Chapter 9 Dawson
Nothing beats the vibes on game day.
The whole campus is decked out in blue. The cheerleaders paint their faces, transitioning seamlessly from football mode (great season, those guys are headed for state) to welcome in hockey season.
Everyone’s wearing jerseys, the front entrance has a banner reading SOAR HIGH, HAWKS, and my locker’s decorated in streamers.
Sabrina and her Spirit Committee minions even made a poster of my face using last year’s yearbook photo, decorated with glitter and lots of heart doodles.
I must have worried her with my lack of confidence at the rink the other day.
I’m staring at it for a long minute, trying to figure out how to tell her she can take me off her watch list, when Harper walks by with her friend Marissa.
They roll their eyes at each other as they pass.
“I’m not— I didn’t ask for that!” I call after them.
“Don’t try to pretend you don’t like it,” Harper calls back without even turning around.
I bite back my retort. Stay focused, Dawson. Even if Harper’s wearing a blue sweater, an unusual departure from her usual muted wardrobe.
This is not the time to wonder if she’s wearing color in a show of support. I know better.
I slam my locker shut, shaking my hands out and jumping up and down to try to channel some of this nervous energy.
I’ve never been so wound up before a game.
Couldn’t even eat the eggs and toast Mom always fixes on game mornings for extra energy.
I’ll regret it in a few hours when I need to make up those calories, but there’s no way my stomach’s keeping anything down this morning.
My phone buzzes, lighting up with a text from the line. Alex came up with the group chat name in ninth grade and it still makes me smile. Even if we’ve never been on a line together on the ice, it’s the best way to describe the way we have each other’s backs.
Alex: did you eat today Dawson
Me: can’t. Too nervous.
Alex: you can’t boss everyone else around and then ignore the advice when it gets dished back at you
Ryan: don’t be nervous, idiot
Ryan: you’re too good for that
Ryan: besides, win or lose, the birdcage is going to be by our side
Ryan: ready to celebrate or console you… if you know what I mean…. .
I flash on a sudden mental image of Harper cheering me on and have to blink to clear it. It’s just because I want to prove her wrong about me. It’s hard to deal with someone hating you after years of being admired by everyone else.
With Harper in my head, my stomach churns through the rest of the day.
I’m surrounded by good luck wishes and clocks whose hands never seem to move.
When I finally make it to the locker room after school, it’s clear everyone else is just as wound up as I am.
It’s church quiet as we suit up, the silence broken only by Sam muttering to himself while twisting his bracelets—whatever his pregame superstition is, I hope it works—and Ryan’s horrible attempts at humor.
“Noah, are you skipping haircuts on purpose?” he asks. “Maybe going for a man bun this year? Trying to maximize your flow for good luck?”
Noah’s voice is curt. “I don’t need good luck.
” Then he mutters, “Just a coach who fucking knows what he’s doing.
Where the hell is Dan? He should be briefing us on Washington’s weaknesses from their last game.
Giving us a few last-minute plays he’s had up his sleeve, like Red always does—did.
Is he just hoping we execute the same boring plays we’ve been practicing for weeks? ”
I can’t be the only one who hears Noah’s grumbling. Not the most confidence inspiring when we’re about to go on the ice following that coach’s “same boring plays.” But maybe he’ll pull out something more rousing for his pregame captain’s speech?
When Noah claps his hands, the guys all circle up. He looks around, making eye contact with each one, before nodding decisively. “All right, let’s do our best. You heard Coach.”
The locker room is silent as we all wait for more. Noah turns around and heads for the door without saying another word.
Okay, I guess that’s it. Cool.
I follow him out, shooting a tight-lipped smile at everyone I pass, doing my best to project confidence. It’s clear Noah’s skeptical of our strategy today, and who can blame him? But hell, I could use a pep talk myself today. I need a lot more than let’s do our best.
This season’s my shot.
I clap on my helmet and skate out onto the ice for warm-ups, shoving all my doubts and worries deep into the back of my brain. It’s game time.
The first thing I see is Harper and her friend Marissa, in the stands right above the face-off circle.
I come to an abrupt stop, spraying ice and frowning their way.
They’re not wearing jerseys—of course not, Harper would never be caught dead in something that school spirited—but now I’m sure that sweater was chosen on purpose, whether she’d admit it or not.
It looks soft, and it drapes around her neck in a way that shows off her delicate collarbone.
I don’t take my eyes off her as I do a few loops of the rink to warm up.
I’ve never seen her in the stands before, and after everything she’s said about the team, I never expected to. What, is she hoping we lose so she can gloat?
And does she have to look so damn pretty while she’s at it?
I tear my attention away for my pregame warm-up ritual, juggling the puck and trying to catch it on the flat side of my stick, but I keep dropping it. Because I keep sneaking glances at Harper and Marissa.
“Dawson!”
I jerk to attention, looking at Noah as he glides past. He’s nodding up at the stands.
“What?” He’s not calling me out for staring at Harper, is he? I’m sorry, she’s annoying as hell, but a guy’s only human—
“Scout, three rows up.”
My breath stops, and I follow his gaze. This time it snags on a guy in a baseball cap who looks vaguely familiar. Did he come to last year’s games?
“One of Red’s friends. He must’ve lined him up for you before he got canned.”
Noah skates off to finish his warm-up as if he hadn’t just changed the trajectory of my entire night, and I’m left staring.
I tear my gaze away before it gets weird, struggling to control my racing heart.
Thank you, Red. I send up a fervent plea to whatever hockey gods are watching over us today, praying for a game that will put me on the map.
I barely have time to notice the sharp smell of the ice and the cheers of the crowd before the game starts and I’m sucked into that deep flow that I only ever reach while playing hockey.
At first, I think the hockey gods might actually be on my side.
Coach Dan settled on Alex, Noah, and me on the first line today, and Alex and I make a pretty good team.
We know each other well enough by now that I have a sixth sense for where he’ll be on the ice, and he grins whenever I pass to him.
He even gets a few solid shots on the goal, and after one of them, I swoop in despite the traffic and tip the puck right in.
Alex shouts with pride, and my chest glows.
That’s my guy, killing it in his first varsity game.
The team mobs us for the celly, and nothing feels quite as good as being surrounded by your teammates, a warm huddle on the ice, cheering as one.
Except maybe looking up at the stands and seeing the fans going wild. I grin at how clearly my name rises above the din. My gaze flicks between the scout—bent over his phone, probably taking notes—and Harper, who seems to be on her feet against her will.
Both are immensely satisfying.
I can’t help smiling around my mouth guard, even though no one can see it under my helmet.
There’s something about the graceful, brutal speed of the game.
You don’t have any time to think. Everything’s too fluid, too fast. Passing to yourself off the boards, wrapping it around, giving up possession in order to set up a better shot.
Every conscious brain cell is playing a mental chess game against the other guys on the ice, and all my training is kicking in to keep me moving just a few plays ahead of my thoughts.
But the game swiftly goes downhill after that, and all my exhilaration turns to panic. Alex isn’t used to skating with Noah, and they fumble a pass and lose the puck, netting Washington their first goal and erasing our momentary lead. 1–1.
Dan calls a line change and the three of us are back on the bench. I gulp down water like it’s air, and it overflows my mouth. I spit out the extra, and only then am I able to finally take in a full, deep breath.
“Sorry, guys,” Alex sighs. His shoulders slump as he sinks into himself.
Noah leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, eyes intent on the action. He doesn’t make eye contact with Alex when he says, “Just make sure you move faster next time.”
I wince, struggling between sympathy and my own judgments. Yeah, Alex probably shouldn’t have been on that line, and we all know it. But I hate when he gets down on himself like this, and I know he’ll be beating himself up for days. “You did your best. Shake it off.”
But my eyes are on the ice too. We can’t afford to give up any more goals.
Dan puts Noah back in at center forward, and I pretend it doesn’t bother me. Even though Noah’s playing sloppily, overcompensating for his botched pass earlier by skating with maximum power and chaos, sending the puck ricocheting off the boards.
“Pass, Noah!” Dan bellows. He adjusts his glasses angrily on the bridge of his nose. “Run the play!”
But Noah seems intent on playing like he’s the only forward in the game, ignoring Brady and Louis. That only makes Washington’s defense mob him, and there’s no escape even for a skater as good as him. He throws his stick in frustration, snapping it in half at the neck.
I wince as he gets put in the box for a penalty. Washington scores quickly on the power play. 2–1.