1
Michael
I wore black the last time I played St. Louis. Home colors in a whole other arena. The jersey didn't feel like mine then, and now—in the Surge’s blue and white—it felt no different. A sweater was a sweater until the results made it something more.
"You awake, Seattle?" Shawn tapped my helmet with the end of his stick, quitting only once I'd swatted him away. "Just checking. My grandpa always nods off in the middle of a conversation."
"Maybe you should try being more interesting." My eyes stayed on the ice, tracking the puck as it zipped along the boards.
Shawn’s laughter rippled just beneath the constant buzz of the arena. “I wouldn’t assume the entire third line’s a drag just because you’re bored, Landry. I’m the biggest comeback story of the season, and the fans are eating it up.”
I didn't answer. I kept my focus on the play, my pulse a steady rhythm against the collar of my jersey. The game didn't care about narratives or hometown heroes. It only cared about the next hit, the next pass, and the ice that didn't stay smooth for anyone.
“Are you kidding me, ref?” We were leading, but Coach wasn’t acting like it. His default brand of angry instruction hadn’t wavered since the first whistle blew. “Make him pay, Mason. Fuck that guy!”
Frost Bank hummed with a frequency I wasn't used to. Seattle had energy, but this was different. These fans expected a win like they expected the sun to rise. It was a heavy sort of confidence that settled over the bench. The guys used it as fuel, amping up the closer it got to them jumping the boards. Meanwhile, I felt like a hitchhiker who’d managed to flag down a bullet train.
Landon took a hard hit near the blue line, his shoulder catching the plexiglass with a thud that echoed over the roar of the crowd. He stayed down for a beat too long, then scrambled up, skating toward the bench with his head tucked low.
"Landry, you're up." Coach didn't look at me, his focus already on the next shift.
I hopped the boards, the transition from the heated bench to the cold bite of the rink hitting me all at once. My skates bit into the scarred ice. It felt thinner here, faster. Or maybe that was just the pace of a team that didn't know how to lose.
"Look at that," Tucker muttered as we lined up for the face-off. "Coach brought out the vintage collection."
He had a few inches on me, his jersey pristine compared to the sweat already soaking my base layer. I ignored him, settling into my stance. Grayson won the draw, a clean win that sent the puck sliding back toward our point. I moved.
My legs felt the miles. Every stride was a calculation, a choice to conserve or explode. I stayed on the wing, finding the pockets of open space the younger guys ignored in their rush for the highlight reel. When the puck found me, it felt right. I didn'toverthink the handle. Just chipped it past a reaching stick, using my frame to shield the play as I drove toward the corner.
The contact came fast. A shoulder caught my ribs, pushing me into the boards. I braced, digging my steel into the ice to hold my ground. I wasn't the fastest man on the ice anymore, but I knew how to be an anchor. I fed the puck back to the high slot, a simple, veteran play that kept the cycle alive.
We scored thirty seconds later. Not my goal, but I’d cleared the screen for it.
“Not bad for an old timer.” Grayson slapped my back as he skated past me.
It had been months, and somehow, the jokes about my age never dried up.
As the horn signaled the end of the game, I skated back toward the tunnel. The win was ours, 4-2. My lungs burned, the dry Texas air a contrast to the damp cold of the Pacific Northwest.
"That was a good show tonight," Shawn said, pulling his jersey over his head once we reached the locker room.
"Yeah, well, I didn’t get a new hip for nothing."
Shawn’s laughter broke out, a loud, sharp sound that bounced off the steel lockers. He shook his head, his damp hair sticking to his forehead in messy clumps. "Better not broadcast it, or the league will be fielding everyone’s grandfathers on Monday."
He gave my shoulder a heavy, solid thwack before turning to face his own stall, whistling a tuneless victory march.
I sat on the bench, the weight of the gear suddenly doubling as the adrenaline began to dip. My fingers were steady, though my heart took its time settling back into a normal rhythm. I reached down and started unlacing my skates, the tug of the waxed strings familiar and grounding.
But the championship banners printed on the floor mats had the opposite effect. An entire life spent wearing someone’s kit, carrying some team’s name, and I’d never once lifted silverware. It was still kinda unbelievable that I was a part of this now.
On paper, anyway.
Whether I belonged was a different story, one that a single win against St. Louis wouldn't settle. I needed to prove I wasn't just a body taking up space on a roster of giants.
"Heading to the Faucet?" Landon asked, tossing a towel into the bin.
"The what?"
