Chapter 23
Caden
“Other way, Shaw!” Hughes bellows over to him from our position, both of us hurtling toward our teammate as two Harvard players battle him for the puck.
He’s closer to the Carter U goal than we’d want him to be, but the fact that he’s still got a hold of the puck is a blessing if I’ve ever seen one.
We’ve been back at Carter U for almost three weeks, and we’ve won all four of our games so far – but Harvard’s new lineup is messing with our play because their techniques on the ice are so similar to our own.
“What the hell is happening?” Hughes rasps under his breath, shooting me a disbelieving look before glancing at the scoreboard.
We’re currently drawing at five-five, which is a first for this year’s scoresheet. Most of the games have been clear-cut, so this is way closer than our captain wants it.
I shove his shoulder with mine to snap his attention away from the scoreboard, keeping my eyes on the puck as we catch up with Shaw.
“Relax,” I rumble. “Ignore the scoreboard. We’re gonna win.”
“Caden, we’re tied,” he grits out, so I elbow him harder, flicking him a look.
“Ignore the scoreboard,” I repeat. “All we need to do is get the puck. We’ll take it from there.”
He opens his mouth like he’s about to fight it but, after a moment, he nods and shoves my shoulder.
“Thanks,” he says gruffly. “Now go cover Austin and prevent the intercept.”
I take off like a shot, cutting down the ice toward our goalie, although I can’t help but glance at Shaw who’s fighting for his life against the plexi.
The Harvard guys might be good but the two on Shaw’s ass are fucking foul, trying to bring him to his knees as he protects the puck like a bodyguard.
“Hughes!” he practically growls, spotting our captain and jerking his chin at him, signalling the way that he needs him to go so that he can manoeuvre the puck without losing it.
I reach Austin as he stretches his arm, silently suffering after one of the Harvard guys pinned him earlier.
And by pinned him, I mean on the ice, with a Harvard player’s kneecap drilling hard into his elbow.
There’s no way that the goal should have been allowed after what they did to Austin, but the ref’s choice is the ref’s choice and we still have enough time to get another two pucks in the net. We’re not going to fight about it and risk getting penalised.
Besides, worst case scenario, this can be a score settled off the ice.
Austin gives me a look, his expression livid.
He’s not used to letting the puck get inside his net.
I jerk my chin at his arm. “What’s the problem?”
He shakes his head. “He’s fucked up my bicep.”
“Your bicep?” I ask. “I thought he was nailing your elbow.”
“He was,” Austin grits out. “And when I shoved him off of me, he nailed it harder.”
I blink at him for a moment before I work out what that means.
If the opponent kept the pressure heavy while Austin was moving, Austin’s going to have overstretched way more than he’s used to.
I stare at his gear before meeting his eyes. “Tell me you haven’t torn anything.”
He laughs drily as we watch Hughes and Shaw. “Only my ego.”
I don’t say it but I know he’s deflecting, pretending that it isn’t as bad as it actually is.
He glances over at me, reading my mind, and he shakes his head. “We’ve only got two minutes left.”
“I wasn’t going to tell you to get off the ice.”
But I’m definitely manning the goal with him.
Austin notices and breathes out a laugh. “Go get the puck. I’ll be fine here.”
As if on cue, Hughes shouts out, “Caden!” and then I’m flying to the centre of the rink, two Harvard guys on my heels as I weave around their players to find the puck.
Hughes shoots it toward me and I whip it hard, straight to Shaw, both of us bolting down the rink and out-skating our opponents as we reach the net.
Shaw goes wide, misleading the goalie, and before Harvard knows what’s happening he blasts the puck, sending it straight toward my stick and setting me up for the perfect shot.
I go low, throw my arm back, and whip the puck straight into the net, adrenaline bursting through my chest as the scoreboard flashes, only ten seconds to go.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Coach Benson hollers, his face crimson as he pumps his fist, and I heave myself back up to my blades so that we can resume the final seconds of this game’s play.
“That was fire!” Shaw shouts over to me, whacking his shoulder into mine, and I give his helmet a rough shove, laughing gruffly as he bodychecks me.
“You’re insane,” I smirk, kneeing him away from me as we race toward Hughes, knowing that it’s unlikely to score again in the time-frame but needing to maintain possession to prevent Harvard from matching our score.
Five, four, three, two–
The whistle sounds and I drop my stick, throwing my helmet down as the arena explodes, lights and music and shouts from the audience blurring together as I take the moment to calm my breathing, revelling in the sensation of another win.
Hughes slings his arm around Shaw’s shoulders and slams me as I tuck my stick underneath my bicep.
“That goal was hard,” Hughes pants, smiling even though his breathing is still laboured, pretty much back to his composed self now that we’ve got the Carter U win.
I push my hair back from my forehead and shrug a shoulder as I grab my helmet.
“Shaw set it up,” I rasp simply.
“Power duo,” Shaw grins.
I smirk back at him and give him a shoulder-shove, before weaving around the guys and heading toward Austin.
He’s spurting water into his mouth through the cage of his helmet and, despite the win that we’ve just secured, he’s less enthused than the rest of the team.
I pull up beside him in silent solidarity, to where he’s leaning his forearm over the net, and he gives it a grateful stroke with his goal-stopping glove in true goalie tradition.
He exhales hard and shoots me a look.
“I think I should go murder that guy,” he announces.
I glance over my shoulder, toward the player in question. Then I rub my arm over my forehead, wiping away the sweat. “Don’t go after him. You’ll exacerbate the injury.”
Austin’s eyes burn into the side of my face. “I can’t let him get away with that,” he says gruffly.
I turn back to him. “Let God deal with it. Trust me, his karma’s coming.”
Austin pulls off his helmet, his broad chest heaving. “I’m seeing red right now, man.”
I grip his nape and he meets my eyes. “That’s why you need to wait. Don’t rush it.” Then I glance back toward the rink, and tip my chin at our teammates as they head over to us.
“Focus on the win,” I tell him, my voice rasping from the last minute of play, “and don’t put yourself in a situation that could lead to more damage than good.
You’re going to fully recover, and he’s no doubt going to fuck up again, and you won’t even need to get revenge because he’s going to reap what he’s sewn. ”
Austin stares at me for a beat. “Is this what they teach you in the Bible?”
But he isn’t saying it judgementally – he’s being sincere.
Which is why my mouth lifts slightly as I push my hair back and glance away from him.
“Yeah,” I admit. “I learned pretty much everything from the Bible.”
Our teammates swarm us in a rush, putting on a show as they hype up Austin – because, yeah, we scored six goals, but he saved almost double that during those three periods.
Plus, I’m not the only player who saw what that guy was doing to his arm, and I have no doubt that when Harvard plays next, he’s not going to be on their line-up.
We head to our gate, open it up, and lumber loudly down the corridor, making our way toward the changing rooms in the bright white facility.
We throw our sticks down on the benches, peel off our gear, and head to the showers, rinsing off as quick as we can because our bus is supposed to be leaving in less than ten minutes.
I run the water until it’s burning and stand under the pounding spray of the jet, letting it flood between my shoulder blades as I brace a forearm against the wall.
This Harvard team was good, but I can’t deny that I’m pissed about what happened to Austin, and I wonder if he’ll tell Coach about it during our one-on-ones.
I pump out the soap and start lathering it off, running a palm down my chest as my abdomen flexes. And I exhale hard when I reach my quads, because my muscles are swollen after our work on the ice.
We did so much back and forth with Harvard during this game that I won’t need to run a cardio drill for the rest of the season.
I shove my hair back and rinse off my biceps, my heart warming when I see my new tattoo – the latest addition to my forearm, and my first piece done by Winter.
All of my tattoos are based on her sketches, but this was the first time that Winter actually etched it into my skin.
Hot steam curls around me and I trace my thumb over her linework, remembering the bite of the needle as she dragged it slowly, her hand holding me still to make sure I didn’t move.
I slap my palm against the valve, shutting off the water before I get too lost in thought, and I give my lower body a minute to calm down before grabbing my towel and heading out of the stall.
I dry off in front of the benches, hauling my bag from the locker so that I can pull on my clothes, and then I’m trudging out and into the corridor, not wanting the post-game comradery when my thoughts are on Winter.
We’ve been video-calling almost every night since winter break ended and Ade’s been sending me videos of her barrel rides in the barn, but I can’t deny that I’ve been missing her like crazy since the second I got my boots back on college ground.
One more year, I remind myself silently. Then it’s Winter, me, and a beautiful house in the middle of Texas.
I rub my palm over the sleeve of my black hoodie, secretly touching my new favorite tattoo while I head to the exit, and then Benson is stepping out from one of the meeting rooms with the coach from Harvard, his gaze snapping to mine like I’m exactly who he wanted to see.
He closes the door behind them at the same time that I push open the door leading to the lot, and I keep it open with the bulk of my shoulder as he jerks his chin at me and calls, “Hart. Wait up.”
I exhale quietly, waiting about ten million years before he reaches the door, and then I put a good mile or so between us so that I’m not walking side-by-side with my coach to the bus.
I glance over at him warily, feeling his eyes boring into my face, and I shove my fringe back with my hand, before hitching my gear bag up my shoulder.
“What’s up?” I rumble, checking behind me to make sure that no-one’s seeing this, because talking to Benson outside of the arena makes me feel like I’m in detention with the principal.
He quirks a brow as he looks back at me, amusement in his eyes as he rolls his shoulders.
“You know, I’ve thought a lot about what you said, back in my office at the start of last semester,” he says drily. “And it’s times like right now that I’m like, damn, the kid has a point.”
We reach the bus in uncomfortable silence and I stare longingly at the door, knowing that it’s locked and that I have no escape route until the driver decides to open it.
I stare at the driver through the glass and he shakes his head at me.
Motherfucker.
I sigh quietly and turn back to Benson, his cheekbones flexing as he fights a smile.
Coach Benson. Fighting a smile.
Okay, I’m really nervous now.
“Uh, I don’t remember what I said to you,” I tell him honestly, my voice deep and hoarse.
“You said that you were quiet,” he replies wryly, “and damn if that ain’t the truth. You didn’t add that you’re awkward as hell, though, and that’s something that we might want to work on.”
I stare at him, unblinking, and he laughs softly as he nods his head.
“Exactly, Caden, just like that. Although it might actually be good at unnerving the opposition. Look,” he chuckles, “I’ll keep it short and sweet. This Harvard game was messy, but I’m damn impressed at how you played.”
I rub my stubble, my brow creasing. “I only scored two of the goals.”
“I’m not even talking about the goals. I’m talking about how you handled your fellow players. With Hughes? With Austin? You managed to de-escalate your damn captain.”
I shake my head. “We were just talking.”
“He was freaking out, and you calmed him way down. And the same thing with Austin – you stopped him from getting into it with that Harvard player. Who, by the way, is beyond benched after I spoke to his coach. And I saw you check in on him again when we might have needed more goal defending. All of it adds up, Caden. I’m really proud of the player you’re becoming. ”
My cheekbones burn as I drop my gaze, and I clear my throat, trying not to be awkward.
“Uh… thanks,” I rumble awkwardly.
Way to fucking go, man.
“You’re welcome,” Benson chuckles, “and with regards to what we were talking about last semester… even though we aren’t penning in next year’s captain yet, I hope that you understand what I’m trying to tell you.”
I stare at him blankly and he breathes out a laugh, scrubbing his hand around his nape as he signals the driver to open the door.
Fucking finally. I practically shiver as I watch them open.
“I’m saying that, if you’re up for it, I think you’re the perfect player for the job,” Benson explains, and my heart thunders as I watch him, trying to gauge if he’s being serious.
So I just bite the bullet, and straight-up ask him.
“Are you being serious?” I rumble.
And he gives me the first smile that I’ve ever seen from him, chuckling gruffly as he nods his head.
“Yeah, Hart, I’m being serious. I want you to be next year’s captain.”