer, just skated back for the change. Coach's voice came calm from the bench: “Stay patient. Don't force it.”
The second shift came faster than I expected. Their forecheck came hard, three guys collapsing on Volkov before he could make a clean outlet pass. He tried to thread it through to Tate, but their center read it perfectly, intercepted, and suddenly they were flying the other way three-on-two. Their winger walked in alone on Elias and buried it far side. One-nothing, three minutes in.
As I skated past their bench for the faceoff, I heard their coach—a grizzled veteran named Sullivan who'd been in the league twenty years—say loud enough for our bench to hear: “That's what happens when you hire a has been coach.”
We pushed back for the next ten minutes, getting shots, creating chances. But their backup goalie—some kid making his third career start—was playing possessed. I had a clean look from the slot that he robbed with a glove save that drew gasps from the crowd.
