Chapter 14 #2
For a moment, August thought he had him—thought the angle was perfect, and the timing was right. But Jett feinted left, slipped the puck between his skates, and was gone before August could recover.
“Shit—” August spun and gave chase, but Jett was already streaking toward the net. The defenceman tried to close him off, but Jett’s wrist flicked, and the puck sailed high.
Red light. Goal.
The crowd erupted with angry shouts and boos as Jett slowed, raising a glove in silent celebration. August coasted to a stop near the crease, chest heaving, and frustration simmering beneath the sweat and adrenaline.
He hated that Jett made it look that easy.
There were still thirty seconds on the clock, so August stayed out for the puck drop at center ice, taking position for Bradshaw as he went in for the face-off.
If, by some miracle, August could get the puck and make a lightning-fast play, he could get that point back and set the tone for the second period.
Bradshaw lost the face-off, and August sulked for the last thirty seconds of the game as he went back on defence to protect their two-point lead. He stonewalled the Sunburst forward, who was trying to break past him, until the clock ran out of time.
The buzzer rang.
End of the first.
Soaked with sweat and slightly fatigued, August left the ice to the sound of cheers from adoring fans, who waved at him like he was some kind of superhero.
He passed his gloves to the staff and removed his helmet, trying to alleviate the squeezing pain inside his head. It was impossible to dodge all the smacks and good-natured elbows from his teammates as he put his stick down and hit the locker room to take a goddamn break.
“Here he is!” Callahan shouted, leaning up to swing his arm across August’s shoulders. His left cheek was already turning purple, and his lip was busted, but he was smiling. “Our fucking guy. Who needs a Killinger when we have Snow?”
August ducked out of his captain’s hold, scowling as he went to his spot on the bench and whipped his sweater off.
“He’s about to downplay it,” said…Peyton Floyd? The Bigfoot’s starting goalie. “Just wait—anyone want to take bets?”
August flushed as he tossed his sweater on the rack to dry, acting as neutral as he could with every eye in the room on him. He grabbed a cloth and patted his sweaty face down, jaw clenching when the throbbing in his head increased to uncomfortable levels.
“See?” said Floyd. “Look at him acting all cool. Fucking beaut.”
August snorted and lifted his head, about to ask the staff for more Advil, and came face to face with his coach’s crossed arms.
“Snow.”
Fuck. August had put four pucks in the net, and his stomach was still squirming nervously as he looked up into Coach Fedorov’s eyes, awaiting his scolding.
“Knew you had it in you,” said Coach. He turned away from August and swept his gaze over every player in the room. “See what happens when you fight for win? That was best damn hockey I’ve seen this team play since season started. You keep this up, and you’ll get that fucking cup.”
There were stomps and shouts of approval, and the tone had been set even without having to turn the puck over in those last thirty seconds.
“These Toronto guys don’t fuck around,” Coach continued when the laughter and noise calmed down again. “Get that puck whenever you can and ram their defence like raging bull. Killinger is shit at skating backwards—”
Niko slapped a hand over his mouth to stop his laughter.
“So, use big bodies and passes to get around him. They’re rebuilding their lines, and doing shit job. Don’t let his speed turn you into crying baby, Snow and Cote will be on him all night, so rest of you need to step the fuck up and drive puck to net. Yes?”
“Yes, Coach!”
Fedorov nodded and then left to do coach things with his consulting team and assistants, and August allowed his muscles to unlock now that the fear of being reprimanded had passed.
“Advil,” August said to the nearest staff member. “Please.”
The friendly-looking guy smiled and went to get him what he asked for, leaving August to suffer on the bench and grind his teeth.
“Hey,” Niko knocked their arms together. “Are you…alright? Like really alright, not manly stupidity alright.”
August squeezed his eyes shut. Sometimes when Niko spoke, he couldn’t understand what he was saying, even if it was in English.
“I’m fine,” he lied.
“Here, Mr. Snow.”
August raised his head and attempted a smile as he took the Advil and the water bottle being offered to him. “You saved my life. Thanks.”
The man blushed and hurried away, stammering through a sentence that August was unable to decipher.
“Head still hurting?” Niko asked, his sharp, green eyes lingering on the Advil until August popped them into his mouth. “I told you to take a break, but you’re refusing to listen—”
“I got a hat trick,” August hissed, keeping his voice low so they wouldn’t be overheard above the multiple conversations happening. “I don’t need a doctor or a therapist right now; I just need to play hockey. It’s the only thing that helps.”
“Gus—” Niko pushed closer until they were nearly touching noses. “You just went through something that literally broke your brain. I know you don’t see it, but no matter how much you joke and smile and hit the back of the net with a puck, you’re not really here.”
Pain jabbed between his eyes, and August pinched the bridge of his nose to soothe it. “Gonna take a walk,” he said, standing to unbuckle and remove his pads. He didn’t look at Niko because he didn’t want to see the worry in his eyes, not right now.
Avoiding the media team, August found a part of the corridor with no people and fewer lights, hidden from sight. The moment he was alone, he sighed and pressed his head to the cold wall, soaking up the temporary relief it provided.
Relief that only lasted until he heard the thud of skates approaching, and he opened one eye to greet his captain.
Eren Callahan, the man who married Esme Harlow, and the man who still smiled after her death. The man who gave off an air of easy charm, and who had had his back after losing the cup last season, despite the heavy knowledge that his wife was dying.
“Gusty—”
“I’m sorry.” August dropped his arms and pushed off the wall to face his captain.
“I’m a stupid piece of shit, and I didn’t realize—I didn’t know she was gone.
You must have told me, but I’m such a stuck-up prick that I didn’t bother sparing a thought for her.
And what’s worse, I knew her. I danced with her at prom, and we won prom king and queen, and—”
He fucked her brother, told him he loved him, and then never spoke to him again.
“Listen,” said Callahan. “You’re a big bastard, so this is going to be awkward.”
Eren strode over and opened his arms, giving August a clear warning before he grabbed him in a hug and crushed him.
“August, what is wrong? You’re playing the best hockey of your life, but you’re scaring the shit out of me. Tell me what happened—you can trust me.”
August patted his captain on the back and then gently eased them apart.
“I’m not okay,” he admitted. “I remembered some deep crap from my past, and I think it fucked me up. I feel like I should be freaking out, but everything is so…numb. I don’t know who I am anymore, Cap.
I’m only playing the best hockey of my life because I’m not in my head at all—I’m outside my fucking body, and I—”
August pressed his bare back against the wall and shut his eyes. His head was killing him.
“You shouldn’t be playing right now.”
August shook his head. “Moving on instinct alone got us four goals.”
“If whatever happened to you was so bad that you can’t say it out loud, then you shouldn’t be here.”
August knew that. Niko liked to remind him every time he was near him. “Me being here is winning us a game. I finally feel like I’m part of this damn team again.”
“Was it Quinn?”
When August looked down at Callahan, a wave of dizziness made him wobble on his skates. “Not in the way you’re worried about, but he’s a part of it.”
Callahan’s boyish charm hardened into the tempered steel that nearly won them a cup last season. “Gusty, you know damn-well that I wouldn’t care if you’re bi, right? I’m making assumptions like a jackass here, but if you and Quinn have history, I understand.”
August’s shoulders slumped, and he took a deep breath to steady his nerves. “I used…to be bi. I don’t know what I am anymore.”
Callahan’s lips were pressed tightly together, and August could tell he wanted to ask questions, but he was kind enough to drop it.
“Okay.” Callahan swept a hand through his damp hair, and his expression softened. “About Esme—it’s fine. Apology accepted, so don’t let that bother you anymore. And as for Quinn—”
August flinched and dropped his gaze to the floor.
“Quinn is the most important person in my life right now. He’s all I have left, Gusty.
Whatever the history is between you guys—whatever it is—please don’t fucking hurt him.
Esme made me promise to keep an eye on him, and even without that promise hanging over me, Quinn is like my brother. I love him.”
August had no intentions of going anywhere near—
“He’s here tonight,” said Callahan. “And now that we’ve had this conversation, I don’t think he’s here to watch me.”
August dragged his gaze upward to meet his captain’s eyes. Callahan was frowning, but one corner of his mouth kept twitching like he was fighting back a smile.
He didn’t know how he felt about Callahan’s observation, so August said nothing.
“And this is the part where I turn on caveman mode and threaten to break your legs.”
August huffed, and the last of the tension that had been eating away inside of him went quiet. “I thought you said you’re close with Quinn? He’s not someone who needs protection. He can take care of himself.”
Callahan’s blond brows shot into his hairline. “Damn. You really did know him.”
He didn’t feel like smiling, but August tried his best. “I think so. It’s…spotty.”
“Christ.” Callahan knocked his fist into August’s chest, slightly rocking him on his skates. “I bet Neeks is getting after you, but if you need to take a leave and sort your shit, you’ll have my support.”
Even after August had been a terrible teammate and a worse friend, Callahan seemed determined to help him. And from what he could tell, his captain had made a few big promises to a person who was no longer with them, and they were weighing heavily on him.
August didn’t want to add to the weight, so he flashed a convincing smile. “All I need his hockey right now, and maybe for this Advil to kick in,” said August. “You let me handle the rest, and I’ll make sure I get us to a cup.”
Callahan’s posture finally relaxed, and he nodded. “Fine, I’ll take it. I’m happy we had this conversation, because you were seriously scaring me for a second there. You’re one hundred percent an annoying prick for the most part, but I like your surly attitude.”
He got that a lot. August could be a likable person when he wanted; he just didn’t want to be one lately. And after his mental breakdown, he was beginning to understand why he had problems when it came to building healthy relationships.
“Killinger is going to be a pain in the ass next period,” said Callahan.
Smirking, August pushed off the wall and started toward the locker room to gear back up. “Just call him Fraser. It makes him so mad he forgets how to play hockey.”
That earned him a laugh from his captain and a slap on his back. “You really are a dickhead.”
August forced out a chuckle, hoping Callahan didn’t notice the way his hands began to shake after he had touched him. The impact on the scars carved into his flesh had sent him reeling. The corridor vanished for a heartbeat, replaced by the copper scent of blood and his mother’s broken sobs.
Cries of grief for a monster who lay dead, when she had never once cried for him.
The sound of the team around him when they entered the locker room blurred into static.
August clenched his jaw, his entire body going rigid, and he willed himself not to splinter.
He’d hold himself together by pure spite if that’s what it took.
Superglue the cracks. Tape over the edges. Pretend it didn’t hurt.
He’d done it before. He could do it again.
No therapist could undo what had been carved into him. This—whatever this was—he’d fix it himself, just like always.
Because in the end, that was the only thing he knew how to do.
And when the laughter faded and the room emptied, August stayed where he was with his helmet in his hands, and his head bowed. The hum of the arena echoed faintly through the concrete walls, the game lights dimming one by one.
The world outside kept moving.
August just had to find a way to move with it.