Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
locked in
ROOK
The puck dropped at center ice, and I felt the shift happen in my body before my brain fully processed it.
I knew exactly where I needed to be. Two days after sitting under the stars with Soren and letting thirteen years of grief crack open between us, I was back on home ice for an exhibition game against some chippy Alberta team, and I felt more locked in than I had in weeks.
Coach stood behind the bench with his arms crossed, watching the first shift with that expression he got when he was evaluating rather than coaching.
Jace was next to him, iPad in hand, tracking stats that didn't technically matter for an exhibition but mattered to him anyway because that was how his brain worked.
The rest of the team was keyed up despite the “doesn't count” status of the game, because nobody on either bench was treating this like a casual fucking skate.
The Alberta center won the draw and sent it back to his defense, but I was already reading the play, already skating into the passing lane before he'd fully committed to the direction.
I picked it off clean, chipped it ahead to Dmitri on the blue line, and drove hard toward the net as the cycle started.
The Alberta defense collapsed in tight, overcommitting to the puck carrier, and I saw the space open up before anyone else did.
“Rook!” Dmitri's voice cut through the noise, and I snapped my stick down to the ice just as the pass came through. One-timer, high glove side, and their goalie barely got a piece of it before it rang off the post and bounced into the corner.
“Fuck,” I muttered, but I was already chasing the rebound because that was what captains did. You didn't get to sulk about missed chances when the play was still live.
Their winger got there first and tried to clear it up the boards, but Mason was waiting for him with the kind of hit that made the entire rink feel it.
The puck came loose, and I scooped it up behind their net, scanning for options while their defense scrambled to recover.
Benny was cutting toward the slot, stick on the ice, and I fed him the pass with enough velocity that he didn't have to handle it, just redirect it toward the net.
Goal. Fifteen seconds into the first shift.
The bench erupted behind us, and I skated toward Benny with my glove raised for the celly. He crashed into me hard enough to knock us both sideways, laughing like an idiot, and the rest of the line piled on before Coach's voice cut through the noise telling us to get our asses back to the bench.
“That's how we fucking start!” Finn shouted as we cycled off, his grin wide enough to split his face. “Cap's on fire tonight!”
“Cap's been on fire all week,” Cole added from further down the bench, and there was an edge to his voice that said he knew exactly what he was implying. “Wonder what changed.”
I shot him a look that should have shut him up, but the damage was already done. The entire bench was grinning now, and I could see the chirping coming before it even started.
“Someone definitely got laid,” Tate said, not bothering to lower his voice. “Look at him. That's post-sex confidence right there.”
“I didn't get laid,” I said flatly, dropping onto the bench and grabbing my water bottle. “I got sleep. Revolutionary concept, you should try it.”
“Sleep doesn't make you play like that,” Mason countered, leaning back against the boards with his arms crossed. “That's the kind of energy you get from—”
“Finishing a conversation I should have had years ago,” I interrupted him. “Drop it.”
The bench went quiet for about three seconds, which was a miracle in itself, and then Finn ruined it by saying, “So you had emotional closure and now you're playing like a god. That's somehow worse than getting laid.”
I couldn't help it. I laughed, and the sound came out rough and genuine and surprised the hell out of me. “You're all idiots.”
“Yeah, but we're your idiots,” Benny said, and he wasn't wrong.
The game stayed tight and mean in the best possible way.
The Alberta team was fast, physical, and mouthy as hell, the kind of squad that played right up to the edge of dirty without quite crossing it.
Their captain was a brick wall of a defenseman who'd been targeting our top line all night, and by the second period the chirping had escalated into an art form.
“Nice pass, grandpa!” one of their wingers shouted at Cole after he'd turned the puck over in the neutral zone. “You need glasses or just losing your edge?”
“I'm twenty-eight, you fucking child,” Cole fired back without missing a beat. “Come talk to me when you hit puberty.”
The ref didn't even bother blowing the whistle. This was exhibition hockey, and as long as nobody threw a punch, the shit talk was part of the entertainment.
I lined up for the next face-off and locked eyes with their center, a cocky kid who'd been running his mouth since the opening puck drop. He grinned at me like we were best friends instead of opponents, and I knew exactly what was coming.
“Heard your playoff start got delayed,” he said, loud enough for half the ice to hear. “That suck, or you guys just scared?”
“We're rested,” I shot back, settling into my stance. “You're about to be tired.”
I won the draw, sent it back to Dmitri, and drove hard toward their net.
The kid tried to follow me, but I'd already read where the play was going and he hadn't.
By the time he caught up, I was screening their goalie while Dmitri wound up from the point.
The shot came through heavy and low, and I tipped it just enough to change the angle before it beat the goalie clean.
Two to nil.
The bench went absolutely feral behind me, and I skated back toward our end with the Alberta center glaring at me like I'd personally insulted his entire bloodline.
“Still scared?” I asked as I skated past him, and his response was creative enough that I almost respected it.
The rest of the period played out fast and physical, both teams trading chances and hits in equal measure.
Their coach was shouting instructions that mostly involved variations of “hit the big guys harder,” and our bench was shouting back encouragement that mostly involved variations of “don't let them hit you.” By the time the buzzer sounded for the second intermission, we were up three to one and I was exhausted in the best possible way.
Coach didn't say much during the break. He didn't need to.
We were playing well, staying disciplined, and executing the systems exactly the way he'd drilled into us all season.
Jace pulled me aside near the end of the intermission and handed me a water bottle with a look that said he'd been tracking my ice time and didn't love the numbers.
“You're playing a lot of minutes for an exhibition,” he said quietly. “Coach knows you're locked in, but don't burn yourself out before playoffs actually start.”
“Kinda have to.”
“You're playing like you've got a point to prove.”
“Maybe I do.” I took a long drink and handed the bottle back to him. “I feel good, Jace. Best I've felt in weeks. Let me ride it.”
He studied me for a second, and I could see him weighing whether to push harder or let it go. Finally, he nodded. “Just pace yourself. We need you sharp when it counts.”
The third period was a war. Alberta came out flying, clearly pissed about being down by two, and they scored forty seconds in on a deflection that beat Saint clean. The goal woke up their entire bench, and suddenly the game felt a lot less comfortable than it had five minutes ago.
We tightened up defensively, clogging the neutral zone and making them work for every inch of ice.
Their forecheck was relentless, and I spent most of my shifts battling in the corners, protecting the puck, and trying to kill time without giving them any momentum.
With three minutes left, they pulled their goalie, and the entire arena seemed to hold its breath.
Coach sent our shutdown line out for the final shifts, and I watched from the bench as Dmitri and Mason killed nearly two full minutes just by being in the right position at the right time.
The entire bench was tense, everyone leaning forward like we could somehow will the puck to stay out of our net through sheer force of collective anxiety.
When the buzzer finally sounded, we'd held on for a three to two win. The bench emptied onto the ice for the post-game celly, and I made a point of checking Finn hard enough to knock him sideways as I skated past.
“That's for the chirping,” I told him.
“Worth it!” he shouted back, grinning like an idiot.
The handshake line was quick and professional, just two teams acknowledging a good game before heading to their respective locker rooms. Their captain gave me a nod as we shook hands, and I returned it because respect was respect even when you'd spent sixty minutes trying to destroy each other on the ice.
Back in the locker room, the energy was loud and loose, everyone riding the high of a win even if it didn't technically count for anything. The roasting picked up immediately.
“So who is she?” Cole asked as he pulled off his jersey. “Or he? We're not picky, we just want details.”
“There are no details because there's no one,” I said, unlacing my skates with more force than strictly necessary.
“He's lying,” Finn announced. “Look at his face. That's his lying face.”
“I don't have a lying face.”
“You absolutely have a lying face,” Jace said from the doorway, still holding his tablet. “It's the same face you make when you tell me you're not playing through an injury.”
“I hate all of you,” I muttered, but I was smiling despite myself.
“He loves us,” Tate translated. “See? Emotionally available. Something definitely changed.”
I threw a piece of tape at him and missed, which only made everyone laugh harder.