Chapter 22 - Hunter
Hunter
Playoffs. Round one. Game one. Every nerve in my body was electric, rattling with the kind of pressure that made even the routine feel like a live wire.
Grayson paced behind the bench, eyes sharp, voice steady. “Play smart. Support each other. Control the pace. This isn’t just hockey anymore. This is what it all comes down to. You’ve got this. We all do.”
I wanted to believe it. I needed to. But when the puck dropped, all the words fell away, and instinct took over.
Minnesota came out swinging. Their first rush had me scrambling, sliding across the crease to cut off a cross-ice pass.
My glove hand snapped up just in time, catching the puck mid-air before it could sneak past my pads.
Theo was shouting somewhere behind me, something about covering the left point.
I nodded in acknowledgment, even though he couldn’t see it, and adjusted my stance, muscles coiled tight.
The first few minutes felt like a storm.
It was all blinding speed, sticks clattering, skates scraping, the crowd a distant roar in my ears.
Power play early on for us. Minnesota had drawn a penalty, and Grayson quickly marshaled the forwards into position. Mason darted to the center, elbows tucked, eyes on the puck like a hawk.
Theo’s voice cut through my focus: “Right point! Watch the cross!”
My fingers twitched on the stick. The puck slid across the ice, ricocheted off the boards, Mason intercepted and flicked a quick pass to Grayson. The second it left Grayson’s stick, I was ready for the counter, every muscle in my legs flexing, every reflex screaming.
And then the penalty ended, and Minnesota was back at full strength, swarming our zone like bees.
I got flattened against the post by some giant winger, pain shooting through my ribs, but I didn’t let go.
The puck was loose in front of me, a split-second decision: smother it, deflect it, or risk a rebound.
My glove snatched it, the impact thudding against my forearm.
The rebound went spinning away and right toward Mason.
“Here we go,” Theo shouted.
Mason didn’t waste a beat. He grabbed it, weaving past a defender, then snapped a pass to Grayson streaking down the right wing.
I tracked them across the ice, heart hammering with the rhythm of the play.
Time dilated, slow, then fast. Grayson’s stick rose, and the shot went off.
Goal. The arena erupted. I barely had time to register before the next rush hit, but for that moment, the tension eased just enough for a flicker of adrenaline-fueled pride.
Minnesota wasn’t letting up. They came back with a vengeance, slapping the puck with the force of a battering ram.
One shot slid low, clipped the post, then bounced toward me.
I lunged, pad first, sliding across the crease to make a sprawling save.
The puck ricocheted again, somehow finding Theo at the blue line.
He didn’t hesitate. I could hear Mason yelling something about an open lane, Grayson shouting for the cross-ice.
Theo fired a long pass that cut across the neutral zone, Mason scooped it up, pivoted, and found Grayson charging toward the goal.
It was all happening in fractions of a second.
My heart, my breath, every tendon in my body was tuned to the rhythm of the ice, the slap of sticks, the chatter of the crowd.
Grayson let the shot fly. The puck glanced off a defender’s stick, spun high, hit the post, and fell right back into Grayson’s path.
One more tap, and it zipped past the goalie. Net bulged. Game won? Almost.
I skated back toward the crease, legs aching, sweat stinging under my mask, and Theo clapped my shoulder. “Hell of a save, Callahan. Almost gave me a heart attack watching that rebound.”
Mason laughed, elbowing me lightly. “You’re the man, but seriously, Grayson’s luck rubs off, right?”
The final minutes ticked down. Minnesota tried to claw back, desperation in every slap shot, every stretch pass.
I blocked a few more, feeling the burn in my quads and forearms, the pulse in my temples synced to the slap of the puck.
Then, the moment of reckoning. The final power play for Minnesota.
Every forward jammed into our zone. I spread, balanced, every eye on the puck.
A shot came fast, low, ricocheted off my left pad.
I lunged to glove it midair. Clean. Clear.
Theo skated over, grinning, breath ragged. “That’s what I’m talking about. Keep this up and we’re going straight to finals.”
“Saved our asses again, Callahan,” Shawn said as he skated by. “Starting to think we’d be lost without you.”
I exhaled, sinking slightly, feeling the tension in my shoulders melt as the final horn blared.
We’d won Game 1. Dramatic, exhausting, nerve-wracking, exactly what playoff hockey was supposed to be.
And through it all, I realized something that I couldn’t ignore: it wasn’t just the saves, the goals, or the strategy.
It was the connection, the communication, the split-second trust we had in each other. That was the game-changer.
The locker room was a hurricane of noise, the kind that could rattle anyone unprepared. Cameras flashed, microphones jutted into our faces, and the smell of sweat and ice still clung to the benches.
A reporter from a local sports network shoved a mic forward. “Hunter! Talk about that third-period save! That was insane!”
Tucker leaned in, grinning. “You handled that like a pro. I was half-expecting you to just… flail.”
“Yeah, you had that puck on a leash,” Mason added, nudging Grayson playfully.
Grayson rolled his eyes, clapping both of us on the shoulders. “Quit ribbing the kid. Let him speak.”
I raised my hands in mock surrender and turned to the reporters, keeping my smile smooth and light. “Thanks,” I said, letting the charm roll off naturally. “It’s all the guys out there. Couldn’t have done it without the team backing me up.”
Another reporter jumped in. “What about the counter-attack goal? That came right off your save. Did you see it develop that quickly?”
I gestured casually with my hands. “Yeah, Mason had eyes everywhere. Theo held the line, and honestly, it was a perfect bounce. We’ve practiced similar setups a million times, but seeing it click in the moment—it’s why we play.”
A flurry of quick questions followed, some asking about the playoffs, others joking about the locker room antics during warm-ups.
I answered each with a mix of humor and polish, like a tightrope walker keeping balance on a moving wire.
By the time they moved on to another player, I was breathing easier, the controlled buzz of adrenaline still humbling my nerves.
Then I heard it.
“Seriously, she’s brilliant. Look at him—he’s handling all that like a pro, and it’s all her work. Holly’s clearly done wonders with him.”
My grip tightened around my water bottle, knuckles white. The words weren’t hostile. The speaker sounded admiring, even impressed. But the framing of it, the implication that I was only performing because of her, dug into me.
I froze, blinking fast, trying to force the irritation down.
I could almost feel the old itch in my chest, the one that came from being underestimated, overlooked, always having to prove myself.
Seven years with the Surge, countless games, countless practices.
And now it seemed like none of that meant anything on its own.
I swallowed the tightness, forcing a laugh as Grayson leaned in, elbowing me. “You okay, Callahan?”
“Yeah, fine,” I said, voice even, smooth.
I let the charm work for me, just like we’d drilled. The reporters moved on, leaving me in a quieter corner of the locker room. Theo slapped my back. “Don’t let it get to you, man. You’re a beast on the ice. She can’t take that from you.”
Mason leaned in with a grin. “Yeah, she didn’t do the scoring, just saying.”
I laughed, but it didn’t reach the tightness lingering in my ribs. Their teasing helped, though. It reminded me I had agency, that I wasn’t just a result of someone else’s work.
That’s when Holly’s voice cut through the hubbub.
“Hunter, you up for a quick one-on-one?” she asked, stepping into the corner of the room. She didn’t need to brandish any authority; her presence carried it naturally. “Just a short strategy session for your fan meet-and-greet tomorrow.”
I shook my head, a flash of tension rolling through me. “Not right now,” I said, firm but controlled.
She paused, eyebrows slightly raised, but her lips curved in that familiar hint of a smile. “Okay… your call.” There was no pushiness, just that calm, measured way she had of letting you choose while still letting you know she’d be right there if you needed her.
I stalked off, trying to ignore the tug of having her near, the familiar warmth that seemed to trail her like a shadow.
Behind me, the chatter of teammates, the laughter over a bad joke from Tucker, the clanging of lockers—all of it blurred into white noise.
I needed distance, space to remind myself that I could handle things on my own.