And while he may have only said two words to me, I already know that we’re going to be friends forever.
PART I
MAY
1
OLIVER
Present Day
“Oh, that’s so sweet!”
To my left, Gerard’s grin splits his face wide open as he points at a poster board covered in red glitter hearts. The words “MY HEART BEATS FOR GUNNARSON’S ASS!” are painted in thick black letters that drip slightly at the bottom edge. In the corner is a crude drawing of what is unmistakably his backside.
Tonight’s the final game of this year’s Frozen Four, and everyone and their mother has come out to see us three-peat. It’s been a long, hard road, but I knew we’d end up here again. Not because I’m cocky—okay, maybe a smidge—but because I know this team like the back of my hand.
“Is it just me, or is Gerard’s ass going to be the most famous thing that comes out of this season?” asks Drew Larney with a shit-eating grin.
Now,he’sa cocky son of a bitch, but beneath all that swagger is a guy who’d throw himself in front of a bus for his friends. His weakness is his mouth—it runs faster than his skates sometimes,and he’s earned more than his fair share of penalty minutes because of it. But his loyalty? Un-fucking-matched.
I scan the bench, taking stock of the rest of the team. These are my guys. My responsibility.
There were nights this season that left us feeling defeated. When we lost three games in a row. When the Ice Queen, an infamous gossip blogger, meddled in Drew and Jackson’s relationship. When one of the freshmen almost got suspended for brawling with a Penn State player.
But I was there for my guys every time. I cracked jokes when the silence got too heavy. I ran extra drills when their confidence wavered. I reminded them why we lace up in the first place.
I think about my parents somewhere in the stands. Mom’s no doubt crying already. Dad’s wearing a jersey with my name on the back, probably the one with the coffee stain he refuses to wash out because we won the first Frozen Four while he was wearing it.
I can’t let any of them down. Not my family. Not my friends. Not my teammates.
Before I can get too deep into my head, Coach Donovan clamps his massive hand down on my shoulder. He’s dressed in a suit that’s expertly tailored to his impressive build.
“Listen up, boys.” His voice cuts through the pre-game energy, instantly commanding our attention. “I’m not going to stand here and give you some sappy movie speech about destiny and heart or whatever bullshit Hollywood thinks wins championships.”
A few of the guys chuckle, but Coach’s hazel eyes narrow, and we all straighten up.
“Brickwood’s good. Damn good. They’ve got size, speed, and nothing to lose.” He pauses, letting that sink in. “But you know what they don’t have?”
“Gerard’s ass?” Drew mutters under his breath, earning him a sharp thwack upside the helmet.
“They don’t have you.” Coach’s eyes land on each of us in turn. “They don’t have three years of chemistry. They don’t havethe hunger that comes from defending a dynasty. And they sure as hell don’t have what it takes to beat the best damn hockey team this side of the Mississippi River.”
My chest swells with pride. This is why I respect the hell out of Coach Donovan. He’s tough—sometimes brutal in practice—but he believes in us. After they slapped the C on my jersey this year, I became a student of his coaching playbook—watching how he’d tear us down one minute and build us back stronger the next. I’ve tried to emulate that this season as best as I could, though I reckon I ended up more of a supportive big brother rather than a hard-ass father figure.
“Jacoby, Larney, Gunnarson—you’re my first line. Set the tone early. Graham, you’re a wall tonight. Nothing gets through.”
Our goalie, Kyle, gives him a curt nod.
“Now get out there and remind everyone why we’re the defending champions. Not because of fan posters memorializing hockey butts”—Gerard blushes at that—“but because we’re the best!”
The roar of the crowd is deafening as we take the ice. My skates carve into the fresh surface, and I breathe in that perfect cocktail of frigid air and anticipation. This is it. Everything we’ve worked for comes down to the next sixty minutes.
I take my position, the familiar weight of my stick comforting in my hands. To my right, Drew settles in at center ice, all traces of cockiness replaced by determination. Gerard flanks him on his right, and despite the pressure, he still manages to wave at the other team.
The Brickwood Bulldogs are lined up across from us, their burgundy jerseys transforming them into an army of angry wine bottles. Their center is a beast of a guy, easily six-foot-four with thick arms and even thicker legs. But as we all know, size isn’t everything.
The referee skates over to us with the puck in his hand. My thighs burn with tension as I drop an inch lower. In the net, Kyle’s eyes track everything through his mask. Our defensemen—Mason Bay and Nathan Paisley—position themselves perfectly nearby.
