The Hawks erupted in jubilation, nearly uncontrollable. That first shot—getting it in—sets the tone. We could see the rush of energy coursing through their team; it was clear they had the momentum now. Asher, Rafael, and I had to fight through that and make our shots count.
Next was Asher. His approach was calm and slow, taking wide strides left and right. He curved into a shot aimed for the right side of the net, curling back as he approached.
Goal.
My heart nearly stopped. The bench erupted in cheers, the noise bursting like a shock wave that nearly knocked me off my feet. Rafael was on his feet, screaming praise. Asher returned to the bench glowing, soaking in the applause.
Now it was the Hawks’ second shooter, their best player. He was big, and his slapshot was deadly. He charged down the ice with purpose, speeding toward the net. Going in a wide arc, he looped, and mid-motion, used the blade of his stick to tip the puck on its side—a lacrosse-style shot—aimed for the top right corner.
Rowan read it perfectly and deflected it with his glove, sending the puck wide.
A surge of adrenaline flooded my body, and my vision blurred. The sounds of cheering around me muffled into a garbled roar, as if I were underwater.
I was up. Here we go.I skated onto the ice.Remember, you’ve got this.
I curved wide rather than charging straight in—the wide arc bringing me close to the boards. I pushed toward the goal, then spun at the last second, aiming for a shot. The goalie dove early, and I slid the puck into the exposed corner—top left, just past his glove.
I dropped to my knees and screamed. Amid the arena’s roar, I heard Rafael yelling. He appeared in my line of sight, standing on the bench, laughing and pumping his fists. I chuckled at the sight. Then he jumped off the bench to meet me on the ice as I headed back. His arms wrapped around me in a tight embrace that lasted longer than it should’ve, but I didn’t care anymore.
We took our seats, and the last Hawks shooter skated to center ice. His style was similar to Asher’s, but faster, and his puck control was incredible—so quick it looked like a black streak. He paused for a moment at the top of the crease, then faked a shot to the right but snapped it left, just squeaking past Rowan’s outstretched glove.
It was tied, and Rafael—our final shooter—had the chance to win the game.
Rafael
The boards blurred into a wall of grey, and the arena noise faded into the background. My breathing echoed in my ears as I lowered into a ready stance. The referee’s whistle sliced through the silence, signaling the start.
My blades cut into the ice; the sound drowned out everything else.
In my mind, there was only one target: top left. That was the goalie’s weak spot. But I could tell he was anticipating it. His body was already bracing, guarding that area for the shot.
As I approached the crease, I turned my body, skating backward with my back to him, favoring the right side. He shifted slightly, expecting me to aim to the right. Instead, I manipulated the puck between my legs and slapped it, aiming for the top left corner.
I did it.
The next thing I knew, Cody was on top of me. Soon, I was buried under the Vipers. Cody’s big brown eyes, full of happy tears, looked into mine as he cheered for me. I tore my helmet off, followed by his, and kissed him.
It was chaste, not the mouth-fucking I’d normally give him, but it was still perfect.
I squeezed him tighter and kissed the top of his head once more before the Vipers leapt to their feet to collect the finals trophy.
Cody and I rose to our feet, and I leaned into him, wrapping my arm around his shoulders. We skated to the line to accept the trophy, and I simply breathed, feeling the moment with every fiber of my being—with my angel by my side.
Chapter 47
Rafael
It was late November. Cody and I decided to revisit the cabin over the Thanksgiving break.
We were both in talks with coaches from different college teams and were doing our damnedest to play for the same one. We positioned ourselves as a packaged deal, and I was cautiously optimistic that either Calahan University or Montier College, both with excellent teams, would take the deal.
I’d started family therapy with Dad and Mom in addition to my one-on-one therapy sessions. It was slow-going but necessary, and Dad even invited Mom for Thanksgiving. She politely declined. The invitation and her graciousness in declining were both themselves signs of major progress in remedying what had evolved into a highly acrimonious relationship.
We arrived at the rickety A-frame just after nightfall. It was, indeed, freezing.
“Holy hell,” I said. “Never thought I’d miss the days when this thing felt like a sauna.”
Cody pranced upstairs to drop off our duffels, “I’ll take these to our room.”
