Chapter 28 #2
The pause before he answered lasted about three thrusts and the sound of each one of them traveled through his chest and into the metal.
“Please,” he said, and his voice had gone somewhere lower and quieter and entirely unguarded. “Sir. Please.”
I wrapped my hand around him and stroked in time with my hips and he came apart in under a minute, clenching around me and cursing into his forearm with a bitten-off ferocity that shook his whole body, and the feeling of him tightening that way pulled me over thirty seconds later with my teeth in his shoulder and his name somewhere in the noise I was making against his skin.
We stayed pressed together for a minute, both of us breathing hard and trying to remember how to function. Then reality crashed back and I pulled out carefully, dealing with the mess as best I could with the limited resources available in a fucking storage closet.
“That was insane,” Soren said, pulling his pants back up and trying to make his hair look less like he'd just been thoroughly fucked.
“You started it.”
“I regret nothing.” He kissed me once more, soft and quick. “Go win your game, Cap.”
I straightened my suit and checked my reflection in my phone screen. Presentable enough. Nobody would know I'd just had desperate pre-game sex with my drummer boyfriend unless they looked too closely at the beard burn on my neck.
We left the storage closet separately, Soren heading back toward the stage exit and me making my way to the locker room. The guys were already starting final prep when I walked in, and if anyone noticed I'd been gone longer than a bathroom break warranted, they didn't say anything.
I was lacing up my skates when Coach's phone rang. He answered it, listened for about ten seconds, and then said, “Fuck.”
The room went quiet.
“Tate's out,” Coach said, lowering the phone. “Food poisoning. He's been throwing up for the past hour and there's no way he can play.”
The silence got heavier. Tate was our offensive defenseman, our power play quarterback. Losing him for a playoff game was catastrophic.
“Who's the call-up?” Dmitri asked.
“That's the problem. Our AHL affiliate is three states away and their game just started.
We can't get anyone here in time.” Coach looked at his clipboard like it might have answers.
“League rules say we can activate an emergency reserve if we can prove competitive history and get medical clearance.”
My brain was already moving, putting pieces together before I'd consciously made the decision.
I looked toward the hallway where I knew Soren was probably still packing up equipment, and the idea hit me like a freight train.
“I know someone,” I said.
Everyone turned to look at me.
“Who?” Coach asked.
“Soren. He's here. He played competitive hockey through junior level. He's got the history on record.”
The room exploded into noise—questions, protests, disbelief. Coach held up a hand and everyone shut up.
“The drummer?” he said.
“Yeah. He played with me in high school. Made provincial championships. He's got the registration and he's in shape.” I met Coach's eyes. “He can do this.”
“He hasn't played in over a decade,” Jace pointed out. “This is a playoff game, Rook. Not a charity scrimmage.”
“I know what it is. And I'm telling you he can do it.” I looked at Coach. “You've got emergency waivers in the system, right? Medical liability, one-game activation?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Then use them. We don't have another option and you know it.”
Coach stared at me for a long moment, clearly running through alternatives and coming up empty. Finally he nodded. “Get him in here. We've got forty minutes to make this legal.”
I found Soren loading drum cases into the band's van, and when I explained what was happening his face went through about six different emotions in three seconds.
“You're joking,” he said.
“I'm not. Tate's out. We need a body. You're cleared by league history and Coach is filing the emergency waiver right now.”
“Rook, I haven't played in thirteen years. I'm rusty as fuck. This is insane.”
“I know. But I trust you.” I grabbed his shoulders and made him look at me. “I trust you, Soren. And we need you.”
He searched my face for whatever he was looking for, and then he nodded. “Okay. Fuck. Okay.”
The next thirty minutes were controlled chaos. Emergency paperwork, medical clearance from the team doctor, digging up Soren's old registration records to prove competitive history. The league office had to approve it, which took fifteen agonizing minutes of phone calls and faxing documents.
While that was happening, equipment staff scrambled to find gear that would fit him. Skates close enough to his size, pads that could be adjusted, a jersey with an extra number nobody was using.
I watched him change in the locker room, pulling on equipment he hadn't worn in over a decade, and the look on his face was pure disbelief mixed with terror.
“This is actually happening,” he said.
“Yeah.” I confirmed.
“I'm going to embarrass myself in front of fifteen thousand people.”
“You're going to be fine.”
“You don't know that.”
“I do, actually.” I handed him his helmet. “Because I've seen you play, and I know what you can do. The body remembers, Soren. Trust it.”
The league office called back with approval five minutes before puck drop. Soren was legal. He was on the roster. He was actually doing this.
We took the ice for warm-ups and I watched him wobble slightly on his first few strides, getting used to the skates again. But muscle memory kicked in fast, and by his third lap he was moving more smoothly.
The crowd noticed the unfamiliar number on the ice and the murmur of confusion rippled through the stands. The announcers were scrambling to explain the emergency activation, the first time in league history this particular rule had been used.
Soren skated over to me during the last few minutes of warm-up.
“I can't believe you talked me into this,” he said.
“You're going to be great.”
“If I fuck this up—”
“You won't.” I tapped my stick against his shin guards. “Just play. Don't think. Trust yourself.”
The anthem played, the starters lined up, and the puck dropped.
The first period was rough for Soren. He was tentative, overthinking every move, trying to remember positioning and reads he used to do on instinct. He took a bad penalty eight minutes in for holding, and I could see the frustration on his face as he skated to the box.
But he didn't quit. Didn't fold under the pressure. Just kept grinding, shift by shift, getting more comfortable.
The game stayed tight. The Raiders scored first, a deflection off Dmitri's skate that Saint had no chance on. We answered back six minutes later when Jace buried a rebound on the power play.
By the second period, Soren was finding his rhythm. The rust was burning off, the old instincts waking up. I watched him make a smart breakout pass, watched him get physical on the boards, watched him remember how to read the play.
“He's doing it,” Cole said during a line change.
“Told you,” I said.
The second period ended in a tie. The Raiders had tied it up on a lucky bounce, and the energy in the building was crackling with tension.
Third period. Everything on the line.
Both teams came out flying, trading chances, the pace insane. Saint made three highlight-reel saves and their goalie matched him. The clock ticked down and neither team could break through.
Five minutes left. Still tied.
I was on the ice for a defensive zone faceoff when I saw it—the tiniest hesitation in their defenseman's positioning. A gap that would exist for maybe two seconds if we won the draw clean.
I won the faceoff and sent the puck back to Dmitri. The play developed exactly like I'd visualized it. Our forwards pushed up ice, the Raiders defense shifted to track them, and that gap I'd seen opened up.
Soren was cutting through the neutral zone at exactly the right angle.
Time did a weird folding thing. I was seventeen again, lining up a championship shot. Soren was cutting toward the net with his stick ready. The pass was right there.
I sent it.
The puck hit his tape perfectly, and for one suspended moment everything hung in balance.
Soren didn't hesitate. He caught the pass in full stride, cut toward the net, and fired a wrist shot top shelf before the goalie could get across.
The lamp lit up.
The horn blared.
The arena fucking erupted.
Soren threw his hands up and turned toward the bench, and I was already skating toward him. The rest of the team piled on, gloves and sticks going everywhere, everyone screaming and the crowd losing their collective minds.
We'd won. We were through to the semifinals.
I grabbed Soren and pulled him close, our helmets knocking together, both of us grinning like idiots.
“You did it,” I said. “You fucking did it.”
“We did it,” he corrected. “That was your pass.”
“Your shot.”
“Our play.”
The celebration continued around us. But all I could see was Soren, sweaty and exhilarated and looking more alive than I'd seen him in weeks.
This was it. The breakaway beat. Hockey and music and the two of us finally hitting the same rhythm again after all the years apart. The title had been right there the whole time, waiting for us to find it.
“I love you,” I said, loud enough to be heard over the chaos.
“I love you too, you insane bastard.” He laughed and pulled me in for a hug that lifted me off my skates. “Can't believe you made me do this.”
“Can't believe you actually scored the game-winner.”
“We're never going to hear the end of this, are we?”
“Not a chance.”
The team skated a victory lap and the crowd showered us with noise. Soren stayed next to me the whole time, and when we passed the section where his siblings and my parents were sitting, the screaming got even louder.
This was everything. The championship we'd lost, the years we'd missed, the future we were building. All of it wrapped up in one impossible playoff goal and fifteen thousand people bearing witness.
We headed back to the locker room and the celebration kicked into high gear. Music blaring, guys screaming, the pure unfiltered joy of advancing when everything had been on the line.
Coach found me in the chaos and clapped me on the shoulder. “Hell of a call, Kincaid.”
“Hell of a shot,” I said, nodding toward Soren.
“Best emergency activation in league history.” He shook his head, still looking amazed. “We're going to be talking about this game for decades.”
Yeah. We were.