The Defenseman's Neutral Zone

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Tate

The puck hits my stick with three seconds left on the clock.

The entire arena is on their feet, screaming and hollering things I can no longer register.

Someone shouts my name. Someone else screams for the pass.

I don’t pass. I skate, eye on the opposing team's goalie. He’s weak on his right side, which I know from hours of film.

I wind up and fire.

The puck slices through traffic and snaps into the top right corner of the net.

For half a second, there’s silence.

Then the arena explodes.

Helmets slam into mine as my teammates crash into me.

“Defenseman Tate Jackson. Game winner. Ballad U’s golden boy and highest scoring defenseman in all of college hockey this year!” The announcer yells over the speakers.

In the locker room, chaos has erupted.

Someone blasts One Direction What Makes You Beautiful.

Someone else launches a roll of tape across the room.

Our freshman goalie is still yelling like we won the Stanley Cup.

“Jackson!” Coach yells from his office door, flagging me over.

“Yes, Coach?”

“There were three scouts here tonight.”

“There are always scouts here, coach. We’re the top College hockey team right now.”

Coach’s eyebrows come together. “Jackson, this is your draft year. Every game matters. Don’t forget that.”

I knock onto this desk with my two knuckles, “You got it, sir,” I say with a quick nod.

I’m trying hard not to think too much about the draft; every time I allow myself to consider it, I’m sent in a downward spiral.

I head back into the locker room to join my teammates.

Parker is sitting in my spot in front of my locker.

“Drinks are on you,” he says. “Hero tax.”

“Figures,” I reply, tugging my jersey over my head.

Someone slaps my shoulder, another guy asks where we’re going, and a couple of freshmen are still buzzing like they can’t believe they’re really here. It’s loud. Chaotic. Familiar.

I should feel happy, excited, even.

Instead, all I can think about is coffee: warm, calm, hot, coffee.

Not the stuff they serve in the athletic center or whatever someone will shove into my hand later tonight that will for sure have alcohol in it. I want real coffee. The kind that comes in thick ceramic mugs and tastes better when the booth creaks beneath your weight.

The Retro Rooster- a local joint in town- a few blocks from the rink has become a habit I don’t talk about.

Same booth. Same order. Same girl behind the counter.

Celeste.

She never lingers when she pours my coffee. Never flirts. Never laughs too hard at things that aren’t funny. She doesn’t ask questions she doesn’t want answers to, and she definitely doesn’t care who I am beyond what’s written on the ticket she slides onto the counter.

Celeste doesn’t look at me like I’m a headline or a highlight reel. She doesn’t care that I’m Ballad U’s golden boy. Half the time, I’m not even sure she likes me at all.

“You good?” Preston asks, snapping his fingers in front of my face.

“Yeah,” I say quickly. “Just tired.”

He snorts. “You just won us the game. You can’t be tired.”

Maybe that’s the problem, maybe the pressure of it all is just becoming a little too much.

Talks of the drafts, knowing there are scouts at every game, the need to always be on top…

It’s just all so tiring. But I’m Tate fucking Jackson, the golden boy, the playboy, the guy who isn’t taken seriously, the guy who isn’t supposed to be tired, I’m the life of the party.

So I change, shower, joke about plays that didn’t matter, and mistakes that didn’t cost us. The routine settles into my bones the way it always does. By the time we spill out into the cold night air, jackets zipped and laughter echoing across the parking lot, I’m already halfway gone.

“You coming with us?” Preston asks, jerking his head toward the cars.

“Yeah,” I say, then hesitate. “I’ll meet you there.”

He gives me a look, one I know all too well now with Preston Edwards; he knows something is up. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” I don’t explain myself further. I never do. This is my way of finding peace and calming down, and I don’t need the boys to disrupt that.

The drive is short. Familiar. The streetlights blur past, and the farther I get from the rink, the quieter my head feels. When I pull into the diner’s parking lot, it’s almost empty, just a couple of cars scattered near the entrance.

I sit there for a second longer than necessary, hands resting on the steering wheel.

I tell myself it’s routine.

A place to come down after games. A neutral zone between the noise and whatever comes next.

I may be attempting to be blissfully unaware, but it’s becoming more than I imagined.

The bell above the door chimes as I step inside, warmth washing over me. The smell of coffee and grease wraps around my senses, grounding in a way nothing else does.

Celeste stands behind the counter, back to me, hair pulled into a messy bun that looks like it’s been redone at least once tonight. She’s wiping down the counter, movements efficient, practiced.

She turns. Her brown curls falling out of her bun, her soft tan skin, even in late October. She’s breathtaking in a way that makes me stop and stare. And it’s not just outer appearance, you can see she wears an armor of steel that I admire, even if I don’t know why it’s there.

Our eyes meet for half a second, just long enough for recognition to spark, before she looks away and reaches for a mug.

“Usual?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say, sliding into my booth. Push my wet blonde strands off my forehead.

She pours the coffee without another word, sets it in front of me, and moves on to the next customer like my presence doesn’t change the rhythm of her night at all.

And somehow, that feels like the best part.

I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into my palms, and watch her move through the diner steadily, focused, entirely her own.

For the first time that night, the noise finally fades.

I don’t know her story. I don’t know why she looks tired even when she smiles, or why she keeps everyone at arm’s length.

All I know is that I keep coming back.

I notice that tonight, Celeste is glancing at the clock in a way someone does when they’re bracing for something.I want to talk to her, ask her what’s going on, but when she drops off my food, she’s off before I can even say thank you.

As I’m about to dive into my burger and chips, finally. Preston, Miles, Parker, and Thomas all walk in and quickly spot me. When I look past my teammates, I notice Celeste making her way out of the double doors.

She’s normally here for another hour or so, and she didn’t have anything with her.

So I don’t think she’s leaving for the night.

I want to get up and follow her, but…The boys crowd my table, saying they need a bite to eat before they go out to a party tonight to celebrate the win.

I can’t focus on anything else they’re saying.

The conversation at the table fades into background noise, the guys’ voices blending together into something distant and meaningless. My attention stays locked on the front door, waiting.

Waiting for her.

But then I notice she isn’t alone.

Through the glass, I can see the faint outline of her body just outside under the dim glow of the parking lot lights. There’s a guy standing in front of her, broad-shouldered, about my height, from what I can tell.

Too close.

Something about the way he’s standing sets my body on edge.

I lean slightly toward the window, trying to see better, but the glare from the lights makes it hard to make out details. Their bodies shift in and out of the reflection on the glass as cars pass by on the street.

At first, I can’t hear anything they’re saying.

Then an older couple pushes through the front door of the diner, laughing softly as they step inside.

The door swings open behind them…

And suddenly I can hear her.

Her voice, it’s sharp like the blades I skate on.

The kind of tone that makes every instinct in my body go on high alert.

My head turns fully now, attention snapping to the window.

She turns like she’s about to walk away from him.

And that’s when the guy grabs her arm.

My chair scrapes loudly against the floor as I stand before I even realize what I’m doing.