Chapter 32
The Handshake Line
Luke
The rink lights dropped to half-dark for introductions, and the student section roared hard enough to vibrate the aluminum bleachers.
The roster in my pocket felt like a lead weight.
I skated out last, mask tilted back. I tapped each post once—left, right—no extra flourish, then settled into a compact ready stance.
I scanned the north end. Habit. I didn’t expect him to be there. I’d basically avoided him for a week, and two days ago I’d walked out of the dorm while he lay facing the wall.
But he was there.
Three rows higher than his usual spot. No Maya today. Austen, arms crossed, face unreadable behind his glasses. He was wearing his own coat, not my hoodie.
My heart hammered a rhythm that had nothing to do with hockey. He showed up. Even after I failed every variable, he showed up.
Show me tomorrow, he’d said.
I pulled my mask down. Okay. Watch this.
Puck drop.
Stonehill came out flying, a swirl of white and navy flooding the zone. They were fast, desperate for a playoff spot, and they knew I was playing injured. They tested the shoulder immediately.
First shift: A dump-in chased down by their forecheck. The puck cycled to the point.
My heart hammered against my ribs—the old panic, the noise. I wanted to crouch lower. I wanted to tense up.
Austen’s voice drifted through the static in my head. “Quiet the eye. Slow the input.”
I took a breath and stopped scanning the chaos of legs and sticks. I locked my gaze on the puck carrier’s blade.
Visual attachment.
The defenseman walked the blue line and fired.
Old Luke would have lunged. Old Luke would have tried to punch the puck into the netting to look dominant.
New Luke did less. I didn’t reach. I didn’t lunge. I made a six-inch shuffle to the right. Economy of movement. Distance equals time. If I moved less, I had more time to react.
Thud.
Blocker save. I didn’t punch at it; I angled the board, steering the puck gently into the corner, away from the danger zone.
Controlled. Quiet.
“Nice steer, Monk,” Ryan called, collecting the rebound.
Another shot thirty seconds later—low glove. I dropped into the butterfly, sealing the ice, and swallowed the puck. No rebound.
The crowd noise spiked, a wall of sound, but inside the helmet, it was silent.
I exhaled. The period blurred into an Austen math lesson: shot vectors, clearance angles, probability trees folding down to one outcome at a time. I counted thirteen shots before Stonehill registered a real danger chance.
Power play. They set up the umbrella.
The pass snapped cross-ice, finding a seam through our penalty kill box. It was a one-timer set up for their sniper in the circle.
Old Luke—panic Luke—would have slid early, opening the five-hole.
This Luke waited.
I pushed off my post—a hard, explosive T-push. I arrived at the top of the crease exactly as the stick met the puck. I was square. I was set.
Whap.
The puck hit the NRU logo on my chest protector dead center. I collapsed my shoulders, trapping it against my body like a precious stone.
No rebound. No drama.
The crowd erupted like I’d roofed a breakaway, but I barely nodded. I dropped the puck to the ref’s hand and tapped my posts.
Boring, Harper had said. Make it boring.
I realized what she meant. “Exciting” meant you were out of position. “Exciting” meant you were recovering from a mistake. “Boring” meant you had already solved the equation.
Second period.
We generated offense. Ryan deflected a point shot for a goal, ugly but effective. Morales scored on a wrap-around, stuffing it past their goalie’s skate.
2–0.
Students pounded on the plexiglass behind me, screaming my name.
I ignored them. I used the stoppage to smooth the snow in my crease, scraping the blue paint clean. Calm eye of the storm.
Stonehill answered late.
They set a screen—a massive forward parked right in my vision.
My instinct screamed: Look around him! Bob your head! Find the puck!
I tried to look around. I shifted my head left, then right, trying to find the release point.
Mistake.
Austen’s voice: Saccadic suppression. If you move your eyes fast, you go blind.
Because I was moving my head, I missed the release frame. The shot came from the point. I never saw it.
I heard the clack of the stick, the ping of the crossbar, then the roar of the Stonehill bench.
2–1.
I didn’t smash my stick. I didn’t yell at my defenseman for the screen. I knew exactly why that puck went in. My eyes had been too noisy.
I took a drink of water. I reset my stance. I tapped both posts—left, right. Constants.
Intermission.
The tunnel smelled of rubber mats and adrenaline. I walked with my head down, conserving energy.
Dalton met me outside the locker room. He checked the tape tension on my shoulder.
“Shoulder?” he asked.
“Functional.”
“Keep it that way. Don’t be a hero in the third. Be a mechanic.”
I sat in my stall and didn’t look at my phone. I closed my eyes and visualized the north end. The gray coat, the glasses, the guy who calculated vectors to keep me calm.
He’s there, I told myself. He showed up.
Third period.
Stonehill sensed the equalizer. They forechecked like hornets, crashing the blue paint, slashing at my pads after the whistle.
I stayed narrow. I stayed deep.
At 12:14, their winger broke loose on the left side. He wound up for a slap shot.
I telescoped out, cutting the angle. He fired—high glove, aiming for the ear hole.
I watched the puck all the way in. I forced my eyes to lock on the rotation of the rubber. Quiet eye.
My glove hand flashed out—not a windmill, a precise snare.
Snap.
I caught it clean. I held it for a beat, freezing the play, then flicked the puck to the ref with unnecessary spin.
I glanced up at Section 104 in time to see the scout make a note on his tablet. My dad leaned over and said something to him, looking satisfied.
See? I thought. Singular.
But I wasn’t doing it for them.
Time bled out. The clock ticked down: 2:00… 1:30… 1:00.
Stonehill pulled their goalie. Six skaters against our five.
“Empty net!” Ryan yelled. “Heads up!”
The chaos increased. Bodies everywhere. Sticks hacking.
The puck came back to the point. Shot—blocked by Ryan. Rebound. Shot again—wide.
It bounced off the backboard and came out the other side. A Stonehill forward jumped on it. He had a half-open net.
I pushed across—RVH. I slammed my skate into the post and sealed the ice, leaning my shoulder into the iron.
I didn’t dive. I didn’t swim. I let the geometry do the work. I became a wall.
The shot jammed into my pad stack. I held the seal. I didn’t give an inch.
The buzzer sounded.
3–1 Demons. Postseason alive.
The team mobbed me. Ryan slammed his helmet against my chest protector, screaming. “That’s a statement, Monk! That is a statement!”
Javier punched my glove. “Stone. Cold.”
I tapped both posts one last time.
I looked up to the north end.
The crowd was filtering out, a sea of navy blue. But he was still there.
Austen was standing. He wasn’t cheering. He wasn’t jumping up and down. He was watching me, his hands deep in his coat pockets.
He had been right about the eyes and the math. Most importantly, he was right about me not needing to be a hero; I needed to be a constant.
He raised a hand—a small, tentative wave.
I raised my blocker. I see you.
He smiled. Then left.
The locker room was a riot of towel snaps and victory playlist bass. I showered fast, skipping the beer Ryan offered.
I needed to get to the lobby. I needed to find Austen and explain everything—the dad, the pressure, the fear. I needed to tell him he was the only constant I actually cared about.
Grabbing my bag, hair still wet, I pushed through the double doors.
The lobby was packed. I scanned the edges.
There.
Austen was waiting by the trophy case, hands in his pockets, looking out of place in the sea of jerseys. He saw me and straightened. He took a half-step forward.
I started toward him. “Austen!”
“Luke!”
The voice boomed from my right. A heavy hand clamped onto my shoulder—the bad one. I flinched.
Rick Carter stood there, grinning like he’d shut out Stonehill himself. He was wearing his old NHL leather jacket, smelling of expensive cologne and stadium beer.
“Hell of a game, kid,” he said, shaking my shoulder. “That glove hand? That’s the money maker.”
“Dad,” I said, trying to pull away. “My shoulder—”
“Is fine. Adrenaline handles it.” He didn’t let go. He turned, gesturing to the man beside him. “You remember Gulliver Vane.”
The Minnesota scout nodded, slick and polished. “Good to see you again, Luke. Your father was right about your recovery time. Impressive.”
“Thank you,” I said, my eyes darting past them.
Austen had stopped moving. He was standing ten feet away, watching.
“We’re going to dinner,” Dad announced. “The Steakhouse on Main. Gulliver wants to talk about the summer schedule. Development camp starts July first, but they want you in St. Paul by mid-June for conditioning.”
“Dad, I can’t tonight. I—”
“Nonsense. This is the offer, Luke. This is the next step.” Dad’s grip tightened. His smile didn’t waver, but his eyes went hard. “Don’t fumble the handoff.”
I looked at Austen. He was watching the scene with that analytical detachment he used when the variables weren’t adding up.
“I have plans,” I said weakly.
Dad followed my gaze. He looked at Austen who started walking toward us—scruffy hair, worn coat, nobody special.
“With whom?” Dad asked, loud enough for Vane to hear. “Your roommate?”
The word hung there. Roommate.
Austen’s chin lifted, waiting to see how I would respond.
I looked at Vane, watching me for signs of “entanglements.” I looked at my dad, whose approval I’d been chasing since I was five years old.
I froze.
“He’s… yeah,” I muttered, “my roommate.”
Austen flinched. It was small—a blink, a slight recoil—but I saw it.
My dad laughed, clapping me on the back. “Well, tell him you’re busy. We’re celebrating. Big leagues, Luke. Focus.”
He steered me around. He physically turned me away from Austen.
“Come on,” Dad said. “Car’s out front.”
I took a step. I let him move me.
I glanced back over my shoulder.
Austen wasn’t looking at me anymore. He was looking at the floor, at the trophy case, at anything but me. He turned around.
He pushed through the exit doors and walked out into the cold.
I didn’t chase him.
I got in my father’s car.