"I bet you’re all feeling pretty happy with last night," Coach hissed, his voice a low, lethal rasp. "You’re supposed to look like you’re protecting a title, for fuck’s sake. Tucker, if I see you coasting on the backcheck again, you’re on the bus to the airport."
The second period was a grind. I fought for every inch of ice, my lungs screaming as the pace accelerated. I caught a glimpse of Grayson, his face set in a grim mask, trying to carry the team on his back. He ripped a shot from the high slot that beat the Chicago keeper clean. 1-1.
"There we go! Keep the pressure!" Grayson shouted, slamming his stick against the boards as he skated past the bench.
But the energy just couldn’t stick. The Surge was reacting instead of anticipating. On my next shift, I intercepted a cross-ice pass and broke toward the Chicago zone. I didn't have the breakaway speed I used to, so I used my frame to shield the puck, driving hard toward the net. Someone’s stick hacked at my calves, a blatant trip the refs ignored. I went down hard, sliding into the end boards.
"Get up, Landry!" Landon yelled from the circle.
I scrambled back to my feet, my breath coming in ragged stabs. We managed another goal early in the third—a greasy rebound that Mason poked in—but the Blackhawks answered with two quick strikes while our defense was caught puck-watching.
The final horn was a mercy. 3-2, Chicago.
I skated toward the tunnel, the sweat on my neck already turning to ice. The locker room was silent, save for the heavy, rhythmic thud of gear hitting the floor. Nobody was talking about River North now.
"Pathetic.” Coach stood with his arms crossed over his chest, not looking at anyone in particular. But his eyes landed on Shawn for a second too long, and we all felt it. “I’m not getting into what went wrong, because I’m sure you know. Don’t talk to me. Don’t explain. Just stay out of my face until we’re back on home ice for practice.”
I sat with my head down, watching the melted ice drip from my skates. I’d given everything I had tonight, and it hadn't even moved the needle. A veteran on a team that thought they were untouchable, and the weight of the loss felt like a physical burden on my chest. I looked up and caught Shawn’s eye. He looked like he wanted to throw up.
"Worth it?" I asked, my voice flat.
He shoved his jersey into the laundry bin and walked toward the showers, leaving me alone with the sound of the Chicago fans still cheering through the walls.
The shower steam hadn't even cleared the room before the silence turned jagged. I was still cutting the tape off my socks when Landon slammed his locker door, the metal-on-metal bang echoing like a gunshot.
"You had to do it, didn't you, Seattle?"
I kept my focus on the stubborn adhesive, my heart still hammering against my ribs from the third-period sprint. "Had to do what?"
"Play the martyr. The 'old pro' who’s too good for a night out." He stepped into my space, smelling of expensive cologne and lingering resentment. "Coach didn't just guess we were dragging. He had help. He knew exactly where we were and what we were doing last night."
I dropped the tape and finally met his eyes. They were bloodshot and narrowed, looking for a target to bleed out the frustration of a 3-2 loss. "If you're looking for someone to blame for your slow feet, try a mirror. I was at the hotel all night and in bed by eleven."
"Yeah, in bed after you put a call in." Landon stepped closer, his chest heaving. The rest of the room went still. No more sounds of guys tearing off their gear or whispering among themselves. Even Grayson stayed quiet by the door, watching. "You think because you've been around the block, you get to control this room? You're a guest here, Landry. A rental."
"I'm your teammate," I said, my voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. "One who actually showed up for the first whistle. You’re taking it out on the wrong person."
"You're a rat." Landon spat the word out, his lip curling. He leaned in until I could see the pulse jumping in his neck. "You walked into a top tier team, so act like it. We don’t need a hall monitor looking for a gold star.”
“Landon—” Hunter warned, but he held up a hand to silence the goalie, his eyes never wavering from mine.
“If that’s what you’re about, then you'd best pack your bags and go back to Seattle. Nobody wants you in this jersey."
He didn't wait for a rebuttal. He grabbed his duffel and shoved past me, his shoulder catching mine hard enough to twist me back against the locker. I stood there, the cold metal pressing into my spine, while the rest of the Surge looked everywhere but at me.
And just like that, I wasn't a footnote anymore. I was the enemy.
4
Kayla
The dryer shrieked, a high-pitched metallic death rattle I’d been ignoring for weeks. I silenced the machine with a quick whack from the heel of my palm, balancing a basket of damp hockey jerseys on one hip. My free hand stayed busy stirring a pot of pasta sauce, navigating the transition hour as seamlessly as I always did. That frantic, blurred sixty minutes where the role of mother ended and my shift behind the bar began.
The front door thudded shut, followed by the heavy, rhythmic drag of a backpack hitting the floor.
"Lunch is in the microwave. It’s chicken again, so I don’t want to hear it. It’s gonna be chicken until we’re out," I called, my eyes never leaving the stove. "How was school? Did you turn in your History assignment?"
"Yeah." Gabe’s voice was a flat monotone.
