Chapter 33TheoAsherTheoAsher
Theo
I was probably more nervous watching Asher than I would have been actually playing. I sat on the bench with the team, flanked by the assistant coaches. Asher was at center ice, crouched low for the faceoff.
Cody and Rafael were sitting directly behind me, and my family was behind them. I turned around to give them a little wave, hoping the tension in my body wasn’t visible on my face.
The moment I turned away, my phone buzzed with a text.
Mom: You look like you’re going to yak. Is it the meds?
Jesus Christ.
It was that obvious, huh?
The referee’s whistle shrieked, signaling the start of the game.
The puck dropped, and I jumped to my feet, instantly regretting it when a flare of pain shot through my neck.
I knew it was going to be a rough game. No matter what happened out there, I was going to be amped.
That meant a lot of me jumping around like an idiot, but I had to control that.
Doctors told me not to make sudden movements, or I could injure my neck more.
You try watching your boyfriend play the most important game of his life and not move!
Asher battled hard, but their center ripped the puck away, passing it to their left winger, who pushed up into our zone.
The Warriors were playing the Cobras, a team from Philadelphia.
Both teams were middle seeds in the tournament, so we’d fought tooth and nail to get to that moment.
That kind of drive made you thirsty for victory.
This game is gonna be dirty.
The Cobras had an elite passing game, slapping the puck from stick to stick with pinpoint accuracy and speed.
They raced down the ice, doing loop-de-loops around the Warriors’ defense. Hutch was in front of the net, but my replacement, a guy named Franklin, wasn’t quick enough for the Cobras.
He was all bulk and no finesse, lumbering on the ice, jerking his body from side to side to track the puck.
The Cobras’ right winger approached the crease and faked a shot, then passed it to the left winger, who sniped it into the upper-right corner of the net. Luckily, we had one of the best goalies in the league, and he caught the puck before it crossed the line.
The ref blew his whistle, stopping play for a faceoff in the defensive zone. Quincy stepped into the circle. The puck dropped, and immediately, a scramble of sticks ensued. The crack of the wood meeting the puck echoed like fireworks.
Quincy won the draw and pushed the puck up ice, passing to Asher just before the blue line. Asher tried to skate into the offensive zone, but their defensemen cut him off.
A tussle broke out, and Asher tripped up and fell. The defenseman chipped the puck to a winger, who skated it back into the defensive zone.
Fuck!
My heart pounded in my chest. Coach was pacing back and forth, screaming at the guys to pick up the pace. Our forwards needed better coverage out there.
They need me.
No, I couldn’t think that way. The Warriors could do it. I knew they could.
I could hear Rafael swearing and yelling at the refs. Dude sounded like a truck driver at a game.
Our defense just couldn’t keep up. Hutch did his best, but Franklin was dragging. He looked like Frankenstein out there.
I got up and stopped Coach. “You gotta get Franklin out of there. They’re too quick. We need someone who can defend and skate at the same time.”
Coach looked me dead in the eyes. “Moretti, let me do the coaching, alright?”
Ugh, he’s right. I need to shut my trap .
It wasn’t the moment for backseat driving. “Sorry,” I muttered.
He clapped a hand on my shoulder and told me to sit down and cheer for the team. I wanted to, but I couldn’t stay still. Soon, I was pacing just like Coach, adrenaline surging through me. All I wanted was to jump out on the ice and play, but I couldn’t.
McKenzie grabbed the puck and raced down the ice into the offensive zone. Quincy and Asher flanked his sides, forming a quick V shape. As the defense closed in, Quincy and Asher doubled up on McKenzie. He skated hard toward the crease, dribbling the puck faster and faster.
Then, he made a quick pass to Asher, who wristed a shot into the lower left corner of the net.
“Yes!” The entire arena erupted—the red and blue lights flashing on the net. Asher scored the first goal of the night.
“You’ve got this, Red!”
The jubilation was short-lived. The Cobras turned up the heat, their passing game getting better as the minutes ticked by.
By the second period, we were up by one, and by the third, the score was 2 to 2.
My voice was completely gone. At one point, I was standing on top of the bench screaming at the refs for a call I didn’t agree with.
I got down once I realized my insanity was being caught on camera, the image of a crazed Theo snapping me out of my lunacy and forcing me to sit the fuck down.
Calm down, dude, you’re gonna hurt yourself even more.
Asher had the puck and was closing in on the Cobras’ net, but their defense pushed him back, cornering him into the boards. The scuffle ensued, and I witnessed the moment Asher took a punch to the face.
“Ref!” I screamed, the veins surely visible on my forehead.
As the refs broke up the fight, the Cobras’ right winger closed the distance between him and Asher. He said something, and all of a sudden, Asher was enraged. He got right in the guy’s face, screaming at him, and the dude opened up his arms, waiting for the punch.
The refs scrambled to intervene, and, finally, Quincy and McKenzie pulled Asher back and dragged him away. I pounded on the glass, screaming Asher’s name, trying to get his attention.
Asher wasn’t like that. He didn’t fight after the whistles screamed, which meant something happened out there that made him go nuclear.
If that fucker said something to Asher, he’s done.
The Cobras’ right winger received a major penalty for punching Asher.
Good.
Coach called a timeout and brought the Warriors in for a huddle.
Asher
I wanted to pummel that fucker. The impulse to rip off his helmet and knock the bigotry out of him, along with a couple of teeth, was palpable. Luckily, Quincy and McKenzie held me back.
Coach called a timeout, and the six of us approached the bench.“You boys are killing it out there. It’s a tied game. Don’t get sloppy, guys. I saw what happened out there, and they’re goading you. You’re tired, and they can see it. Don’t take the bait. Asher—”
I hadn’t expected to be called out like that. My eyes shot up to meet Coach’s gaze. Theo stood right beside him, a worried look on his face.
Coach continued, “Don’t get back at them. Be better. Do you hear me?”
For a moment, I wanted to protest. It was so fucking hard to keep my cool when everyone else was allowed to be hateful and low. Rage bubbled inside, making my fists clench. I didn’t want to “be better” anymore. I wanted to get even. When was it my turn to punch back? When could I—
My eyes landed on the kid in the stands wearing the PULSEWEAR jersey. He had red hair and freckles. His eyes were locked on me, and his dad, sitting right next to him, pointed in my direction. The kid smiled and waved, and I instinctively waved back.
Then everything blurred, and a sixteen-year-old version of me emerged.
He was on rollerblades, skating over cracked concrete.
That kid had no idea he’d someday play at Madison Square Garden.
He played because he loved it. Because if he didn’t, the emptiness inside would swallow him whole.
The younger me faded, replaced by the sea of rainbows in the stands—the hundreds of people supporting Theo and me.
Theo.
I looked at him. His expression was warm and caring. He mouthed, “Are you okay?”
That’s when I realized I’d already won. To that sixteen-year-old, I’d done the impossible. I’d shown more courage and grit than I ever thought I had.
But I also had something even better than that. I had him. I was loved. We loved each other.
I didn’t need to win the game; I was already victorious.
But why not have a championship trophy as well, right?
I gave Theo a smile that I hoped conveyed how okay I was.
I’m better than okay, Big Boy. I’m fucking fabulous.
“I hear you, Coach,” I said, nodding in response.
His eyes twinkled under the arena lights. I think Coach Wilson saw that whatever shifted inside me was about to unleash onto the ice—and the Cobras wouldn’t know what hit ’em. “Get out there, boys. Take it home.”
I turned around and skated to center ice for the faceoff, glancing at the clock. Three minutes left in the game—just enough time for the hockey world to know that Asher Lachlan was about to go all in, and he wasn’t going to compromise who he was while climbing to the top.
I dropped into position, waiting for the referee to blow the whistle.
The roar of the crowd didn’t drown me in impossible expectations or self-doubt anymore.
I let the sounds wash over me, fueling my fiery determination.
There’s a fine line between confidence and arrogance, but I’d spent enough of my life hiding in the shadows.
I was just as good as these guys. It was time to believe it—really believe it.
Let’s get a little cocky, shall we?
The whistle shrieked.
The puck hit the ice.
Mine.
McKenzie caught my pass. He looked almost shocked by the speed, but he snapped out of it and pushed forward. Their defense closed in on him, and he passed it back to me.
Let’s go.
The world blurred as I skated harder than I ever had before.
A quick fake to the right, and the defenseman was left flailing, trying to figure out where I’d gone.
Their wingers converged, so I circled the crease.
The Cobras spread out—their wingers covering my teammates, the defense waiting in front of the net.