Chapter 16 #2
Coach pulled me aside during the next whistle, and I could see the concern in his expression even before he said anything.
“You need to lock it down, Rook.”
“I know. I'm working on it.”
“Work faster.” He clapped me on the shoulder and sent me back out, and I felt the weight of his words settle over me like a challenge I couldn't afford to fail.
The Maples scored first midway through the second period on a deflection that beat Saint clean, and the arena erupted into noise so loud it felt like the building was shaking. I watched the goal light up and felt fury rise in my chest.
This was unacceptable. We were better than this. I was better than this.
I called the team in during the next stoppage, pulling them close enough that I could see every face clearly.
“Listen up,” I said, and my voice cut through the noise with enough authority that everyone went quiet. “We're playing scared right now. We're reacting instead of dictating, and they're eating us alive because of it. That stops now.”
“They're fast—” Finn started, but I cut him off.
“So are we. They want to play physical? We'll play physical right back.” I looked around the circle, making eye contact with each of them. “We came here to take Game One and prove we belong in this series. So let's stop fucking around and do it.”
The energy shifted immediately, and I could see the resolve settling into their expressions. This was what they needed—not panic, not hesitation, but a captain who believed they could win and was willing to drag them there if necessary.
We went back out onto the ice, and I felt the difference in my body before my brain caught up. The static was still there, but it was caged now, locked down behind walls I'd built out of pure stubborn will. Soren could wait. Everything except this game could fucking wait.
I won the next face-off clean and sent the puck to Jace on the wing, already reading where the play would develop.
He carried it into the zone and I followed, positioning myself in front of their net for the screen.
The defenseman tried to move me, but I held my ground, and when the shot came through I tipped it just enough to change the angle.
Goal. Tie game.
The bench erupted behind me, and I skated toward Jace with my glove raised for the celly. He crashed into me hard enough to knock us both sideways, laughing like an idiot, and I felt the team's energy shift from defensive scrambling to offensive hunger.
“That's how we fucking do it!” Mason shouted from the bench, and I could hear the rest of the guys picking up the momentum.
The Maples tried to answer back immediately, pushing hard on the next shift, but Dmitri shut them down with a defensive read that was so perfectly timed it looked like he'd known where the puck would be before they did.
He sent it up to Cole, who carried it through the neutral zone with the kind of veteran patience that made younger players look reckless.
I positioned myself at the blue line, calling for the pass, and when it came I didn't hesitate. One-timer, top shelf, past their goalie before he could react.
Goal. We were up. Two to one.
The arena went quiet except for the small section where our fans had clustered together, and I felt the satisfaction of that silence like a physical thing. The Maples had come out thinking they could intimidate us into submission, and instead we'd taken their best shot and answered back harder.
The rest of the period played out in a blur. They threw everything they had at us, but we held, Saint making save after save while our defense clogged the lanes and refused to give them clean looks.
I was everywhere—calling plays, reading their setups, adjusting our positioning on the fly to counter whatever they tried next.
This was what being captain felt like when I wasn't carrying static in my head, when my focus sharpened down to the ice and the play and the absolute certainty that I knew exactly what needed to happen.
The Maples pulled their goalie with two minutes left, desperate for the tie, and I watched their extra attacker flood the zone with fresh legs and aggressive positioning.
Coach sent out our shutdown line, and I stayed on because pulling the captain in the final two minutes of a playoff game sent the wrong message.
They cycled the puck along the boards, looking for an opening, and I tracked their movement with the kind of clarity that only came when everything else fell away.
When the pass came across the slot I was already moving, stick down to block the lane, and the puck hit my blade and deflected harmlessly into the corner.
Dmitri grabbed it and sent it up to me, and I had a clear path to the empty net from center ice. The shot was automatic, muscle memory taking over, and I watched the puck slide perfectly into the open cage.
Three to one. Game over.
The final buzzer sounded about thirty seconds later, and the team emptied off the bench onto the ice in a chaos of celebration that felt earned in ways regular season wins never did.
Playoff hockey was different. Every goal mattered more, every win built momentum, and taking Game One on the road was a statement that said we weren't here to be grateful for the opportunity—we were here to win the whole fucking thing.
Coach grabbed me in the tunnel on the way back to the locker room, one hand on my shoulder and an expression on his face that was equal parts pride and relief.
“That's the captain I know,” he said simply. “Whatever you did to get your head straight in the second period, keep doing it.”
“Will do, Coach.”
The locker room was loud and loose, everyone riding the high of the win and already talking about Game Two like it was a foregone conclusion that we'd take the series.
I stripped off my gear slowly, letting the conversations wash over me without fully engaging, and by the time I'd showered and changed most of the team had already cleared out.
I found a seat near the back and pulled out my phone, staring at Soren's name in my contacts for a long moment before I made the decision to text him.
Rook
Won Game One. 3-1. Felt good.
Soren
Fuck yeah. Knew you'd kill it. How'd you play?
Rook
Rocky first period. Locked in for the second and third. Team played well.
Soren
That's my captain.
I stared at them for a long moment trying to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do with the way they made my chest feel too full.
Rook
You still coming to Montreal for the band gig?
Soren
Yeah. We leave tomorrow. Gig's Friday night. You'll be busy with Game Two though, right?
Rook
Game Two's Saturday afternoon. I could come to the gig Friday if you want.
Soren
You should rest before the game. Don't feel like you have to show up just because I'm in the same city.
Rook
I want to. If you'll let me.
Soren
Okay. Yeah. I'd like that.
I pocketed my phone and leaned back against the seat, letting the noise of the team wash over me while I tried to sort through the tangle of feelings sitting in my chest. I'd won Game One.
I'd led my team to a crucial playoff victory.
I'd proven I could lock down the static when it mattered and be the captain they needed.
I didn't know what the hell I was doing.
Didn't know if caring about him this much was going to help or hurt either of us in the long run.
But I knew with absolute certainty that I wasn't walking away, wasn't letting him disappear again, and wasn't going to stop showing up even when it made my life more complicated.
Whatever this was between us, we were going to figure it out.
Even if it killed me in the process.