And I have no idea how to accept that without believing I’ll lose it—or lose them.
ChapterTwenty-Five
Monty
This isn’t the first time I’ve walked through the Boston Blackbirds visitors’ tunnel.
But it’s the first time since they kicked me out of this building—sorry, traded me—that I have to do it wearing enemy colors and pretending I don’t hear the way the concrete remembers my name.
I’ve won in this arena.I’ve stolen games here.I’ve made this crowd go silent with a single save.Tonight, I plan to do it again.
Not as a goodbye.
As a “fuck you.”
The Blackbirds’ arena is loud for warm-ups, louder than it needs to be, like the building itself is trying to get under my skin before I even step onto the ice.Their fans are already in their seats, already pointing, already putting on their outrage like it’s part of the pregame ritual.
Like the jerseys in their closets didn’t have my name stitched across the back last month.
Trade a goalie and suddenly he’s a traitor.
Fine.
Let them hate me.Hate is predictable.Pucks are predictable.Even hate has patterns if you stare at it long enough and refuse to blink.
What isn’t predictable is being here with a forward who used to be my problem—my constant aggravation, my favorite punching bag—now my teammate.
The locker room hums with that familiar pregame tension: tape ripping, blades clicking on concrete, the low mutter of guys trying to sound like they aren’t thinking too hard.
I sit and keep my mask on my lap.I don’t put it on yet.Not until my breathing is mine again.
Six seconds in through my nose.
Six seconds out.
I stretch the way I always do—slow and methodical, not because I’m calm, but because routine is the only thing that keeps my brain from taking the wheel and driving me straight off a cliff.
Hip flexors first.One ankle across the opposite knee, gentle pressure, a quiet burn.I roll my neck left, right, then drop my chin and feel the pull down the back where tension likes to live.I lace my fingers and press my arms forward until my shoulders protest.Then I release.
I flex my hands inside my gloves.Open.Close.Open.Close.
I check my skates even though I checked them ten minutes ago.Lace tension.Tongue straight.Blade guards off, then back on again because I need something to do that doesn’t involve thinking about the tunnel.
Across the room, Callaway is talking too much.
He always talks too much, but it’s new that I can’t tune him out.New that his voice keeps finding me like it’s looking for a fight or a reaction or something worse—connection.
I hate that.
Belonging to the same team, traveling together, hearing him breathe in the hotel room next door—it’s been exhausting.I need space.I need quiet.
I need my solitude like other people need air.
And yet he hovers close enough to remind me he’s there, but never so close I can shove him away without making it a scene.
I can’t tell if it’s intentional, or if I’m the one losing my grip on what I’m good at.
That’s the part that makes me ache.Because I’ve always hated being moved from team to team, but I’ve never had trouble adjusting.New systems, new coaches, new cities—it’s all numbers and angles and habits.
