Chapter Seventeen
Owen
The second I step onto Seattle’s ice for warmups, I know tonight is different. Not emotionally different. More quiet than anything else in a way I haven’t felt since before everything with Remy started detonating my nervous system.
My head feels clear for the first time in days, every thought narrowing into the familiar rhythm of the game. The cold air burns clean in my lungs while I skate lazy circles through the crease, tapping each post with the edge of my blocker before settling into position.
Puck. Shooter. Angle. Movement.
That’s it. That’s all there is.
A shot whistles toward me during warmups, and I snag it clean out of the air with my glove without breaking stride.
“Attaboy,” Viktor calls from center ice.
Another puck rockets toward the top corner. Easy glove save. The boys notice immediately. Hockey teams are weirdly animalistic about energy. Goalies especially. If we’re off, everybody feels it. If we’re locked in, the bench settles like a nervous system regulating itself in real time.
Tonight, the entire team starts feeding off me before the anthem even finishes. As we line up for puck drop, Viktor skates past the crease and taps his stick lightly against my pads.
“It’s your night,” he says simply. “You got this.”
Something fierce and steady settles low in my gut. “Then let’s make it count.”
The puck drops, and the first period hits fast and ugly. Seattle comes hard right away, trying to establish pressure with aggressive forechecking and nonstop traffic in front of my net. Bodies crash against the boards. Sticks clash. Somebody loses a helmet thirty seconds in.
I settle deeper into the crease and let instinct take over as the puck cycles high through the zone.
A slapshot screams through traffic from the point, and I kick the rebound hard into the corner before another shot comes flying toward my blocker side.
The crowd groans when I knock that one away, too.
Good.
My body still remembers how to do this even when my head forgets who the hell I’m supposed to be.
A winger cuts hard across the slot five minutes in and tries to tuck one glove side. I track it cleanly and snag it out of the air with enough force to sting my palm through the glove.
The whistle blows.
Suddenly, Tristan is there, shoving the winger away from my crease. Bowen joins him a second later because Bowen joins every altercation like an emotionally unstable golden retriever spotting a tennis ball.
“Get your own goalie,” Bowen snaps.
I hide my grin behind my mask. The boys are buzzing already. And for once, I don’t feel separate from it. I’m a part of it.
Every save settles us deeper into the game. Every whistle tightens the bench energy another notch until the confidence starts feeling tangible.
Knight leans over the boards during a TV timeout. “You’re seeing beach balls tonight, huh?”
“More like balloons.”
“Cocky bastard.”
He says it affectionately. Normally, I’d expect chirping after that. Instead, there’s something almost proud in the way he says it.
The second period gets worse. Or better. Depends on your perspective.
Camden takes a hooking penalty four minutes in, and suddenly we’re trapped in our zone for what feels like an entire geological era. Seattle moves the puck fast, trying to pull me out of position.
The puck moves fast around the zone. Point. Half wall. Cross-crease.
A shot rockets toward the open side of the net, and I push hard to my right, getting enough of my pad on it to deflect the puck wide.
The crowd erupts anyway, sensing an opportunity.
Another shot comes flying through traffic almost immediately after, and I barely track it before instinct takes over and I glove the puck.
The whistle blows.
My lungs burn, but underneath the exhaustion, I feel weirdly alive. Every save settles something inside me another notch.
“Holy shit,” Bowen says as we line up for the next faceoff. “You’re unconscious tonight.”
“Little busy,” I say.
The puck drops again.
Seattle wins the draw cleanly and fires a one-timer from the circle before anybody can fully reset coverage.
Point-blank.
Instinct takes over. I drop into butterfly and snap my glove hand upward just in time to catch the puck before it whistles past my ear.
For half a second, the entire arena goes silent.
Then the crowd explodes.
“ROURKE! ROURKE! ROURKE!”
I toss the puck casually toward the ref as my heart tries to punch through my ribs.
By the next stoppage, the save is already replaying on the Jumbotron overhead.
“Are you kidding me?” one of the commentators says overhead. “That save is absolutely ridiculous.”
“Rourke is standing on his head tonight. This is elite-level goaltending.”
A dangerous kind of energy starts building after that. I try not to listen to commentary during games. Way too easy to start believing people when they’re praising you or destroying you.
The boys feel it. I feel it.
By the third period, nobody’s even saying the word shutout anymore. That’s hockey law. You don’t say it out loud unless you want the universe to personally humble you. But everybody knows. You can feel it in the way the bench tightens every time the puck crosses center ice.
Every blocked shot gets louder. Every cleared puck gets celebrated harder.
Viktor drops to one knee to stop a shot midway through the third and immediately pounds his fist against the ice when he clears it out of danger.
“Let’s fucking go!”
The bench roars as I reset in the crease and drag in another breath.
One goal. That’s all it takes to ruin it.
Seattle throws everything they have at us during the final five minutes. Bodies pile in front of my net. Sticks jam against my pads. Somebody crashes into me after a rebound scramble, and Knight nearly commits homicide defending the crease afterward.
“Touch him again,” Knight snarls, “and I’ll bury you.”
Something about that hits me strangely hard. Nobody protected my crease growing up. You were expected to handle your own shit.
The crowd noise turns into one solid wall of sound during the final minute after Seattle pulls their goalie for the extra attacker.
The pressure ramps up immediately. The puck cycles fast around the zone before a cross-ice pass finds their sniper wide open in the left circle, and he absolutely hammers a shot top shelf through traffic.
I don’t even think.
My glove flashes out on pure instinct, and suddenly the puck is sitting clean in my hand instead of behind me in the net.
The arena completely loses its mind.
Honestly, I feel a little insane, too, after that one.
Bowen skates past the crease screaming, “brICK WALL! brICK FUCKING WALL!” while I try unsuccessfully to stop grinning inside the mask. Around me, the boys start throwing themselves in front of everything Seattle sends toward the net, determined to protect the shutout now that we’re this close.
The final seconds drain off the clock in a blur of noise, bodies, and blocked shots until the buzzer finally sounds.
And then they’re all over me at once. Laughing, shouting, and grabbing my helmet and shoulders. This win belongs to every single one of us instead of just me.
The entire team swarms me in the crease, shouting and grabbing at my helmet while sticks bang against the ice around us. Tristan nearly tackles me backward. Camden wraps an arm around my shoulders hard enough to rattle my mask. “Absolute psychopath tonight!”
“Holy shit, Rourke!”
Viktor gets to me last. He grabs the sides of my helmet and pulls me into a hard hug before thumping the top of my mask twice. “Told you it was your night.”
Something hot catches unexpectedly behind my ribs.
Not because of the shutout. But because this feels like home again. Real enough to make my chest ache anyway.
* * *
“Damn, dude, you crushed it out there!” Viktor jostles me with both arms. “Looks like you got your game back.”
“And you didn’t punch anyone in the face!” Knight offers me two thumbs up. “Gold star.”
Viktor slings one arm around my neck and half-drags me toward the showers. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“I mean, he did punch a guy earlier this season, so… yes. It was sincere. I’m being complimentary!” Knight gives a series of fervent little nods.
Usually, this is the part where Viktor would goad Knight, and they’d tussle, and everyone would move on and stop acknowledging me.
I’m taken aback when Viktor taps his free hand to my chest again, bringing the conversation back to me.
“Ignore him, Rourke. He thinks he’s funny.
Seriously, though, good game. That last block was primo.
No notes.” He pinches his fingers together and kisses the air.
Bowen bumps into my other shoulder. “Yeah, Rourke, you were a brick wall tonight. I think that’s the best I’ve ever seen you play.”
“Really?” I can’t help the squeak that escapes.
“Definitely. You’ve had good games in the past, but this was a nonstop save-a-thon.” He rubs his knuckles against the back of my head. “And you didn’t let their chirping get to you. You were untouchable.”
“Oh.” I dip my head and smile, only belatedly remembering to add, “Thanks.”
Compliments still hit me like unexpected body checks. I never really know what to do with them.
Viktor squeezes my neck until he’s got me shy of a chokehold. “You’re kind of shit at taking compliments, Rourke.”
“Well, I’m not—” Used to them, I almost say. But that would sound pathetic as shit, so I go with, “I’m not fishing for compliments.” After a beat, I add, “Unlike Knight.”
My dad used to say compliments made people soft. That if you needed praise to function, you were already weak.
“Fucking what!” Knight lifts both hands in the air. “What did I do?”
“Showboat,” I say. “All the damn time.”
The other guys bray with laughter, making Knight pout harder by the second. I don’t say much. I never do. But for the first time since I threw that punch, I feel like I belong here.
That feeling is unfamiliar enough to make me almost suspicious of it.
* * *
I end up paired with Tristan for the flight home, which is a relief. He’s a lot more comfortable with silence than guys like Viktor and Adler are. I let him have the window seat so that I can stretch into the aisle. Within minutes of hitting altitude, he’s slumped against the side of the plane.
While he snores, I connect to the plane’s Wi-Fi and take a peek at the usual fan blogs.
It’s good news: people are saying positive things.
Almost none of the blogs and articles I click through even mention the upset from earlier this season, and when they do, it’s only to suggest that I’ve turned things around.
My phone buzzes with a text, and an icon of my mom’s smiling face appears in the top corner.
Mama Bird: So proud of you, Owen!
Mama Bird: I watched your game at the bar down the street
Mama Bird: Some dipshit tried to bet against you
Mama Bird: You know I don’t believe in gambling, but I bet him for drinks, and you’d better believe I ordered nothing but double Grey Goose and cranberries all night
Mama Bird: That’ll teach him to bet against my baby!
I chuckle as my phone continues to vibrate. How does she text so fast? She’s like that in person, too. She talks enough for both of us.
Owen: I miss you, Ma.
Mama Bird: Come home for Mother’s Day!!!
My hands fist unexpectedly at the thought. Mother’s Day is right in the middle of the playoffs. Will the Venom be in the thick of it? I don’t know yet. Home used to feel complicated. Lately, it mostly feels far away.
Mama Bird: You can put a hurting on that loudmouth at Jay’s
Mama Bird: Just kidding, violence is never the answer
Mama Bird: But the good Lord has nothing to say about glaring, so we can glare at him instead
Owen: But then who will pay for your top-shelf vodka sodas?
Mama Bird:
Mama Bird: Good point!!!
“Hey.” Sergio claps a hand over my shoulder on his way past my seat. The sudden contact nearly makes me drop my phone in alarm. When I lift my head, though, he’s smiling, and I force myself to relax.
“What’s up, boss?” I ask.
“Hell of a performance, Rourke.” He thumps my shoulder a few times.
It takes a physical effort not to wince with every touch—I don’t mind it with the guys, but there’s something about physical contact from a guy who has power over me that takes me back to a dark place.
Not because I think Sergio will hurt me.
Because my body still expects authority to come with impact.
Sergio has never been the kind of guy to lash out, though. Not physically.
“Thanks.” I smile with my lips pressed together.
Sergio moves on. My phone buzzes again, and I glance down, expecting to see another message from my mom. It’s not.
Remy: I watched the game. You were incredible tonight. Proud of you.
Proud of me. I let the sentiment settle deep enough to feel dangerous.
Remy’s proud of me. I stare at the text for a long time.
Proud is such a specific word. It’s not a word you use for strangers.
When my fans are delighted by my performance, they’re proud to wear our colors, but they’re not proud of me.
People feel pride in the things that belong to them or the people close to them.
Am I overthinking this?
Proud of you.
That’s the word my mom used, too.
Which probably shouldn’t affect me this much psychologically, but here we are.
For a foolish ten seconds, I let myself imagine that this is my life.
That I have my team, my mom, and my girlfriend in my corner.
The image settles into my chest with terrifying ease, like some part of me has already started making room for her there.
That Remy cares about me as much as I care about her.
Impossible, I know. She likes me enough to let me have her, but she’ll get bored with me eventually.
People usually do once they realize I’m more complicated than I look.
And when her job is done, she’ll move on and put as much distance between us as possible.
I don’t even blame her for that, but I do want to hold on to how good this feels for another delusional breath.
Owen: Thanks, Remy. That means a lot, coming from you.
I disconnect my phone from the Wi-Fi and shove it into my pocket. Reality is going to catch up with me eventually. I just want to enjoy this while it lasts.
Before reality reminds me that I was never built for keeping good things.