Chapter 5 #2
We make quick introductions, and although they seem to know me, they don’t have a fangirl freak out, and I’m instantly at ease.
Twyler grins as she sits down beside Madison. “Sorry in advance. I get a little...invested.”
“No problem,” Madison says, shifting to make room.
“I just don’t believe in letting injustice go unaddressed,” Twyler replies, eyes narrowing at the overhead screen as they show a slow-motion replay of a hit. “Case in point–see that? That should’ve been a five-minute major. Guy led with the elbow.”
Nadia takes the open seat beside me. “Reese is a big boy. He can take a few hits.”
“Of course he can. It’s not the hit. It’s the principal!”
There’s something electric about the way they join the table, like the volume clicks up a notch, the energy shifts.
Even Madison softens, watching the two girls bicker playfully about power plays versus penalty kills.
I find myself leaning in too, drawn by the easy knowledge and total lack of pretense.
“So wait.” Madison asks, “What is a power play again?”
Nadia opens her mouth to answer, but Twyler cuts her off.
“Okay, so imagine you're in a horror movie,” Twyler says, brandishing a fry like a knife. “There’s a serial killer on the loose—”
“Oh my god,” Nadia groans. “Why is it always murder with you?”
“Because it works,” Twyler insists. “So there’s five players on each side, right? But then one does something illegal–like, I don’t know, stabs someone with their stick–and they get sent to the penalty box.”
“Okay, I’m listening,” Madison says, raising an eyebrow.
“So now it’s five versus four. One team is down a player, think of them as trapped in a closet while the killer’s roaming free.
The team with all five? They’re on the power play.
They’re supposed to strike fast, take the advantage.
But sometimes?” She shrugs, leaning back.
“They just creep around, wasting time like they forgot what movie they’re in. ”
“That… actually helped,” Madison says slowly, like she’s still processing the details.
“Thanks,” Twyler says, smug. “Now imagine overtime like a standoff with Michael Meyers…”
“Don’t,” Nadia warns. “Just eat your fries.”
By the time the second period starts, we’ve rearranged the table. The fries are mostly gone, Nadia ordered nachos, and Twyler has claimed narrator rights to the entire game.
“Okay, so that’s Wittmore in white, obviously.
That’s our goalie. Axel, number 01,” she says with the camera pans over him in the goal.
“His saves are epic, and he uses his body like he’s a wall.
Then you’ve got Reese, our captain, number 15.
He’s the one flying up the ice right now–total beast in transition. ”
“Not to mention Twyler’s boyfriend,” Nadia says.
The camera flashes a still photo of him on the screen along with his stats. He’s incredibly goodlooking.
“Which one is Shelby’s boyfriend?” Madison asks.
“Number eight. He’s a defender,” Twyler says, then points to Nadia’s jersey. “He also designed that logo on her shirt.”
I’ve seen the little retro style badger on different shirts since I’ve been here and a big display at the arena. I nod in approval. “He’s talented.”
“Oh, and that’s Jefferson, number 23, playing right wing. Best hands on the team, easy.” I catch the flicker of Jefferson on the screen and try to play it cool. Just a quick flash of him chasing the puck along the boards, but my body remembers too much.
“He’s always so laid back,” Twyler continues, “but don’t let that fool you. He’s brutal on the ice. Smart, fast, good with the puck–but he’s also not afraid to throw down if he has to.”
“He’s a total charmer, too,” Nadia adds with a roll of her eyes. “He's slept with, like, half the campus. But somehow, no one stays mad at him.”
“Total fuckboy,” Twyler says, fist tightening at a missed shot. “But Nadia’s right, everyone loves him.”
Part of me doesn’t want to hear that. The other part, stupidly, already knew.
The game is intense. Wittmore is fast, brutal, relentless. The crowd in the bar roars with every goal, and when the final buzzer sounds with Wittmore up 4–2, the place explodes.
Shelby runs over with a scream and jumps into Nadia’s arms, beer sloshing slightly from her glass. Twyler beams, her grin wide and pure joy. Everyone’s celebrating. Cheering. It feels infectious.
I lean back against the booth, watching it all unfold. My burger is half-eaten, forgotten in the excitement.
“They move on, right?” I ask.
“Yup,” Twyler says, breathless. “Next game’s in two days–the Regional Finals.”
Up on the screen, the camera man flashes to the guys celebrating on the ice.
I know this feeling.
The flood of adrenaline after a flawless set. The lights, the screams, the way your body hums for hours after you’ve given them everything and they gave it right back. That’s what winning feels like. That’s what it does to you.
I catch a familiar grin, Jefferson’s cocky smirk, his helmet is off, his blond hair, now dark, soaked with sweat. He pulls a teammate into a hug and yells something the mic can’t pick up, but I don’t need to hear his words.
He feels it, too. That high. The rush. The fire of being on top and knowing you earned it.
And suddenly, there's something sharp and hot in the center of my chest.
Jefferson Parks loves winning as much as I do.