Chapter 11
Cole
Senior Night feels different before we even hit the ice.
The arena sold out three weeks ago. Flowers line the boards, navy and white with silver ribbons catching the light, and our numbers are stenciled in silver across the blue lines. The program hasn't sent a class to the Frozen Four in twelve years. Four NHL teams have scouts in the building tonight. I counted their jackets when we walked past the stands.
Gio holds his phone up in front of my face. My freshman photo fills the screen, and I stare at the kid looking back at me. He is skinnier, his hair is doing something unfortunate, and he is grinning like he has no idea what college hockey is going to do to him. Gio lowers the phone, still laughing.
The locker room is loud before the ceremony, all gear hitting benches, tape ripping, and someone blasting music off a phonespeaker that cannot handle the bass. Guys get dressed while talking too much and laughing too loud, their voices bouncing off the lockers until the room feels too small for all of us.
Dante sits beside me. His stall looks like a locker room diagram, gear hung straight, tape rolls stacked, skates already laced. He's been ready for twenty minutes, hands still on his knees like the order around him is keeping everything in place.
"Your family coming?" I ask.
"Marco said he'd try."
I nod. "My dad's here. Suzanne too. They drove up this morning." Dante's head dips once. "They'll want to see you after," I say. "You know that."
"I know."
"Suzanne's going to hug you."
"She always does."
"She's going to ask if you're eating enough."
"She always asks if I'm eating enough."
"Because you never are."
The corner of his mouth twitches.
Addison walks in, and the room quiets fast. Tape stops ripping. Laughter cuts short. He stops in the middle of the locker room and looks around, one senior at a time, holding each look long enough that it presses behind the sternum.
Adrian gets the nod, captain to coach, four years of trust compressed into one dip of Addison's chin. Gio gets Addison's hand on his shoulder, a quick squeeze that says more than Addison ever will out loud. When he lands on me, the corner of his mouth moves, which is the closest the man gets to a grin in front of witnesses.
When Addison reaches Declan, he stays there. Longer than the others. That's the goalie he built from a raw freshman into the best in the conference, four years of ice time and postgame film and bruises nobody else counted. Now Declan is also hisdaughter's boyfriend, and the line between coach and something else blurs beneath that look. Declan holds the look back, steady as a blade. Addison nods once.
Then he looks at Dante.
Another beat passes. Dante does not move. His shoulders stay square. His hands stay still. Only the muscle in his jaw ticks once. Addison catches it and holds there for half a beat.
"Play your game," Addison says. "That's it."
For half a second, the room stays still. Then someone slams a stick against the wall, and noise explodes through the locker room. Addison turns and walks out before the sound peaks.
We file out for the ceremony one by one, name and number rolling through the PA while the sound echoes off the steel rafters. A spotlight sweeps the ice, finding each player as we step through the tunnel. The families rotate onto the strip of silver carpet at center ice, the fabric glinting under the arena lights.
The crowd is already on its feet before the first name is called. The student section is painted in navy. Cold air moves across the ice and cuts sharp into my lungs.
Declan Reid. Number thirteen.
The building shakes. Dec skates out with that loose stride of his, and the silver carpet waits at center. Talia stands there, posture steady, with Addison beside her. The head coach on the carpet, standing where a father would stand. Declan reaches them and hugs Talia first, her hand pressing into the back of his neck. She lets him go, and he turns to Addison and offers his hand.
Addison ignores it and pulls him into a hug.
The arena falls quiet for half a beat. Then it explodes.
