Chapter 24
Jacob
“Here we go,” Jacob said, gritting his teeth, ready to do battle.
The Titans” home arena smelled like wet concrete, popcorn grease, and unrivalled hostility. Twenty thousand fans in black and crimson packed the stands, their chants rolling down like thunder every time an Enforcers player touched the puck.
Game One.
Road ice.
High stakes.
This was the big time, there was no questioning that. Jacob felt the weight of it the second his skates hit the surface for warm-ups—every shift of his weight sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline through him, sharp and electric.
Focus.
Fight.
Kick ass.
The puck dropped, and the game turned brutal from the opening face-off.
The Titans came out swinging, forechecking like they were trying to bury the Enforcers before the first intermission.
Jacob took his first big hit less than ninety seconds in: a Titans defenseman caught him against the boards with a clean but punishing shoulder check that rattled his teeth and left his ribs singing.
He shook it off, kept his feet, and skated away before the ref could whistle anything.
“You good?” Connor asked as he skated to Jacob.
Jacob simply nodded. But he didn’t stay quiet long.
Midway through the first, Jacob danced through the neutral zone on a two-on-one rush.
Alex fed him a perfect stretch pass; Jacob toe-dragged around the last back checker, cut inside, and ripped a wrist shot high glove side.
The puck was ticketed for the top corner—until the Titans” goalie, a six-foot-five wall named Stahl, somehow got his blocker up in time.
The save was obscene: glove flash, paddle down, body square. It was the mind of save that would be replayed over and over on highlights reels and YouTube compilations.
Ultimately though, the puck pinged off the leather and stayed out.
The crowd erupted like they’d won the series already.
Jacob banged his stick against the glass in frustration, then skated back to the bench. Tane met his eyes for a split second—steady, reassuring—before the next shift jumped over the boards.
It didn’t get better.
The Titans scored on the counter less than two minutes later. A turnover at the blue line, a quick breakout, and their top-line center slipped behind the Enforcers defense for a clean breakaway. The puck went five-hole on their goalie.
1-0 Titans.
The second period was more of the same: grinding hits, blocked shots, whistles for every marginal call. Jacob absorbed another heavy check—this one from behind, borderline interference—near the end boards. He popped up fast, jaw set, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing him limp.
But the hits were piling up.
Jacob’s shoulder ached from the earlier collision, his ribs throbbed, and every stride felt heavier than the last.
By the third period the score was 3-0 Titans.
The Enforcers had chances—good ones—but Stahl was playing out of his mind, and the Titans” defense was suffocating.
Jacob’s line generated a partial break late in the frame; he carried the puck deep, faked a shot, then tried to saucer it to Tane cutting to the net.
The pass was intercepted. The Titans cleared.
And the clock kept ticking.
With 1:47 left and the game already decided, frustration finally boiled over.
Jacob chased a loose puck into the corner. A Titans winger—big, bearded, mouthy—got there first and pinned him against the boards. The guy leaned in close, helmet to helmet.
“Run home to your Sugar Daddy, princess,” he muttered, low enough that only Jacob could hear. “Rivers can’t save you tonight.”
Something snapped.
Jacob shoved hard—two hands to the chest—then dropped his gloves and threw a wild right that caught the guy’s visor. The Titans player swung back. They grappled, helmets clacking, until the linesmen pried them apart.
The ref’s arm shot up immediately.
“Number seventeen, two minutes for roughing. Get to the box.”
Jacob skated to the penalty box under a cascade of boos and jeers. He slammed the door behind him, ripped off his helmet, and dropped onto the bench. From the glassed-in box he watched the final minute tick down: empty-net goal for the Titans at 0:32.
The buzzer sounded.
Final score 4-0.
Jacob stayed seated a moment longer than the rest of the team, staring at the ice like it had personally betrayed him.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jacob snarled, quietly and to himself. “Fuck the Titans all to hell.”
* * *
The locker room was a tomb.
No music. No laughter. Just the dull clatter of equipment being stripped, the hiss of showers in the distance, and the low murmur of guys trying not to look at each other.
Jacob sat on the bench in front of his stall, elbows on his knees, towel draped over his shoulders. His ribs ached every time he breathed too deep, but that was nothing compared to the hollow feeling in his chest.
Coach Tremaine stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, face thunderously dark. His assistants flanked him like sentries. The air felt thick enough to choke on.
Tremaine didn’t waste time.
“You played like a team that already lost the series,” he started, voice low and dangerous.
“No compete. No finish. No heart. We had chances… good ones… and we pissed them away. Stahl made some saves, sure, but we didn’t make him work hard enough after the first two.
We let them dictate. We let them hit. We let them win puck battles.
And when they scored, we fucking folded. ”
Tremaine’s gaze swept the room, landing on every player in turn.
When it reached Tane, it stopped…
“Rivers,” Tremaine’s voice sharpened to a blade.
“You’re the captain. You’re supposed to lead by example.
Tonight you were invisible. Slow reads, soft passes, no damn physicality.
You looked like a guy who’s already checked out.
Fucking listen to me! If that shoulder’s bothering you that much, you should’ve told me before we boarded the plane.
We can’t afford passengers. This ain’t a retirement home. ”
Tane sat motionless on the bench across from Jacob. His face was blank but Jacob could see the muscle ticking in his jaw, the way his hands flexed once against his thighs. Tane didn’t argue. He didn’t defend himself. He just took it.
Something hot and protective surged in Jacob’s chest.
He stood before he could think better of it.
“Coach,” Jacob said, voice cutting through the silence. “That’s not fair. Tane played his ass off. We all did. The Titans were better tonight. Full stop. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I took the penalty. I gave them the empty-netter. I missed the chances we had. Yell at me. Not him.”
Tremaine turned slowly, eyes narrowing.
“Sit down, Gosling,” Tremaine growled.
Jacob didn’t move. “No, sir. Tane’s been fighting through pain all series. He scored the winner in Game Six. He’s the reason we’re even here. If you’re looking for someone to hang this on, hang it on me.”
The room went dead quiet. Even the showers seemed to hush.
Tremaine took one step forward, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
“I said sit. Down.”
Jacob held his gaze for another heartbeat, then—slowly—sank back onto the bench. His heart hammered against his ribs.
Tremaine exhaled through his nose, then turned back to the room.
“This isn’t about blame,” Tremaine said, though his tone made it clear it absolutely was.
“It’s about accountability. Rivers… you’re the leader.
When things go sideways, the buck stops with you.
Tomorrow we watch film. We fix what’s broken.
Because if we play like this again, we’re done.
And right now we don’t look like a team that wants it. ”
Tremaine let the words hang, heavy and final.
Then he nodded to his assistants and walked out. The door clicked shut behind them.
The locker room stayed silent for a long beat.
Guys started moving again—slow, mechanical. Gear stripped. Showers turned on. No one spoke above a murmur.
Jacob glanced across at Tane.
Tane was staring at the floor between his skates, shoulders rounded, hands clasped loosely in front of him. Tane looked smaller than Jacob had ever seen him—years of leadership and pain and quiet strength suddenly carrying the full weight of a 4-0 loss and a coach’s locker room dressing-down.
Jacob’s throat tightened. He wanted to cross the room, wrap his arms around Tane, tell him it wasn’t his fault, that Tremaine was wrong. But the locker room wasn’t the place, not with twenty other guys still in there, not with cameras potentially lurking in the hallway.
Instead Jacob stood, walked over quietly, and dropped onto the bench beside Tane. Their shoulders brushed… subtle, hidden in the angle of their bodies.
Tane didn’t look up, but he leaned into the contact just enough to acknowledge it.
Jacob kept his voice low. “You okay?”
Tane exhaled slowly. “I’ve had worse, kid.”
“That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt,” Jacob said, his quiet voice full of emotion.
Tane’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. “I’m fine. Honestly.”
Jacob wanted to argue, wanted to push, but he knew better. Tane would talk when he was ready. Or he wouldn’t. Either way, Jacob would be there.
He bumped Tane’s knee with his own.
“We’ll get them next game,” Jacob said quietly. “We’re not done. No fucking way are we done.”
Tane finally lifted his head. His eyes were tired, shadowed, but there was still fire in them—stubborn, unyielding.
“Yeah,” he said. “We’re not done.”
Around them the locker room slowly emptied. Guys headed for the bus, for the hotel, for whatever quiet they could find before tomorrow’s film session.
Jacob stayed seated beside Tane until the last stragglers left.
Only then did he stand, offering his hand.
Tane took it—firm grip, callused palm—and let Jacob pull him up.
They walked out together, side by side, into the fluorescent-lit hallway.
The road to glory wasn’t over.
But if the Enforcers wanted to reach the finals, they needed to find something tonight… something fierce, something unbreakable.
And Jacob knew exactly where to start looking.
It was in the man walking next to him.