15. Niall
CHAPTER 15
NIALL
The first game of the season always felt like jumping into cold water—shocking and invigorating all at once. Beneath the low hum of fluorescent lights, the locker room buzzed with nervous energy. Tension mixed with excitement, bouncing off the walls in the form of laughter, chirping, and the rhythmic thud of tape wrapping around sticks.
Across the room, Hunter Mason sat back on the bench, grinning as he jabbed a roll of Pride tape at Micah Whitmore, who was still messing with the fresh rainbow stripes on his stick.
“Looks good, Whitmore,” Hunter said. “Now try not to fall on your ass the second you step on the ice.”
Micah flipped him off without looking up. “Just for that, I hope your first shift ends in a fight and a two-minute minor.”
“Two minutes?” Hunter snorted. “You underestimate me.”
A few guys laughed, but no one argued. If Hunter was going to drop gloves, it wouldn’t be for something as mild as a shove.
Nico Alvarez leaned back against his stall, already half-dressed, eyes locked on the board. Roman Thatcher stretched out his legs, shaking them loose. Logan Hayes, our goalie, was lost in his usual pre-game ritual—headphones in, eyes closed, already zoning into whatever world goalies disappeared into before a game.
Rookie Coach stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching Coach AJ with his usual sharp focus. He didn’t say much in these moments, but he didn’t need to.
Over by the whiteboard, Coach AJ scrawled out last-minute adjustments, one hand braced against the board as he spoke. “Keep it clean tonight. First game means fresh eyes on us—refs, scouts, the whole damn student body. We play smart, we play fast, and we play our game.”
A chorus of ‘ Yeahs ’ and nods followed.
I sat on the bench, tugging at my left shin guard, making sure the strap was tight but not cutting off circulation. Routine. Familiar. Every time, it helped settle the pre-game jitters, the ones that always came before the first puck drop of the season. I wasn’t nervous, not really, but there was always an edge to opening night.
My fingers stilled on the strap as my mind drifted, unbidden, to two nights ago. The grocery store. Eli.
The way his nose scrunched when he read prices, the way he muttered under his breath as if personally offended by inflation. The way his teeth worried at his lower lip when he was focused. The way his smile—when he turned it on me, sharp and teasing—had hit me like a body check I wasn’t braced for.
I’d tried not to react. Kept my expression even, my responses short. But I wasn’t indifferent. Not even close.
And when he shivered in the store, his hoodie nowhere near warm enough for the cold, something in me had twisted. I’d wanted to ignore it. But the pull was stronger than my own excuses. Before I could think better of it, I’d shrugged off my jacket and rested it on him despite him saying he wasn’t cold.
I knew he was lying.
Eli had hesitated, lips parting to tell me he was all right, that he didn’t need the jacket, but I ignored him. I’d just literally put the jacket on him and stepped back before I could do something even dumber—like admit that having him close, seeing him wrapped in something of mine, had done something to me.
Something I didn’t understand.
So, the best thing I could do was chalk it up to basic human decency.
Goddamn!
The first time I saw Eli, I thought he was trouble. Turns out I was right. Just not in the way I expected.
“Caldwell!” Coach’s voice snapped me back to the present.
I blinked, jolted out of my thoughts. The locker room was still buzzing, filled with the steady thud of tape and pre-game chatter, but I felt off balance, like I’d just taken a hit and wasn’t sure which way was up.
“Yeah, Coach,” I answered, rolling my shoulders back. Focus. Game first.
Whatever was happening with Eli—whatever was happening to me—I couldn’t afford to think about it now.
“You got something for them?”
I didn’t need to think about it. I pushed up from the bench, glancing at each of my teammates before speaking.
“First game of the season. First home game. We’ve put in the work. We know how to win. Now, it’s about proving it.” My gaze flicked to Hunter. “And not racking up penalty minutes in the process.”
A few chuckles. Hunter smirked.
I continued. “Keep your shifts tight. Play smart. Nobody tries to win this on their own. We’re a unit out there. We play for each other. We play for this team.”
I paused, letting it settle before adding, “And when that puck drops, we show them exactly who the hell we are.”
Someone smacked a stick against the floor. More voices followed, overlapping in agreement.
Coach AJ nodded, satisfied. “All right. Gear up. Warm-ups in five.”
Chatter picked up again as guys finished lacing up skates, taping sticks, and shrugging into their jerseys. Our warm-up gear had a small logo supporting LGBTQ+ athletes—nothing flashy, just a subtle nod to Coming Out Week. No one on the team was openly queer, but no one had an issue with it, either. Love was love. End of discussion.
Micah flexed his fingers, giving his taped stick one last look. “Not bad,” he muttered.
Nico smirked. “What, the tape or your hands?”
Micah rolled his eyes. “Both.”
We finished gearing up and filed out of the locker room, the sound of skates against rubber flooring blending with the distant roar of the arena.
First game of the season. Time to get to work.
The tunnel leading to the ice was alive with sound—sticks knocking against shin guards, the low murmur of voices, the rhythmic clatter of skates against rubber flooring.
The closer we got to the entrance, the louder the arena grew. A steady roar, vibrating through the walls, through the floor. First game of the season, first home game—sounded like the whole damn school showed up for this.
Then, the rush of cold air hit as we stepped onto the ice, bright lights flooding my vision. The familiar routine took over—laps, stretches, shots on goal. The sound of skates cutting across the surface, the sharp crack of pucks hitting sticks, the low rumble of the crowd swelling with every pass and shot.
Before I knew it, warm-ups were over. I rolled my shoulders, gripping my stick as the PA announcer ran through the lineups. The crowd was electric, students stomping against the bleachers, chants rolling through the arena like waves.
I breathed it in, the anticipation, the weight of the moment. Then, just as fast, the roar faded into something else. Something quieter.
Three years ago today was a night like this.
First home game of my freshman year. My parents were supposed to be in the stands. Mom never fully got hockey, but she cheered loud enough to make up for it. Dad, though—he lived for it. He wasn’t the loudest fan, not like Mom, but he watched every play like it mattered, nodding at the good ones, exhaling sharp when something didn’t go our way. And yeah, sometimes he swore under his breath—at a bad call, at a missed chance—but never at me. Never at my team. Just at the game itself, the way people did when they cared too much to hold it in.
I remembered looking for them during warm-ups, during the game, even after the final buzzer, glancing toward the section they should have been in.
Every year since, this day followed me. Not like a shadow. Shadows you could shake off, outrun. Grief didn’t work like that.
It settled into my bones, heavier some days than others. But it never kept me from the ice.
I exhaled. Adjusted my gloves. This game is for them.
The ref skated to center ice. The Rebels’ captain met me in the circle.
His eyes locked on mine, sharp, assessing. Didn’t matter. I was already locked in.
The puck dropped.
We controlled possession early. But then, late in the first period, the ice tilted. And the Rebels scored. We’d been here before. One goal down wasn’t a problem. Staying there was.
From the time the puck dropped in the second period, I barely had time to think. The Rebels’ goalie was squared up, reading the play. I faked a snap shot, dragging the puck just enough to shift the angle—then ripped it high, glove side.
The net rippled.
For half a second, everything went silent. Then?—
The goal horn blared. The crowd erupted. My teammates crashed into me, gloves slamming against my helmet, arms around my shoulders.
Game tied.
No time to celebrate. I skated straight to the bench, fist-bumping guys on the way. Hunter grabbed the top of my helmet, shaking my head playfully. “That’s how we do it, Cap.”
Coach AJ gave a sharp nod. “Keep pushing.”
We did.
On the next shift, Nico stepped up and leveled their winger at the blue line, breaking up their rush. The puck kicked free, and Micah was on it, chipping it ahead. We kept the pressure on, swarming them, forcing bad passes, outworking them along the boards.
The game tilted. Momentum was ours.
Midway through the period, we struck again. A battle in front, Hunter screening the goalie, chaos at the crease—Roman jabbed at a loose puck, and it trickled past the goal line.
2-1, Mavericks.
Adrenaline surged. But the job wasn’t done.
I glanced at the scoreboard, then at the clock. Still plenty of hockey left.
Time to lock it down.
For the last ten minutes of the second period, the game was tight. Then, with just three minutes to go, Roman deked the first defender, but the second knocked him off balance. The puck slid free.
I saw my opening.
Diving forward, I poked the puck away from their guy, redirecting it straight to Hunter, who caught it, spun, and roofed it.
3-1, Mavericks.
The arena exploded.
Hunter skated straight to the glass, fists pumping as the student section lost their minds. Roman tackled him in celebration. I let out a breath, skating toward them, a rare grin breaking through.
We had a two-goal lead.
But the game was far from over.
With less than a minute left in the second period, everything shifted.
A bad bounce off the boards sent the puck skipping past Micah. Their winger was on it in a flash, cutting toward the slot. Too much space.
I lunged, stick outstretched. Just a second too late.
Their winger took the shot.
Logan got a piece of the puck, but not enough. The puck trickled behind him, slow, inevitable, and crossed the line.
3-2.
Our crowd groaned. Their bench erupted.
I exhaled hard, skating toward Logan. “Shake it off.”
He nodded, jaw tight. “I got it.”
We reset at center ice, grinding through the final seconds of the period. No more mistakes. No more bad bounces. When the buzzer sounded, we skated off, but the energy in the arena had shifted.
The Rebels had life now. And we had twenty minutes to shut them down.
By the time we hit the ice for the third, it felt different. Tighter. Heavier.
We had a one-goal lead, but it didn’t feel like enough. The Mavericks’ bench was loud, but theirs? Louder. Momentum was a dangerous thing.
Coach AJ’s voice cut through the noise. “Play smart. Play simple. Finish strong. They’ve got the momentum—we need to take it back.”
I tapped my stick against the boards and nodded to the guys. Time to lock it down.
The puck dropped.
The Rebels came hard, faster than before, like they could smell blood in the water. Every shift, every battle along the boards, every loose puck—it all felt like a fight.
Micah swiped at a loose puck in front of our net, sending it away with a desperate backhand. Nico lifted it down the ice to buy us a few seconds to breathe.
We had chances to extend the lead—Roman blasted a shot that clanged off the post, Hunter nearly jammed in a rebound—but their goalie shut us down.
Fifteen minutes left.
The tension crawled up my spine. My lungs burned, but I didn’t let it show.
Twelve minutes.
Another blocked shot. Another dump-in. Another battle in the corner.
Ten.
Coach AJ rolled the lines fast. Short shifts. Fresh legs.
Eight.
They won a faceoff in our zone. A quick pass. A shot from the blue line—traffic in front.
Logan snagged it out of the air. Whistle.
Six.
They weren’t letting up.
A turnover at the blue line sent their center flying down the ice. I chased, matching his stride. He cut inside—shoulder dropped, faking one way. I didn’t bite.
Body first. Stick second.
I shoved him off balance just as he released the shot. Logan blocked it with his chest, smothering the puck.
Whistle.
Four minutes.
The crowd was on their feet. My pulse pounded in my ears.
I glanced at the scoreboard. Four minutes never felt this long.
The Rebels called their last timeout.
I skated to the bench, sucking in deep breaths. Sweat dripped from my hairline, stinging my eyes. My legs burned, but I ignored it. Four minutes. That was it.
Coach AJ’s voice cut through the heavy breathing and the pounding music from the arena speakers. “No stupid penalties. No risky plays. Make them earn it.”
He looked at Logan. “Stay sharp, kid.”
Logan nodded, rolling his shoulders. Steady. Focused. We had him, and he had us.
Coach turned to me. “Win the next faceoff. Kill the clock.”
I met his eyes and gave a single nod. “Got it.”
The buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the timeout. Four minutes.
We lined up for the faceoff in our zone. My heartbeat matched the erratic tap of my fingers against my stick. The ref dropped the puck.
I won the draw, tying up my opponent’s stick long enough for Micah to swoop in and clear it down the ice.
Three minutes.
They pressed harder. Their defensemen pinched in, and their forwards crashed the net, desperate for a rebound. I got my stick in passing lanes, blocked a shot off my shin—pain flared, but I stayed on my feet.
Two minutes.
They pulled their goalie. Empty net. Extra attacker.
I gritted my teeth as they swarmed our zone. Logan made a sprawling save, kicking the puck to the corner. Nico got there first, flicked it up the boards. Roman chipped it out to center ice.
It didn’t reach the net. I chased it down.
The crowd roared as I crossed the blue line, but their defense closed in fast. I had a step on them—one second, maybe less, to make a decision.
I faked a shot, cut left—then fired.
Post.
It clanked off the iron and skidded wide.
Cursing, I spun back on defense. One minute.
The opposing team stormed in again.
Bodies crashed in the crease. A scramble. A shot.
Logan made the save.
Whistle.
Thirty seconds.
Final faceoff in our zone. I crouched low. My opponent stared me down.
The ref dropped the puck.
I tied him up, kicked the puck back. Micah rimmed it around the boards.
Hunter cleared it.
Ten seconds.
The crowd counted down.
Five.
The puck slid harmlessly to the other end.
Three.
I glanced up at the rafters.
Two.
The buzzer blared.
One.
The arena erupted.