15. Breck
15
Breck
The locker room reeks of sweat and testosterone, but there's an undercurrent of something else—nerves. My eyes dart to Tyson, our goalie, hunched over in his stall. His face has taken on an alarming shade of green that clashes spectacularly with his Hunters jersey. Shit. This isn't good.
I saunter over, trying to project confidence I don't entirely feel. "Hey, Brooks. Ready to be a brick wall out there?"
Tyson grunts, barely looking up. His fingers fidget with the straps of his pads. "Yeah, sure. Whatever."
"Come on, man. You've got this." I crouch down, meeting his eyes. "You’ve had a strong start and you’re going to keep killing it. Remember that save against Riverton last week? Fuckin' beautiful. You're gonna do that all night."
He nods, but I can see the doubt clouding his eyes. I want to shake him, to somehow transfer my belief in him through sheer force of will. But I know it doesn't work that way. God, I wish Del was here.
The thought of Del sends a pang through my chest. She's in Texas, probably warming up for her own competition right now. I hope she's not as nervous as Tyson looks. And, with thoughts of Del comes thoughts of just how well our baking date went. Shit. I shift uncomfortably, trying to conceal my very inconvenient reaction to that. This is not the right time for an erection.
"Alright, boys! Let's hit the ice!" Coach's voice booms through the locker room.
We file out, the familiar clack of skates on rubber filling the air. The roar of the crowd hits us as we emerge from the tunnel, and for a moment, I let it wash over me. This. This is what I live for.
But as we take our positions for the opening face-off, I can't shake the unease. Tyson's still looking shaky in goal, and the energy on our bench feels... off.
The ref drops the puck, and just like that, we're in it. Except we're not. Their center wins it clean, sending it back to number four on D. I curse under my breath, already pivoting to chase.
"Monroe! Cover the point!" Jett yells from somewhere behind me.
I sprint—well, as much as you can sprint on ice—towards their defenseman. But I'm a step too slow. Number four dishes it off to his partner, seventy-seven, before I can get there.
Fuck. This is not how I wanted to start.
As I turn to track seventy-seven, I catch a glimpse of Tyson in our net. He's bouncing on his skates, looking more like he's gearing up for a fight than settling in for a save.
Come on, Brooks. We need you, buddy.
I grit my teeth and dig my skates in harder. It's going to be a long night.
Seventy-seven's eyes dart across the ice, and I follow his gaze. Shit. Their winger's breaking free on the left, streaking up the boards like a bullet. Before I can even shout a warning, seventy- seven threads a pass so crisp it might as well have been served on fine china.
"Watch the wing!" I yell, but it's too late.
Number eleven catches the puck in stride, and suddenly he's in our zone, moving like he's got rocket boosters strapped to his skates. Our D-men try to angle him off, but this guy's got moves.
He fakes a slapshot, and I swear I can hear our defenseman's ankles crack as he bites on it. Eleven cuts toward the middle, and my stomach drops.
This is bad. This is very bad.
The crowd's roaring now, a deafening wave of sound that usually pumps me up. But right now, it just sounds like impending doom.
I cast a glance at Tyson, hoping to see him locked in, ready. Instead, he's fidgeting, his eyes darting around like he's looking for an escape route.
Come on, man. We talked about this. You've got this.
But as eleven dangles around our other D-man—leaving the poor guy grasping at air like he's trying to catch smoke—I'm not so sure anymore.
Eleven's in the high slot now, winding up for what looks like a cannon of a slapshot. I brace myself, ready to dive for a rebound, when he fakes again.
The sneaky bastard slides a no-look pass to nineteen, who's been trailing the play this whole time.
Nineteen receives the puck like it's a gift from the hockey gods, and in the blink of an eye, he's snapped off a shot. It's heading low, far post—the kind of shot that gives goalies nightmares.
Time seems to slow down. I watch the puck's path, my heart in my throat. This is it. This is where we see what Tyson's really made of.
And then, like some kind of miracle, Tyson's pad shoots out. There's a satisfying thwack as rubber meets leather, and the puck goes careening into the corner.
The crowd erupts, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"Atta boy, Brooks!" I shout, skating by the net. "Keep that shit up!"
But as I race to retrieve the puck, I can't shake the feeling that we just dodged a bullet. And something tells me we might not be so lucky next time.
The puck's loose in the corner, and I see Jett swooping in to clear it. His face is a mask of determination, jaw clenched tight. But before he can make contact, twenty-five comes out of nowhere, stick extended like a freaking javelin.
"Shit," I mutter, watching the puck ricochet off Jett's stick and onto twenty-five's.
The forward doesn't hesitate. He winds up and unleashes a slapper that has me wincing. The puck's a blur, ricocheting off skates and sticks like it's in a pinball machine.
"Get it out!" I yell, my voice lost in the overwhelming sound of sticks slapping ice and bodies colliding.
Twenty-nine digs in the chaos, looking like he's trying to excavate the damn puck from bedrock. Finally, he pokes it free, and my stomach drops as I watch his backhand flip towards our net.
Tyson's sprawled out, arms and legs splayed like a starfish on ice. The puck sails over him in slow motion, and I swear I can hear my own heartbeat.
DING!
The crossbar rings like a church bell, and I silently thank whatever hockey deity is watching over us. But the reprieve is short-lived.
Nineteen's on the rebound like a dog on a bone, firing again before I can even blink. But Tyson... Jesus, Tyson moves like he's got preternatural senses. His glove shoots out, snagging the puck from midair.
The whistle blows, and suddenly it's like someone hit the unpause button on a very aggressive game of human bumper cars.
"Lucky save, you sieve!" someone from the other team chirps.
I see Tyson's eyes narrow behind his mask, though I can see the hint of agreement. "Luck's got nothing to do with it, bud. Maybe try aiming next time."
As the refs move in to separate the shoving match that's breaking out, I can't help but grin. Maybe Tyson's finding his groove after all. And man, do we need it.
But, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
The rest of the game is like watching a slow-motion car crash. We're the car, and the other team is a brick wall we just can't seem to avoid. By the time the final buzzer sounds, the scoreboard glares at us: 4-1. Ouch.
The locker room feels like a funeral home. Guys are peeling off gear in silence, the usual post-game chatter replaced by the occasional frustrated sigh or muffled curse.
I glance over at Tyson, hunched in his stall. He's mumbling to himself, eyes fixed on some invisible point on the floor. As I pass by, I catch snippets of his muttering.
"...stupid birds... should've known... bad luck..."
Birds? What the hell? I shake my head, deciding now's not the time to unpack Tyson's apparent ornithological crisis.
"Alright, boys," I say, trying to inject some life into the room. "We'll get 'em next time. Let's hit the Penalty Box, yeah?"
A few halfhearted grunts of agreement follow me out the door.
At the bar, the energy is buzzing despite the loss, but I’m not. I’m glued to my phone, waiting for a text that hasn’t come. Every time my phone buzzes, my heart does this stupid little jump, like I’m some middle schooler crushing on the cool girl. Spoiler alert: I totally am.
"Yo, Monroe!" Axel calls out. "You planning on rejoining the land of the living anytime soon?"
I look up, realizing I've been staring at my screen for who knows how long. "What? Oh, yeah. Sorry."
Jett snickers. "Man, you've got it bad. She finally giving you the time of day?"
"None of your business," I retort, but I can feel the heat creeping up my neck.
"Ooh, defensive," Tanner, one of our sophomores, chimes in. "Must be serious."
Just then, a couple of puck bunnies sidle up to the table, their smiles bright and their intentions obvious. One of them slides a hand along my arm, leaning in with a practiced pout. “Hey there, Monroe,” she purrs, “you look like you could use a distraction tonight.”
I pull my arm back gently but firmly, my focus already returning to my phone. “Not interested.”
Her smile falters for a second, but she recovers quickly, turning her attention to one of my teammates instead. I don’t care.
Because as I look around at the half-lit bar, the noise, the girls, and my teammates, I know none of it matters. They don’t hold a candle to Del. God, I’m in deep.
Jett catches me staring blankly at my screen again and raises an eyebrow. "You seriously passing up on that?"
I don’t look up, my fingers still scrolling aimlessly. “Yeah, laugh it up, boys,” I mutter, my voice low but firm. “I’d rather spend a thousand nights thinking about her than one night regretting someone else.”
The guys exchange looks, eyebrows raised, and I realize I’ve surprised even myself with that one. When did I become such a sap?
My phone buzzes again, and this time it is her. My heart leaps into my throat as I fumble to answer, nearly dropping the damn thing in my haste.
"I gotta take this," I mutter to the guys, already heading for the exit.
The crisp night air hits me as I step outside, but I barely notice. All I can focus on is Del's voice coming through the speaker.
"Hey," she says, and just like that, everything settles. The knot in my chest from the game loosens, and I can breathe again.
"Hey yourself," I reply, unable to keep the smile out of my voice. "God, it's good to hear your voice."
There's a pause, and I can almost see her biting her lip, hesitating. "I heard about the game. I'm sorry."
I lean against the brick wall, closing my eyes. "Yeah, it was rough. But hearing your voice makes it better."
"Breck..." she starts, her tone uncertain.
"What's wrong?" I ask, suddenly alert.
She sighs. "I'm just... I'm nervous about tomorrow. The competition, it's..."
"Hey," I interrupt gently. "You're going to be amazing. You always are."
"You don't have to say that," she mumbles. "It's not your job to boost me up."
I can't help but chuckle. "I'm not saying it to boost you up, Del. I'm saying it because it's true. You're amazing."
There's a moment of silence, and I wonder if I've said too much. I can almost hear her pacing, the soft tap of her feet echoing through the phone. My heart aches, wishing I could be there with her, to calm her nerves with a gentle touch or a reassuring smile.
"What if I trip?" Del's voice is tight with anxiety. "Or completely blank out there? Everyone's going to be watching. Judging."
I close my eyes, picturing her face, those intense green eyes clouded with worry. "Del, you could fall flat on your face, and you'd still be the most incredible thing they've ever seen."
"You can't say that, Breck," she protests weakly. "We've only just gotten started."
My chest tightens at her words. Only just started? It feels like I've known her my whole life. Like every moment before her was just a prelude.
"I can, and I mean it," I say softly, my voice steady and unyielding. "Time doesn't matter when you know. And I know, Del. I'd wait forever if it meant having even a moment with you."
The silence that follows is heavy, loaded with unspoken emotions. I hold my breath, waiting.
"I'm not sure I know how to do this," Del finally whispers, her voice small and vulnerable.
My heart breaks a little at the uncertainty in her tone. I want to pull her close, to show her that she's safe with me. Instead, I settle for words.
"That's okay," I assure her. "We'll figure it out together."
She doesn't respond, and for a moment, I worry I've pushed too far. But I can't let her slip away, not when I'm falling so hard.
"Okay, then how about this," I offer, my voice gentle. "I'm not in a rush. We've got all the time in the world, Del. I'm not going anywhere."
There's a soft exhale on the other end. "Okay," she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "I... I have to go now. But thank you, Breck."
"Anytime," I reply, meaning it with every fiber of my being. "Good luck tomorrow. You'll be amazing."
"Thanks, Breck," she says quietly. "I... I miss you."
My heart does a backflip. "I miss you too." More than feels normal, honestly.
We hang up, and I'm left staring at my phone, my heart racing. I'm not just falling for her—I'm crashing, full speed, no helmet. And I don't even care if I get hurt.