Chapter 5 Becoming Home #2
Noah had never considered himself a superstitious person.
At least, not in the way some hockey players were.
He knew teammates who refused to shave during winning streaks.
Tyler always stepped onto the ice with his left skate first. Liam listened to the exact same playlist before every game, convinced changing even one song would ruin his timing.
One rookie insisted on wearing the same pair of socks through an entire playoff series until the equipment staff secretly replaced them overnight.
Noah had always laughed at those rituals.
He believed preparation won games.
Hard work.
Discipline.
Trust.
Not lucky socks.
Not lucky ties.
Not lucky breakfasts.
Still...
There was one habit he had never managed to give up.
The small black hockey puck rested inside the top drawer of his bedside table.
It wasn't remarkable to anyone else.
Its edges were slightly worn from years of handling, and the official league logo stamped across one side had faded until it was barely visible. A silver marker had left a date on the back that only Noah fully understood.
Every game morning, he picked it up for a few seconds before leaving for the arena.
Not because he believed it magically changed the outcome.
Because it reminded him why he played.
That morning followed the same quiet routine.
He opened the drawer, wrapped his fingers around the puck, and smiled briefly before slipping it into the pocket of his jacket.
As he stepped into the kitchen, he found Mason already awake.
That alone was unusual.
"You didn't oversleep," Noah said.
Mason looked up from pouring cereal into a bowl.
"I deserve credit."
"You absolutely do."
"I've been awake for almost twenty minutes."
"I'm impressed."
"You should be."
Noah reached for the coffee pot.
"I was beginning to think you only functioned after sunrise."
"I still don't."
"Then why are you awake?"
Mason shrugged.
"Couldn't sleep."
"Tournament nerves?"
"Maybe."
Their upcoming game carried more weight than the previous preseason contests.
Several regular-season roster decisions still hadn't been finalized, and every player wanted to make the strongest impression possible before opening night.
Pressure hung quietly around the team.
Mason took another bite of cereal before noticing Noah slip the puck onto the kitchen counter while reaching for his coffee mug.
He frowned.
"What's that?"
Noah looked down.
"Oh."
He picked it up almost automatically.
"Nothing."
"That's definitely something."
"It's just a puck."
Mason narrowed his eyes.
"You carry a hockey puck around your apartment?"
"I don't carry it around."
"You literally just brought it into the kitchen."
"I forgot it was in my pocket."
"Hmm."
Mason leaned farther across the island.
"Let me see."
Noah hesitated for a moment before placing it in Mason's hand.
The worn rubber felt smooth from years of use.
Mason turned it over carefully.
"It's old."
"It is."
"You planning to sell it to a museum?"
"No."
"You should."
"They'd probably refuse."
Mason noticed the faded writing on the back.
"What's the date?"
Noah smiled faintly.
"My first junior championship."
Mason looked up.
"You've kept it since then?"
"Almost ten years."
"No way."
"It's traveled with me ever since."
Mason rotated the puck again.
"You serious?"
"Very."
"I thought you weren't superstitious."
"I'm not."
"This says otherwise."
"It reminds me where everything started."
Mason studied him for a long moment.
"So it's sentimental."
"I guess."
"You've had this through juniors..."
"College."
"The draft."
"The minors."
"The NHL."
"Every game."
Mason let out a low whistle.
"Okay."
"What?"
"That's actually kind of cool."
"I expected more teasing."
"Oh, that's still coming."
Noah laughed.
"I figured."
Mason placed the puck carefully back into Noah's palm.
"I just didn't expect you to be the emotional type."
"I'm not."
"You've carried the same puck for ten years."
"I said emotional."
"You've named it, haven't you?"
"No."
"You hesitated."
"I didn't."
"You absolutely did."
Noah slipped the puck back into his pocket.
"I've never named a hockey puck."
"I don't believe you."
"I'll survive."
"You'll eventually admit it."
"No chance."
Mason grinned triumphantly.
"I've discovered your secret."
"You've discovered one of them."
The words escaped before Noah realized what he'd said.
Mason tilted his head.
"One of them?"
Noah shrugged casually.
"Everybody has things they don't tell people."
"I suppose."
"What about you?"
Mason thought for a second.
"I still sleep with the window cracked open."
"Even in winter?"
"I can't sleep otherwise."
"Interesting."
"I also still have my first hockey stick."
"You kept it?"
"My dad wanted to throw it away."
"You stopped him."
"I hid it."
Noah smiled.
"Seems we're both sentimental."
"I guess we are."
The conversation lingered in Noah's thoughts throughout the drive to the arena.
He hadn't intended to show Mason the puck.
He almost never talked about it.
Not because it was embarrassing.
Because it belonged to a quieter part of his life, one he rarely shared with anyone.
Yet somehow it hadn't felt strange telling Mason.
If anything, it had felt...easy.
Practice moved quickly before the coaching staff gathered everyone for final meetings ahead of the evening game.
The atmosphere around the locker room carried noticeably more tension than usual.
Players sharpened skates in silence.
Athletic trainers moved from locker to locker checking tape jobs and equipment.
Coach Morrison delivered his usual pregame speech before leaving everyone with one final reminder.
"Play your game."
No complicated systems.
No dramatic speeches.
Just hockey.
As teammates gradually headed toward the tunnel, Mason remained seated in front of his locker longer than usual.
He stared down at the tape wrapped around his stick.
Not nervous exactly.
Just unusually quiet.
Noah recognized the expression.
Everyone had one game every season that somehow felt heavier than the others.
He walked over.
"You okay?"
Mason looked up.
"Yeah."
"You sure?"
"I'll be fine."
Noah wasn't convinced.
Mason wasn't normally this still before puck drop.
Usually he bounced one knee endlessly or joked with teammates to burn nervous energy.
Today he simply sat there thinking.
Without fully deciding to do it, Noah reached into the pocket of his jacket.
His fingers closed around the familiar rubber disk.
He turned it over once.
Then held it out.
Mason frowned.
"The puck?"
Noah nodded.
"Take it."
"What?"
"Just for tonight."
Mason blinked.
"No."
"Why not?"
"You've carried that thing for ten years."
"I know."
"I'm not taking it."
"It's only for one game."
"What if something happens to it?"
"It won't."
Mason looked genuinely uncomfortable.
"I can't."
"You can."
"Noah..."
"It helped remind me why I play."
He placed the puck gently into Mason's hand.
"Maybe tonight it'll remind you too."
Mason stared down at the worn black rubber resting in his palm.
"You trust me with this?"
Noah answered without hesitation.
"Yeah."
For several seconds, Mason said nothing.
Finally he closed his fingers carefully around it.
"I'll give it back the second the game's over."
"You don't have to rush."
"I will."
A small smile tugged at the corner of Noah's mouth.
"I know."
Mason slipped the puck carefully into the inner pocket of his suit jacket as though it were something fragile instead of hardened rubber.
Watching him do it stirred an unexpected feeling inside Noah.
The puck had always been a private reminder of where his journey began.
Now, for the first time in nearly a decade, he had trusted someone else to carry it.
Neither of them realized it then, but the exchange had quietly transformed the little black puck into something more than a keepsake.
It had become something they now shared.
A silent promise.
The first symbol of a bond that was growing stronger with every passing day.
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