Page 116 of Arctic Titans of Northwood U: Volume 3

Phoenix rolled his eyes but stood anyway, Jaxon’s hand sliding away from his reluctantly. The bar quieted in patches, conversation dying down row by row until all attention focused on the man who’d led us through the strangest season any of us would probably ever experience.

“I’m not good at this,” Phoenix started, which earned him a few encouraging shouts. He smiled, shaking his head. “Alright, fine. I’ve been your captain for two years, and honestly, I didn’t think I’d make it through the first month. But you all showed up for each other when it got tough. Not just on the ice, but off it, too.”

He paused, gaze sweeping across familiar faces. Toby sat between Damon and Mason. Our backup goalie nursed a beer next to his girlfriend, while Coach Neilsen lingered near the bar, pretending he wasn’t listening intently to every word.

“This year tested us,” Phoenix continued. “The cameras, the attention, the pressure to be characters instead of people. Some of you handled it better than others.” His eyes landed on me with knowing amusement. “But we made it through together. That’s what matters.”

Andrei’s fingers found mine under the table, squeezing gently. I squeezed back, remembering those first weeks of filming, the weight of manufactured personas, the slow unraveling that had eventually led to something real.

“I’m proud of this team,” Phoenix said, voice roughening slightly. “Not because we won games, though we did plenty of that. I’m proud because when it counted, you chose honesty over image. You chose each other over easy answers.” He raised his glass. “To the Arctic Titans. May you never lose that.”

We raised our drinks in response, a chorus of agreement and affection filling the space. Phoenix sat down to applause and back-slapping, Jaxon immediately pulling him close again.

“Your turn,” Andrei murmured near my ear.

“My turn for what?”

“To say something profound and touching.”

I laughed, pressing my lips to his temple. “I’m not the captain. I don’t have to be profound.”

“You’re you,” he said simply. “That’s profound enough.”

The evening continued in waves of conversation and laughter. Toby challenged Mason to arm wrestling, which devolved into chaos when Damon declared himself referee and started making up rules. Someone ordered another round of drinks. Music from the jukebox provided a soundtrack to goodbyes that felt far too heartbreaking to live through the night.

I watched Phoenix lean back in his chair, content in a way I’d rarely seen him. The weight he’d carried for two years, the responsibility of being both captain and representation, had finally eased. He’d done his job. Now, he got to move forward into whatever came next.

“Think we’ll be okay without him?” I asked Andrei.

“We’ll be fine,” Andrei said. “Phoenix built something that doesn’t disappear just because he’s leaving.”

He was right. The team Phoenix inherited had already been special, built on foundations laid by players who’d come before us. We were just continuing that legacy, adding our own strange chapter to the story.

My phone buzzed with a notification. Another Instagram mention, probably. The attention hadn’t disappeared after that night at the rink. If anything, it had intensified for a while, reaching levels that had required actual security at our games. But eight months later, the fever had cooled to something more manageable. We were still recognized, still stopped for photos occasionally, but the frenzy had passed.

Blades of Northwood had wrapped its second season last month. They’d offered us contracts for a third, which the team had collectively declined. We’d given them enough. It was time to reclaim some privacy, some normalcy, even if normal would always be slightly out of reach now.

“Remember when I thought this would ruin everything?” Andrei asked, following my gaze around the bar.

“To be honest, I was terrified, too,” I admitted. “Thought I’d lose you, lose the team, lose myself in all of it.”

“But you didn’t. You saved the day.” Andrei’s bright eyes turned to me, and love welled in them, unfiltered, out in the open.

“I found the one thing that matters.” I turned to look at him properly. The dim lighting softened his features. “You matter. Everything else is just noise.”

He smiled that complete smile that transformed his entire face. “You’ve gotten philosophical in your old age.”

“I’m twenty-one. Hardly old.”

“Ancient,” he teased. “Practically retirement age for a hockey player.”

I pinched his side, making him squirm. Across the table, Mason made exaggerated gagging noises. “Get a room,” he said.

“We have a room,” I replied. “We share it, actually. Have for years now.”

“Yeah, and those of us in neighboring rooms are very aware of that fact,” Damon added dryly, which earned him a round of laughter and my middle finger.

Of all our teammates, Damon had been the only one to see through our attempts at keeping it secret. He’d practically come out as bi in one interview to take the heat off of us. We’d spoken at length about it later and discovered that we had more than a teammate in this big guy. We had a friend. A brother.