Chapter 24 - Theo
Theo
The first whistle cut across the rink and I shot forward, skates spitting ice, legs stinging with that familiar ache I’d been missing for weeks. The rest of the team followed, blowing hard to get through Coach’s killer drills.
“Okay. Quick cuts along the blue line, pivot at the hash marks, full ice sprint back. Repeat until I see one of you puke,” he called out. “Eyes up, hands ready.”
I hit the ice with everything I had. My lungs weren’t close to begging for mercy, my shoulder didn’t even whimper. My blades dug in, toes angled perfectly on the turns, and I felt sharper than ever. The kind of alive that comes from doing exactly what you were born to do.
“Look at him,” Mason hollered from the corner, laughing through his lazy pivot as I carved the boards. “The guy comes back from an extended vacation, and suddenly he’s a Rockette!”
Grayson jabbed a glove at me. “You’re making us look bad.”
I smirked, leaning into the next sprint. “I haven’t even warmed up yet.”
Tucker’s eyes caught mine as we looped around the crease. “Speaking of warming up, you think Hopper’s magic hands will work on me?”
I spun toward him, a grin tugging tight across my face. “She’s not into guys whose dads are also their uncles. Sorry, bro.”
He snorted, shoving me lightly in passing, and I ducked right into the next sprint.
Coach had us doing a passing cycle next.
Three-man rotations along the boards, puck moving tight and fast. One-two, crisp feeds, every blade angled like a knife.
I slid into position with Hunter and Tucker for the defensive drill, eyes alert, body on fire but in a good way. A burn I hadn’t felt in too long.
My eyes caught Reese on the trainer’s bench. She was staring right at me, and the look on her face made me hot all over. My spot back in the team, my girl watching rinkside… I was a man who wanted for nothing.
The puck came at the top of the slot, two attackers converging. I cut the lane, Hunter angled the threat past the crease, Tucker pressed for the rebound. Everything clicked. No words needed. Just muscle memory, timing, and a few seasons of trust.
“Nice.” Hunter threw me a high-five.
“What am I? Chopped liver?” Tucker asked, slapping both our butts.
We ran the drill again, looping the ice in a blur. I felt every inch of my body moving, sliding, firing passes, and absorbing hits I wasn’t technically supposed to be taking. Reese tracked every shift, but didn’t say much for most of the practice.
Next drill: full-ice scrimmage. Two lines attacking, two defending, Coach calling rotations.
I was paired with Tucker in the defensive zone, Hunter pinching whenever the puck slipped.
I blocked a pass, spun, and chased down the puck behind the net.
Reese’s eyes locked on me for a fraction of a second.
I skated past, pretending to check a loose puck, but the side of my brain registered her watching, calculating.
The whistle blew, and Coach waved me over to the bench. To her.
“How’s it feeling?” She pressed my shoulder lightly, checking angles, probing for something only she knew.
“Like it belongs to me again,” I said, flexing, testing the motion. “Rehab’s doing its job, and I feel better than ever.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Looks like you’re pushing it, but okay. Just go easy on the body checks for crying out loud. You wanna make the game, don’t you?”
“Sir, yes, sir,” I said, letting her attention linger a fraction longer than necessary before ducking a pass Tucker sent at me.
I skated back into odd-man rushes, three attackers against two defenders.
I skated in tight with them, anticipating the passing lanes, shutting down angles.
Hunter flanked us, poking pucks just far enough to throw attackers off.
Mason zoomed down the wing, Grayson reading every motion like a chess game.
I blocked a shot from the slot, pivoted, and spun the puck up the ice in one fluid motion. Perfection personified. I was flying.
Somewhere in the background, Landon skated past and it was the first I’d noticed him on the ice at all. Which, knowing Landon as a consummate attention-seeker, made me a little uneasy.
I elbowed Hunter. “What’s up with the rookie today?”
Hunter glanced over his shoulder, grinning under his helmet. “Maybe your calm, mature conversation got through to him.”
I didn’t answer, just watched him curiously. Landon executed a perfect backcheck, no theatrics, just precision. So weird.
The drill ended with a scramble. Pucks bouncing off boards, bodies colliding, sticks swinging in arcs.
I dove for a loose puck, legs moving like they used to, right arm in the thick of things.
Reese’s eyes were still on me, and when I skated past again, our eyes met briefly, fast and charged.
I felt a pulse, a tether that set fire to my insides.
By the final rotation, I had landed a perfect block, passed the rebound to Hunter, who flicked it to Tucker, and the counter broke cleanly.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Coach was so happy he clapped his hands like a giddy kid. “That’s what I want to see out there. Now bring it in, and save the rest for the game tomorrow.”
Landon came up behind me, blade scraping ice. “Theo,” he said so only I would hear it. “I just wanted to say sorry about the other night. And… I’ll stop being an ass, if you stop being an ass.”
It took me a second to consider whether this was an apology or not, but then I smiled, shaking my head. “Fair enough, Cross. I guess I haven’t exactly rolled out the welcome wagon for you.”
We shook hands, and I felt the shift happen right there on the ice. He may have been a rookie, but he was my teammate first. And we were going to finals together.
*
The first clang of sticks rang across the rink, and I was already sliding into position, ready to block the lane before a shot could materialize. Frost Bank was packed, every seat buzzing, every eye locked on the ice. First shift, first taste of real play in weeks, and I was fucking wired.
Oilers came out the only way they knew how—swinging. Right away, they were all over Mason, dumping him into the boards the second he touched the puck.
I skated up fast, shoulder low, stick in the lane. “Back off!”
All it took was a stealthy clip to their defender as Mason shot for the corner, and the guy slid across the ice, his curses muffled in the roar of the crowd. Mason grinned at me, and slapped my glove.
“Thanks, man.”
“Think they found out you’re not signing with them?”
He laughed. “Tough shit.”
The game moved on.
Hunter was in the net, and Tucker flanked the weak side, ready to poke, ready to hammer. We were a wall in the slot. One Oilers forward tried to curl past me, spinning off the boards, but I caught his blade with mine and leaned in, hard. He stumbled, and hit the ice with a humiliating yelp.
Mason picked up the loose puck, ducked a swipe, and skated the wing.
Grayson trailed him, stick poised for a one-touch feed.
Mason sent it across in a snap pass, and he flicked it midair over a sprawled defender, wrist shot screaming past the goalie’s glove into the top corner.
The jolt of adrenaline knocked the wind out of me. Surge 1, Oilers 0.
No time to breathe. Oilers came back, hammering into our zone with a two-man rush.
I cut the slot like a blade, body low, stick dragging the ice.
The winger faked left, spun right. I leaned, angled my shoulder into him, and checked him clean against the boards.
The puck popped loose. Tucker slid in with perfect timing and even more perfect stick, and nudged it up ice.
I glanced at Mason. He was grimacing but smiling, blood at the corner of his lip.
Those motherfuckers were testing him harder than anyone else.
Midway through the first, a scuffle broke out near the crease. Mason got shoved into the boards, and I was first to react, leading the pack as our guys descended on the fight. My stick collided with someone’s chest.
“Not today,” I snapped, edging him back.
He pushed me, I pushed back harder, and fists followed. A quick reminder of boundaries. Their guy went down first, hands up in surrender. I backed off and skated away.
Oilers regrouped, furious. They dumped the puck deep, trying to catch us off guard.
I shadowed the slot as one of the forwards barreled toward Hunter.
I slid, hit him shoulder-to-shoulder, and twisted the momentum so he skidded past the crease, off-balance.
Hunter grabbed the rebound, flicked it to Tucker, who threaded a pass up to Grayson.
He darted along the right wing, deking left, right, left, defenders spitting ice behind him. He snapped a shot at the far post. The goalie reached, but the puck kissed the post and bounced into the net. Surge 2, Oilers 0. Grayson pumped a fist, and I skated over, slapping his shoulder.
“Now who’s showing off?”
He smacked my helmet a few times. “I was feeling left out. Had to make a play for it.”
But the Oilers weren’t done. They came at us like a storm, hits were harder, faster.
I absorbed one into the boards, shoulder jarred.
The whole place held its breath, but I didn’t even flinch.
I came back twice as hard, met a winger in the slot, and dropped him into the ice with a perfect check.
The crowd roared, and I felt that electric thrill of everything hanging in the balance.
Where something as small as the tilt of your stick could decide things.
Late in the second, the Oilers sneaked one past us. A sharp feed from the point, slap shot curling around Tucker’s poke check. Hunter lunged, barely got a stick to it, but the puck squirmed past his pad. Oilers 1, Surge 2.
I skated back, teeth clenched, scanning every line. “Keep it tight,” I barked to Hunter. “Watch their rotation. They’re hungry for it.”
Hunter nodded, shifting, body low, eyes sharp. Tucker came up beside us. “You in a mood today or what?”
“First game back. Gotta remind these assholes I exist,” I said.
Third period. The Oilers were pushing like madmen. I intercepted a cross-ice pass at the slot, body low. Their winger tried to force me out. I hit him shoulder-first, turned, and grabbed the puck. Launched it up to Shawn.
Shawn flicked to Grayson, who flicked it to Mason, who dodged one, two, three hits, and ripped a wrist shot from the face-off dot. The goalie dove, paddle spread, but the puck slipped under his glove. Surge 3, Oilers 1.
Frost Bank felt like it was shaking right down to its foundation. I skated back, legs buzzing, shoulders burning from hits taken and handed out.
And then there were three forwards collapsing the slot. I angled, checked, twisted. One hit into the boards, another shoulder meeting me at the crease. I didn’t budge. I leaned into the contact, took control, and poked the puck free. Hunter slid in for the cover.
Final minutes. Oilers desperate, slamming into everything, trying to get even one more. But we kept them at bay, and didn’t even care that they did the same to us. It was enough.
Whistle blew. Game over. Surge 3, Oilers 1.
I skated toward the bench, chest heaving.
“Talk about a comeback.” Coach slapped my back as I left the ice. “Good to have you back, Bouchard. Not sure who to congratulate… you or Hopper.”
“The answer’s me.” Hopper appeared, wearing a wide smile. But the way she tilted her head when she looked at me made my gut roll over itself a few times. “I thought we agreed to take it easy for your first game.”
I shrugged. “I’m fine. For real. You can check me out and see for yourself.”
Her eyes narrowed, but the rest of her interrogation was stalled when the team passed through. Hunter put both his hands on my back and pushed me ahead of him.
“Enough talk,” he said. “It’s time to celebrate.”
I managed one last glance at Reese over my shoulder, and she waved me off. We both knew there’d be time for our own personal celebration anyway.