Chapter 26 Dawson
My whole body feels poised on the edge of my skates.
Alex, Noah, and I are on the first line, braced for the game to begin.
I’m hyperaware of the scout somewhere in the stands and of Alex’s tension on the other side of Noah.
He got his wish to start on varsity, thanks to Coach Dan.
But I can tell he’s quaking in his skates.
He’s already sweating, and we haven’t even started yet.
Red’s words echo in my ear. Most of the players are mediocre. Every year there’s at least one to watch, though. This year it’s Dawson here.
I can’t deny how good it feels to be told I have talent, to have someone believe in me.
Red’s pride still makes something glow inside me—but it’s dimmer than before.
Tainted. The idea that the rest of my team is mediocre makes my gut tighten with anger.
These guys are my brothers, and I wouldn’t be anywhere without them.
I have to hope Dan’s strategy is going to set us up for a win.
Because I’m throwing everything behind his plan, and I really need this game to go well. We all do.
The thunderous noise of the arena picks up another decibel or ten, the yells of the crowd echoing off the ceiling, their eager hands slamming against the glass panels.
Right now I’m shivering from the artificial chill in the air, but I know in a few minutes I’ll be pouring sweat, desperate to wipe it off my forehead but unable to in the midst of a shift.
I lock in on the enemy goal, taking a minute to remind myself of today’s focus. Even from this distance, I imagine I can see the chipped paint on the pipes around the net, already damaged from being slammed with pucks.
Noah bends forward for the face-off. For a moment, everyone is suspended, holding their breath, waiting for the game to start. I do my best to beam every ounce of confidence I have into Alex. You got this. No one I’d rather be on the ice with.
We can do this together.
And then the puck drops, sticks smash together, and Noah’s off to the guest side of the ice.
For a minute, I’m smiling with the sheer exhilaration of playing.
Even with my nerves, gliding up and down the ice is everything I need or want in the world.
Up to speed—here come the boards—the puck has shifted, lean into your edges—every thought locked in, every muscle doing what it’s been trained to do.
But the exhilaration evaporates fast. We don’t even get to celebrate winning the face-off, because Northview steals the puck back before Noah can take a shot.
The air in the stadium changes, shifts, as everyone holds their breath. Realizing it’s going to be a tough game.
Northview’s even better than I remember.
They skate circles around us, shifting into new formations with the graceful unity of a school of fish, moving with preternatural intuition.
As if the rest of the team’s movements are as ingrained in their muscle memory as their own.
We try to get the puck back, and even though our D-men are strong, the Northview guys are too fast on their skates. They make the first goal.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I call, circling back to Noah and Alex and slapping some quick high fives. My quads are already burning. By the end of the game, I’ll barely be able to walk without quivering.
Noah nods tensely, and when he faces off again, it’s with tenacity. He wins the puck a second time, and we head toward enemy ice. My breath is already coming fast—Coach is going to have to swap our line out soon, but I know we’d all like to redeem ourselves before that happens—
Then we get our opening.
Alex is skating left, heading into the two-on-one maneuver Coach Dan has had us practicing.
So I head right, drawing defenders my way, and I see it.
The clear shot Alex has on the goal, if Noah passes to him. Northview never even sees it coming, they’re so focused on me. Dan’s play is perfect.
Noah’s head flicks toward both of us—clocks the defenders on me—and his eyes skim right off of Alex. I see his decision before he makes it, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
He goes for the shot himself, totally ignoring the play we have set up.
My heart drops.
He’s immediately blocked, losing the puck, and Northview takes it back to our side of the ice.
It takes Alex and I just a split second to shift gears and head back to help with defense.
A split second too long.
Northview’s forwards pass the puck two, three, four, I lose track of how many times, they’re moving it so quickly and efficiently between them, and we’re playing catch-up, trying to figure out what they’re doing and how to stop them.
I swear Jack Petrov looks me dead in the eyes for a split second before he slams the puck into the top left corner of the net. Right past poor Sam.
2–0.
I’m frozen, ice water trickling down my spine.
They were ready. All their guys were in place, and they knew what to do.
Like we should’ve been. Could’ve been.
Dan calls a line change and we tumble back onto the bench, breathing heavily. I tear off my helmet to wipe away the sweat that’s been pouring down my forehead, and then I douse myself in water to cool off.
Alex slumps beside me, brow knit in frustration.
Dan doesn’t say anything, but his disappointed frown makes me hunch into myself.
Noah just rips off his helmet and rubs his hands through his hair, shrugging when I shoot him a look.
A thousand words bubble up in my throat, but I choke them down, gritting my teeth around my mouthguard.
I can’t look back at the stands to see anyone’s reaction. Not the scout, not Red. Not Harper.
Not my dad. The thought of him up there, frowning, leaning forward as he evaluates our plays…
I wince. I can practically hear his voice in my head.
Probably because we’ve watched enough film of Northview before, because he’s prepped me for Jack’s strengths, because he’s done his best to turn me into a machine of a player.
But all the training in the world isn’t going to win me this game. Not without my team beside me.
And right now, we couldn’t be further apart.
The locker room feels smaller than usual after the first period.
Like there’s less air in here. No one even hooks their phone up to the sound system to blast pump-up music.
Everyone’s quiet, but the air is heavy with our exhaustion and all our unspoken words.
We’re down two goals already, and we’re only one period in.
Honestly, we’re lucky we’re only down two goals—thankfully the rest of the lines held down the fort after the mess we made, keeping things from getting even worse.
We don’t have a chance in hell of saving this game. There goes everything I’ve been working toward this year—all the early practices and late-night weight-training sessions, the careful, protein-rich diet. The sacrifices for the hope of making it somewhere bigger.
I’m too stuck in self-pity to say anything to break the silence.
Ryan, the brave idiot, is the first to speak. He clears his throat until he’s sure he has everyone’s attention. “Noah. Alex was open for that shot.”
Our eyes meet for a split second across the locker room, and my chest swells with something unexpected.
Ryan, the guy who always just wants to be there for the team.
Who wants to have fun. Who has everyone’s back.
Maybe someone like that is a better captain than Noah, whether he’s our most serious player or not.
Noah shrugs. “Sorry, man.” To Alex, he says, “I just couldn’t be confident you’d nail it, you know?”
Alex doesn’t say anything, just keeps his head bowed. My face burns with indignation for him. “He’s been working hard,” I blurt. “He nailed it in practice this week. What else do you need, Noah?”
Noah raises his eyebrows, shocked anyone is questioning him, and spreads his hands wide.
“Listen, you know how it is. You have to make split-second decisions on the ice. Gotta trust your instincts.” He thumps his chest, and all I can see is Harper wrinkling her nose, calling him an ego-driven caveman.
“If you’ve got it in your blood, you know. You get it, Dawson.”
But Noah didn’t score. He was wrong, and his talent wasn’t enough.
When I don’t say anything, Noah heads toward the door. As if this is settled, as if I’ve dropped my point.
But if I have anything to do with it, these next two periods are going to be a very different story than the first.
Coach Dan leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing a frown behind his glasses, and when he catches my eye, my stomach drops. “Dawson,” he says. “Can I have a minute?”
I follow him out into the hall, bracing myself for another lecture.
I’m playing a whole lot better than I did in our last practice, but obviously it’s still not enough or we’d be winning.
It’s hard to shake the idea that the success of the game rests on my shoulders, for better or worse.
I’m too used to my dad’s postgame analysis—you have to focus on yourself and your own skating, since that’s all you have control over—and Red’s midgame lectures.
I’ve learned how to shake the critiques off, channel them into my playing.
If Dan gives me the same, I can handle it.
Instead he says, “I want your opinion. Are today’s lines working?”
My mouth hangs open for a second before I gather myself again. “Why aren’t you asking Noah?”
“Because I know what Noah thinks.” He doesn’t break eye contact.
“I want to know if you think he’s right.
Should we change up our strategy? Lead with our best individual players?
” His expression is solemn, earnest. Eyebrows furrowed, jaw set.
“I’m not too proud to change a losing game.
I trust your read on the guys, Dawson. If you say we go back to the old lines, we go back to the old lines. ”
Red would never invite input from the team like this. I used to think Dan’s go on, hit me style was a sign of weakness.
I’m starting to rethink that.
“No,” I say. I don’t even have to pause to consider.
“No, your strategy is the right one. It’s how Northview’s playing.
Did you see their passes? They trust each other.
They know right where the other guy is gonna be, so they don’t hesitate.
They’re passing before he’s even there. Individually, they’re not any better than us.
Probably a little worse. But if we don’t trust each other out there, we’re a mess.
” I take a deep breath. Dan’s watching me carefully, hanging on my every word.
“We just need to get out of our own way and trust the plays. Trust your coaching. There’s no winning with our old strategy. ”
Dan’s silent for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve overstepped. He’s the coach. I don’t need to analyze our opponent. Coach Red would kick me out of the locker room—out of the game—in a split second. “Sorry, I—”
“Spoken like a captain,” Dan says, a smile spreading across his face.
I blink. “Coach?”
“I’m afraid our current captain doesn’t seem to have his heart in the game. I hear he’s going somewhere bigger and better…. the Gamblers, maybe?” He purses his lips.
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “He may have mentioned that once or twice.”
Dan and I lock eyes, and he extends his hand for me to shake. “I think you should get your team back on the ice, Dawson.”
I grip his hand firmly, a new sense of pride swelling in my chest. That sentence feels way better than any compliment from Red. “We won’t let you down, Coach.”
The first thing I do when I head back in is grab my phone and connect it to Bluetooth, pausing while I pick the right song. After deliberating between a few options, a grin spreads across my face.
I post up by the door as the ridiculous beats of “Sandstorm” start blasting and each of my teammates passes by.
“We got this,” I say, holding up my hand for a high five and pumping as much enthusiasm and hope into my voice as I possibly can.
“Patrick, Louis—incredible skating this season. Let’s show them how hard you’ve been working. ”
Patrick holds out his fist for a bump, and Louis smiles around his mouthguard. They’re moving a little faster on their way out, holding their heads a little higher.
“Brady, let’s make this a game you can always remember.”
He nods, his eyes a little glassy. “It’s been an honor to skate with you, Dawson.”
That one chokes me up a little, but luckily, Ryan’s next, typical grin on his face. “Ryan, let’s see them get a single shot past the best defensive line Hamilton Lakes has ever had!”
He jumps up to slap my hand, bopping his head as the beat drops around us. “Let’s go have fun, man.”
“And get the birdcage throwing themselves at you afterward?”
He hesitates for a second, then shrugs. “Eh. That’s just a bonus.”
I’m grinning now too as he heads outside, and I turn to face our goalie with my hand already raised. “Sam, you have a sixth sense for the puck! They won’t get a single other goal past you today!”
Sam nods, glowering in a way that would sure scare me to death if I was part of Northview’s offensive line. “I’ve been calculating the trajectory of Northview’s shots and cross-referencing it with my own stats, and I think you’re right.”
I blink. So that’s what he’s been muttering to himself all these years. And here I thought it was some goalie superstition. Next year I’m asking him for math tutoring instead of Harper.
Alex is the last one out of the locker room. We pause there in the doorway together, me and the best friend and teammate I’ve ever had.
“You’ve worked your ass off this year, and it’s an honor to skate with you. There’s no one I’d rather have by my side on the ice.” I hold his gaze. “And I had the choice, okay? We’re going to win this thing, and we’re going to win it together. It’s time to show them exactly how.”
Alex twists his mouth up skeptically. “Are you sure, Dawson? It’s not too late—”
“No.” I shake my head. “I need you to trust yourself out there, okay? If you can’t trust yourself alone, trust the you who becomes something greater on this team.”
That’s when I see the spark in his eyes again. Attaboy. “Okay,” he says. His voice is quiet but firm.
Alex always understood better than me that it wasn’t about each of us individually, but about us as a team.
He just never quite got that the team’s here to help him be his best too.
We were all too focused on our own strengths and weaknesses to realize we could be something greater than the sum of our parts.
But when we skate back out onto the ice, it feels different than how we started the game. Like we’re finally a team for real.
I just hope it’s not too late.