“I know,” I acknowledged, slumping down in my seat.
We fell quiet as a few more fans trickled into our section and found their seats.
Then the puck dropped, and there was no more time for deep, philosophical discussions.
Not that I was complaining.
I’d forgotten how fast hockey was. How violent. The crack of bodies hitting boards, sticks clashing, skates cutting hard stops that sent ice shavings flying through the air.
Watching Taylor throw his weight into checking a Cleveland forward into the glass made my heart lodge in my throat.
“Holy shit.”
“Nice one,” Ethan said appreciatively. “Really don’t miss that.”
I watched as Taylor and his new defensive partner, Monroe, skated back to the bench.
“Do you think it’s going well?”
“Early days, but yeah.” Ethan pointed at different areas on the ice as he continued speaking. “Monroe likes to jump into the play, take chances. Taylor’s more defensive-minded. Could be a good balance if they figure out how to trust each other.”
The first period was scoreless but intense. Taylor was only on the ice for a few minutes at a time, but Ethan explained it was a good shift. I found myself tensing every time he was out there, watching for any signs that he was struggling, all of our previous conversations about his concern about being good enough at the forefront of my mind.
Admittedly, I didn’t know a ton about hockey, but he appeared solid. And he was certainly winning his battles along the board. Twice, Ethan pointed out Taylor breaking up something he called "odd-man rushes with well-timed poke checks."
During the first intermission, Ethan asked if I wanted anything from the concession stand. I declined, too wired to eat. When he came back with a beer and a pretzel, he offered me half. I took it just to have something to do with my hands.
“How’s the campaign going?” he asked.
“Brutal but good. Kendra’s smart and principled.” I tore off a piece of the pretzel. “Her opponent’s a piece of work, though.”
“Sounds like most politicians,” he observed with a grunt.
“Yeah. Fair point.”
We fell into easy conversation—local politics, Ethan’s coaching job at Thackeray College, the Marauders’ opening road trip. Ethan had a dry sense of humor that emerged gradually, his gruff exterior softening the longer we spoke. It wasn’t hard to see why Bell had been attracted to him despite their ten-year age difference. There was something deeply steady about Ethan, like he’d weathered enough storms that nothing much rattled him anymore.
The second period started with Cleveland scoring forty-three seconds in. A defensive breakdown—not Taylor’s fault, Ethan explained, but he still looked furious with himself.
The Marauders pushed back, pressing hard in the offensive zone. Monroe jumped into the rush and took a shot that rebounded off the goalie’s pads. Taylor was there, perfectly positioned, and tapped it in.
The horn blared, and the crowd—small as it was—erupted.
I was on my feet before I even realized it, screaming my head off.
On the ice, Taylor’s teammates mobbed him. When he skated back to the bench, his eyes scanned the crowd—looking for me, I realized. Our eyes met for just a fraction of a second, and my heart beat wildly in my chest.
Ethan glanced at me, then back at the ice, his expression carefully neutral.
The rest of the second period was a grinding, defensive battle. Both teams seemed to be playing cautiously. When the buzzer sounded for the second intermission, I finally let myself breathe.
“You holding up okay?” Ethan chuckled.
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
He snorted and gave me a look that suggested he saw right through me.
The third period was agony. Every shift Taylor was on the ice felt like it lasted five minutes instead of forty-five seconds. Cleveland pressed hard, but the Marauders’ defense held. Taylor was everywhere, blocking shots, breaking up passes, and clearing the puck.
