Chapter 23
Chapter twenty-three
Hog
The national anthem singer hit the final note, and an arena full of voices roared back to life.
I stood at the blue line, helmet under my arm, watching the Canadian flag hang still against the rafters. My heart pounded. Anticipation blended with the calm of knowing I'd already made every choice that mattered.
The singer skated off as the ref moved to center ice with the puck.
This was it.
I pulled my helmet on and glanced toward the stands one more time.
Third row behind our bench, Rhett wore my Storm beanie—the one I'd left at his place three weeks ago and never asked for back.
Next to him sat a cluster of his youth hockey kids, all holding a homemade banner: #14 STAY STRONG HOG in blue and white paint.
The letters were crooked, excessive glitter covered them, and it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
Rhett caught my eye and raised his coffee cup in salute. I tapped my stick against the ice twice—our signal.
We'd already won by choosing each other. No contest.
Margaret sat two rows behind him, knitting needles already moving. Juno Park had claimed the aisle seat with her recording equipment. Even Mrs. Johnson from my building had shown up, wearing a Storm scarf I'd knitted.
Thunder Bay was in the house.
Signs were everywhere. STORM WARNING and PICKLE POWER. One kid had drawn what I assumed was supposed to be me, but it looked more like a bear eating a hockey stick.
I loved it.
Coach Rusk's pregame words echoed in my head as I skated to the face-off circle: "Play smart. Play clean. You've already proved who you are."
The puck dropped.
Their center won the draw clean, snapping it back to their defenseman before Jake could tie up his stick. I read the play half a heartbeat before it developed—their winger cutting hard to the weak side, looking for a cross-ice pass.
I stepped up.
Not reckless or throwing my weight around to prove I could. I angled him off, using my body to cut the passing lane while keeping my stick active. The puck died on his tape, and Evan swooped in to collect it, already thinking two plays ahead.
"NICE READ, HOG!" Coach's voice carried from the bench.
We broke out clean. Jake carried through neutral, drew their defense, then dropped it at the blue line for Evan. He shot. The goalie made the save but couldn't control the rebound. Pickle was there—the kid had a supernatural sense for garbage goals—and he buried it.
The building exploded.
Pickle's arms shot up, stick held high, and he skated straight into our celebration pile. Jake grabbed him first, then Evan, then me, and suddenly we were all tangled together at the corner boards while Thunder Bay lost its collective mind.
"I TOLD YOU!" Pickle screamed through his cage. "HAT TRICK INCOMING!"
"That's one goal, kid."
"MOMENTUM!"
We skated back to the bench, gloves raised to the crowd. Rhett was on his feet with his kids, all jumping and screaming.
Two shifts later, their enforcer tried to start something.
He was ten pounds bigger than me. He caught me along the wall after the whistle, gloves already coming off.
"You and me, Hawkins. Right now."
I stared at him and saw the script he was trying to run. He wanted to get me off the ice for five minutes, swing momentum, and maybe rattle a few of our rookies.
Old Hog would've dropped the gloves without thinking.
New Hog—the one who'd spent the last month learning he could choose—smiled instead.
"Not today, buddy." I skated away, leaving him standing there with his gloves on the ice and confusion written across his face.
Coach caught my eye when I got to the bench. He nodded.
That nod meant more than any fight I'd ever won.
The game stayed tight. They tied it midway through the second on a power play goal that deflected off MacLaren's skate. We answered three minutes later when Jake made a pass, finding Evan in the slot for a one-timer that beat their goalie clean.
2-1 Storm.
Then they scored again with forty seconds left in the period, their captain going top shelf on a breakaway after Desrosiers got caught pinching. Our goalie didn't have a chance.
2-2 going into the third.
In the locker room during intermission, nobody panicked. Jake paced, but that was his usual response. Evan made notes in his ever-present notebook, and Pickle ate half a banana while speaking about destiny.
I sat in my stall, shoulder throbbing where I'd taken a cross-check in the corner, and thought about Rhett, Margaret, and the kids in the stands.
Coach kept it simple. "Third period. Fastest twenty minutes of your lives. Leave everything on the ice."
We did.
Every shift was a war. They pressed, and we pushed back. Jake took a hit that left him gasping on the bench for thirty seconds before he hopped back over the doors. Evan blocked a slap shot with his shin and didn't even flinch. He chipped the puck out of the zone like it was a drill.
With five minutes left, Pickle almost ended the game. He got a step on their defenseman, went forehand-backhand, and rang iron so hard the entire building groaned.
"FUCK!" He slammed his stick against the ice.
"Next one!" I called from the bench.
The clock wound down. Forty seconds. Thirty. Twenty.
Neither team could break it.
Overtime.
Sudden death. The next goal would win.
The crowd stood—every single person—and the noise they raised was a living organism that made my bones vibrate.
Coach sent out our top line in first—Jake, MacLaren, and Desrosiers.
They spent ninety seconds in the offensive zone, cycling the puck with surgical precision, but their goalie held firm. Nothing got through.
When they came off, Jake was breathing hard. "Bastard's standing on his head."
"Keep shooting," Coach said. Simple. Direct.
Second shift. My line. Pickle on my wing.
The face-off was in their zone, left circle. I lined up across from their center—the same guy who'd tried to bait me into fighting earlier. He grinned at me through his cage.
"Last chance, Hawkins. Wanna go out a hero?"
"Already am one," I said. Pickle grabbed the puck as it dribbled out of the face-off.
My legs were cement. Lactic acid screamed through my quads, but Pickle was flying, and I had to keep up.
I planted myself in front of their net. Did what I'd been doing for twelve years—made myself big and annoying, sucking up the goalie's attention.
Pickle shot. The puck sailed high, hitting me square in the back, knocking the wind out of my lungs for a heartbeat.
It bounced toward the corner. Pickle chased it down—three guys on him, all bigger. He centered it. I tipped it.
The puck deflected off my blade, changed direction, and headed toward the top corner where goalies go to die—
Their goalie got a piece of it. Barely. Enough to deflect it high.
The rebound came out hard and fast, bouncing off the glass behind the net. Their defenseman collected it and chipped it out of the zone.
Their center picked it up at the red line. Already moving. Already gone.
Breakaway.
I watched it happen. Watched our goalie challenge, square to the shooter, trying to cut the angle. Their guy deked left, dragging the puck right. The puck slipped past our goalie's outstretched pad.
Five-hole.
Net.
Goal.
The horn blared. Their bench emptied. Game over.
I stood at center ice, stick resting on my knees, chest heaving. Around me, my teammates were doing the same—bent over, breathing hard, trying to process what had just happened.
We'd lost.
Pickle skated past me, helmet off, eyes red. "I should've—if I'd just—"
"You played your heart out," I said. "We all did."
Jake appeared on my other side, one glove off, hair plastered to his forehead. "Fuck."
"Yeah."
Evan joined us silently, and the four of us stood there while the other team celebrated. Our fans tried to figure out whether they were allowed to clap.
The applause started. Slow at first, then building—Thunder Bay on its feet, not for the win we didn't get, but for the game we'd given them.
I looked up at the stands. Rhett stood. Not disappointed or leaving. He was watching, waiting, and present.
The kids still held their banner, crooked letters and all.
We'd lost the game, but I hadn't lost anything that mattered.
By the time we skated off, the crowd was still applauding. Coach Rusk stood at the tunnel entrance, arms crossed, watching each of us file past. When I reached him, he grabbed my shoulder.
"Proud of you," he said.
The locker room was a tomb.
Nobody moved. With helmets half off and gloves still on, everyone stared at the floor like the concrete might offer answers. I dropped onto the bench at my stall and started unlacing my skates. My hands were shaking.
Across from me, Pickle sat with his elbows on his knees, face buried in his gloves. His shoulders shook once. Jake put a hand on his back but didn't say anything.
I braced myself for Coach Rusk's entrance. For the tirade about missed assignments and bad decisions. For being told we'd let Thunder Bay down. For—
The door opened.
Coach walked in, ball cap still backward, and stopped in the middle of the room. His gaze swept over all of us—taking inventory and reading the temperature.
His voice was rough but steady. "You played with heart tonight. Every damn shift."
Pickle looked up.
"That goal in overtime?" Coach continued. "Bad bounce. Happens. But you didn't quit. Not in the third when they had momentum. Not in overtime when you were exhausted. You kept showing up." He paused. "That's what I'll remember. Not the score."
Jake's voice cracked slightly. "We lost, Coach."
"Yeah. You did." Coach's jaw worked his gum. "And next season, you'll try again. That's what this team does. We don't fold. We don't disappear. We come back."
The words didn't rub salt into our wounds.