Chapter 31
Home Team Pressure
Luke
The puck clanged off the far post and ricocheted straight back at my mask.
I tracked it—visual attachment locked—caught the rebound with the top of my blocker, and swallowed the sting that jumped down my taped shoulder.
“Reset,” Harper called from the blue line.
No praise, no critique—the next rep already waiting. That was fine. I didn’t want praise. Praise meant she’d seen the wince.
I shuffled back to the center of the crease—short, choppy strides to keep my legs loaded. Left skate, right skate, square to the puck. The ice smelled like scraped tin; my breath fogged inside the cage.
Morales cued up at the hash marks again, stick blade on its heel, reading me like a textbook he’d already highlighted.
Whistle.
He snapped high glove.
I dropped into the butterfly, flaring my knees wide to seal the ice. I threw my glove hand up. My shoulder screamed on the extension—a hot, tearing sensation under the deltoid.
Thunk.
The puck hit the pocket, popped loose, and died in the blue paint. I hadn’t absorbed it; I’d blocked it. Sloppy.
I covered, froze, waited for Harper’s second whistle before I breathed.
Four reps later, the fatigue set in. I started losing the timing—half a beat behind, chasing the release instead of reading the body.
“Go!” Harper barked.
Javier came in with speed. He opened his blade—fake shot.
My brain said push. I needed a hard T-push to get across to the far post. But my body hesitated, protecting the shoulder. Instead of driving with my legs, I reached with my upper body.
I broke my stance. I opened up holes.
Javier saw it; predators always do. He dragged the puck to his backhand, changing the angle in a split second.
I tried to recover, desperate, lunging.
He tucked it softly inside the far post.
The net light blinked red behind me.
Groan from the benches; freshman forwards thumped sticks on the boards. Harper’s whistle cut the noise.
“Carter,” she said, voice level. “Crease. Now.”
I pushed up from the ice, sliding to her skates. The pain in my shoulder jackhammered, but I gave it a three on the internal meter. Three was functional.
She kept her tone calm, almost quiet. “Postseason in fourteen days. Your reads are late by half a frame. You’re swimming out there.”
“Yes, Coach.”
She pointed her stick at my chest. “You’re reaching. You’re trying to make glove saves because you don’t want to move your body behind the puck. That’s lazy goaltending, Carter.”
It wasn’t lazy. It was agony. But I couldn’t say that.
She glanced at the black tape peeking out from my sleeve. “Pain score?”
“Three.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Honest three?”
A beat. “Four when I reach.”
“Then stop reaching.” She tapped her stick on the ice once. “Economy of movement, Carter. If you’re square, the puck hits you. If you reach, you open the armpit. Smart angles cost less than hero saves.”
“Coach?”
“The net doesn’t need you to bleed for it. It needs you to be here Friday.”
She pivoted away. The conversation had lasted maybe eight seconds, but my pulse was sprinting.
Practice cycled through breakouts, two-on-zeros, and the dreaded Screen Drill.
Ryan parked his massive frame right in my vision. The point man fired. I couldn’t see the release. I had to fight through the screen, looking over Ryan’s shoulder, trying to find the puck through the forest of legs.
Down. Up. Shuffle. Down.
I ran the lane work like a robot, blocking out the feedback from my shoulder, counting pucks: 112 shots, three goals against, one bad rebound.
Numbers were a life raft.
The Zamboni horn sent us off. I coasted to the bench, legs rubber, my edges barely biting the ice.
Ryan met me at the gate. He didn’t offer a fist bump today. He looked grim.
“Good grind,” he said, but his eyes were tracking something over my shoulder in the stands.
“What?” I asked, following his gaze. The stands were empty except for the student manager collecting pucks.
“Check your phone when you get inside,” Ryan said, voice low. “And maybe skip the Buckman Grill tonight.”
“Why?”
“Trust me, Monk.” He patted the back of my helmet—right side, merciful—and skated off.
Locker room benches creaked under damp gear. I stripped slower than usual, one strap at a time. The bruise had spread ugly yellow under the tape; Dalton’s handiwork crunched when I peeled it off.
I checked my phone.
Ryan: Heads up, I think your dad’s here. Saw a red Ford F-150 with Jersey plates in the visitors lot.
My stomach dropped out. Dad.
He wasn’t supposed to be here. He’d said he was coming for the Friday game, driving up game day. It was Wednesday.
I shoved the phone deep into my bag, under the dirty laundry, as if burying it could block the signal.
Across the row, Javier snapped his tape roll shut. “Keep your head in practice tomorrow, Carter. Not in la la land.”
I met his stare. He knew. Everyone knew Rick Carter’s truck.
“Copy that,” I said.
I showered and dressed in record time—jeans, hoodie, beanie pulled low. I bolted. I needed to be somewhere he couldn’t find me. The gym was obvious. The rink was obvious.
That left the dorm.
The walk back to Stony Creek was a blur of paranoia. Every engine revving made me flinch. I kept my head down, cutting through the science quad to avoid the main road.
I hit the third floor of the dorm breathing hard, shoulder throbbing.
Our door was cracked the standard two inches.
I pushed it open the security door, desperate for the quiet of our room, for the smell of mint tea and the click of Austen’s keyboard. I needed to answer the note he’d left yesterday. I needed to explain why I’d ghosted him for forty-eight hours.
I’m done doing this wrong, he’d written.
Me too.
But when I stepped inside, the room was dark.
The blinds were drawn tight against the afternoon gray. Austen was in bed, face turned to the wall, blanket pulled up to his ears.
I froze. It was 4:30 p.m. Austen didn’t nap.
I stepped closer, quiet on the rug. The oat bar I’d left on his desk yesterday was gone, but the wrapper wasn’t in the trash. He’d cleared his desk completely—laptop, papers, highlighters all put away.
It looked sterile.
On the nightstand, under the lamp, the puck sat upside down.
The message was clear: Closed.
“Austen?” I whispered.
He didn’t move. His breathing was too even, too controlled. He was awake. He didn’t want to talk to me.
I stood there, hand hovering over his shoulder, wanting to shake him, to beg him to wake up and tell me the probability of us surviving my dad’s arrival. If I forced him to talk to me, with my dad prowling campus and my shoulder on fire, I’d bring the chaos right to his bed.
I pulled my hand back.
I went to my desk, sat down, and didn’t turn on the lamp. I sat in the dark, listening to the radiator hiss, waiting for my phone to buzz.
It took ten minutes.
Buzz.
I pulled it out of my pocket. It wasn’t Ryan. It wasn’t Javier.
Dad: I’m outside. Bring your playbook.
I stared at the screen until the backlight timed out, plunging the room back into gray.
I looked at Austen’s back one last time.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered to the silence.
I grabbed my playbook and walked out the door.