Chapter Four #2
“Who gives a shit about popcorn?” Knight chows down on one of Minerva’s culinary delights. “Minnie’s in charge of catering.”
“Minerva. Roman goddess of wisdom. She likes to be called by her full name.”
Knight chuckles. “And goddess of macro-appropriate snacks, apparently.”
Viktor drops his voice to a whisper and stage points at me, “She’s already doing wifey stuff.”
* * *
The Redhawks come out fast.
They always do. Heavy forecheck, bodies thrown early, trying to set a tone before the ice has a chance to settle. The crowd is already loud when Coach taps his stick against the boards and sends the first line over.
Viktor, Knight, Camden.
I take the ice with Bowen and Lenyx for the second shift, legs loose, lungs open. That’s the first thing I notice. I’m breathing easy. No tightness in my chest, no sluggish drag in my thighs from travel legs and bad hotel food.
The puck drops, and we’re immediately in it.
Lennie wins the draw back to a D-man, Murph cuts wide, and I drive the middle lane, stick down, eyes up. A Redhawks defenseman steps up to challenge me, shoulder squared, trying to angle me off before I can build speed.
I don’t slow.
I cut inside, pull the puck through my skates, and slip past him clean. He reaches, misses, and suddenly I’m free with nothing but open ice ahead of me. I can hear the bench rise behind me, the collective inhale as I push harder.
My legs answer.
No burn. No lag. Just power.
I dump the puck deep to start the cycle, crash the corner, and absorb a hit that would normally rattle me this early in the game. Instead, I stay upright, spin off the boards, and come out with the puck. Murph is already there, shoulder-to-shoulder, grinding. Lennie curls high, stick ready.
I feed him. Shot. Rebound. Chaos.
The whistle blows after a scramble in front of the net, and I skate away grinning like an idiot.
On the bench, I lean forward with my hands on my knees, waiting for the familiar burn to hit. It doesn’t. My pulse settles faster than it should. My breath evens out.
“What’s up, Dubs?” Murph mutters, nudging my shin pad with his stick. “You look like you just stepped on the ice fresh.”
I shrug, still catching my breath out of habit more than need. “Must be adrenaline.”
“Bullshit,” Lennie says. “You’re flying.”
I am.
When Coach sends us back out two shifts later, I feel it again. The push. The drive. The way my body keeps answering when I ask it to give more. I chase down a puck I have no business reaching, beat the icing call by a hair, and force their goalie to play it under pressure.
As I peel off for a change, my brain finally catches up to my body.
This isn’t adrenaline.
This is fuel.
I think of vacuum-sealed bags. Handwritten labels. The quiet intensity in Minerva’s eyes when she explained macros like it mattered. Like I mattered.
I hop the boards, lungs heaving, and for the first time all season, I’m not wondering how long I can keep this pace.
I’m wondering how much harder I can push.
By the second period, the Redhawks start adjusting.
They lean on us heavier. Finish every check. Try to slow the game down by force. It works on some guys. You can see the fatigue creep in, the minor delays in reaction time, the extra half-second before a pivot.
It doesn’t hit me.
Coach rolls the lines hard, and when he sends Viktor’s unit out against their top pairing, we’re right behind them, expected to maintain pressure. Normally, this is where I start rationing energy. Shorter strides. Smarter routes.
Tonight, I don’t.
We get pinned in our zone after a bad bounce, and I’m the first one back, lifting a stick, clearing the puck off the boards with enough control to start a breakout instead of just surviving it. I swing through neutral ice, call for the puck, and get it in stride.
The Redhawks winger tries to close the gap. I burn him wide.
My legs feel… springy. That’s the only word for it. Responsive. I cut toward the net, draw a defender, and dish the puck to Murph who’s crashing far post. He gets robbed, but the chance is there because I had the gas to make it.
“Figures,” Viktor says. “Hale’s assistant turns him into an acceptable wingman, yours turns you into a machine.”
“She’s not turning me—” I stop myself. Because officially, I guess she is. “She knows her shit.”
That’s an understatement.
Midway through the period, I take a long shift. Too long. Normally, my legs would be screaming by now, lungs burning as I chase one more loose puck out of sheer stubbornness.
Instead, I win the race.
I get there first, shield the puck with my body, and wait for support. Lenyx swings low. A D-man pinches. I make the smart play, cycling the puck back instead of forcing something stupid.
The play stays alive.
When I finally get off the ice, my pulse is high but controlled. My muscles feel worked, not wrecked. I grab my water bottle and take a long pull, chest rising and falling steadily.
Knight skates past and squints at me. “I hate to say this, but whatever Minerva’s feeding you? It’s working.”
I laugh, but there’s something snug in my chest that isn’t exertion. She’s alone at my house. Probably cooking right now. Labeling things. Making sure I’m taken care of in ways I didn’t know I was missing.
For the first time in a long time, my body feels reliable. Strong. Ready.
And it’s impossible not to connect that feeling to the woman who quietly stepped into my life and decided I was worth optimizing.
Worth caring for.
The thought hits harder than any check.
I’m not sure what scares me more—that she’s doing it… or that I want her to.