Chapter 28 Dawson
I barely breathe during the entirety of the second period.
We manage to keep Northview from gaining any more ground, but we don’t score either.
Sam makes some great saves, and Brady’s on fire with his passes today, but that Northview goalie’s really standing on his head.
Dan doesn’t put our line back in for an eon.
Giving the other guys a chance to play, I guess, and us time to rest. The tension coils in my limbs like a spring.
Ready to unleash all that potential energy as soon as I get a stick in my hands.
When I finally get onto the ice at the start of the third period, the cheers are deafening. Alex, Noah, and I skate to center, Noah ready to take the face-off as usual.
I catch Alex’s eye and smile. “No one I’d rather have by my side,” I call to him. He smiles back.
Beside me, Noah’s jittery, adjusting his helmet and staring into the distance.
Before I can say something to try to calm his nerves, his gaze shifts to me—and without warning, those nerves turn dark.
“Where’d you get those?” he asks, nodding at my wrist. “I thought she was going to stay out of our way.”
Game forgotten, I glance down at Harper’s bracelets—and then back at Noah. “Harper? What do you mean?”
Then his words sink in. Thought she was going to stay out of our way. I knew Noah wasn’t Harper’s biggest fan, wasn’t exactly to be trusted, but…
Blood roars in my ears, even louder than the crowd, and I force my words out through clenched teeth. “What did you do?”
Noah holds my gaze. “A favor.”
And then the puck drops, but I’m not thinking about hockey anymore. Noah wins the face-off, takes off toward Northview’s side of the ice, but I’ve totally forgotten I’m in the middle of a game right now.
No wonder Harper was so distant this last week. Avoiding the diner. Not speaking to me in the halls.
Whatever Noah did, it convinced her to stay away from me for good.
I thought we’d come to an understanding. But clearly not, if he’s been sneaking around behind my back. He’s not just a bad captain—he’s a bad friend.
I race after Noah as he works the puck down the ice, all of Dan’s plays forgotten. When Noah catches a glimpse of me approaching over his shoulder, the distraction costs him possession.
He whirls on me, nostrils flaring. “Don’t tell me you actually care about her. I thought you’d thank me! She was messing with your game!”
Fury swells inside me. I’ve had enough of Noah trying to control this game, our team, my life. “How’s this for a messed-up game?”
And I throw my shoulder into his, checking him into the boards.
Taken by surprise, Noah hits hard, the impact echoing around the rink. I distantly register the shock on the faces of the spectators behind the glass—not just surprised by the check, but by the fact that one of our players is going after their own team.
If only they knew the whole story. Asshole deserves way worse.
It’s harmless enough—Noah’s been hit harder—but when he turns, pure rage stains his face.
Before I know what’s happening, he swings his fist at me, connecting with my jaw in a punch that snaps my head back and shoots off fireworks behind my eyes.
Silence for a moment from the crowd. Then a roar of noise rushes in to fill the vacuum.
The ref blows his whistle, cutting through the din. Noah’s face reddens as he argues, but there’s no use. If there’s one rule high school hockey lives and dies by, it’s the prohibition of fighting during the game. Noah’s not coming back on the ice today.
Dan throws his hands up at me from the bench, and I wince as I skate his way, “What happened out there?”
Between heaving breaths, I manage, “Noah—”
“Oh, I saw what Noah did, and he’s never playing on this team again.
Not as long as I’m coach.” Dan’s cheeks are redder than I’ve ever seen them, and he takes his glasses off to pinch the bridge of his nose.
“But what were you doing? Why did you provoke him? Didn’t we just have a whole conversation about teamwork? ”
“I’m sorry, Coach. It’s a long story. But trust me, he deserved it.” I shake my head, blood pounding in my temples.
Dan frowns, glasses still dangling by his side. He paces back and forth for a moment, deep in thought, before looking back up at me. “Can you still play?”
I nod instinctively. No way am I missing the last period of this game. And with Noah out, Dan can’t bench me if he still wants to win.
He casts his eyes heavenward as if asking for guidance, then waves over our sports medicine guy to make sure Noah’s punch didn’t cause a concussion. I can barely hold still, I’m so eager to get back on the ice. To end this game so I can find Harper.
When I’m cleared, Dan nods. “Get back out there. We need you. We’ll talk about this after.”
I push back onto the ice to an uproar from the crowd. Excitement, curiosity, nerves. But I barely hear it.
Alex and I lock eyes. Winning without Noah is a long shot. Best case scenario today was that we could use his skills for good, for us to finally work together. But without his shooting power? Can we really do this, especially two goals down?
Adrenaline floods my veins, my cheeks flushing hot while the rest of my body goes cold. The ice suddenly seems way too big for only five Hamilton Lakes guys.
Northview doesn’t waste any time in capitalizing on their power play, taking the puck toward home ice right away. I race after them, all my training kicking in, but I’m hopelessly distracted. I can’t help searching the stands for Harper.
What did Noah say? It must’ve been bad, to keep her away all this time. And how can I undo it?
Don’t tell me you actually care about her. It’s not until this moment that I realize just how much I do. So much that suddenly, the game is inconsequential in comparison.
Every muscle in my body is running on autopilot, the final minutes of the game passing in a haze of adrenaline and panic. My brain’s too occupied worrying about Harper and rehearsing what I’m going to say to her that my body operates on pure instinct.
Northview shoots, but Sam grabs it in the most beautiful mitt save I’ve ever seen.
Then Alex and I take off toward the attacking zone, moving the puck back and forth between us with swift, instinctive efficiency.
All these years of skating together, of laughing together, of texting ridiculous threats to motivate each other out of bed for early morning practice—they all pay off.
We don’t even have to look to know where the other guy is going to be.
Even when we break from the play, it’s like we can read each other’s minds.
Somehow, we’ve gotten through their defensive line before they even see what’s happening, and Alex makes a perfect slap shot one-timer before their goalie can get fully back into the net.
The horn blows, the light behind the goal flashes, and the whole facility erupts in cheers.
Our guys collide in one massive huddle of joy and triumph and celebration, and their warmth surrounds me, their shouting reverberating through my bones and into my own lungs, like we’re just one being right now, sharing each victory and every defeat.
It’s one of those moments I know: there’s nothing better than a good game of hockey.
If I make it onto a juniors team next year, I’m sure as hell going to miss these guys.
2–1.
Alex and I collapse on the bench, chests heaving for breath, drinking water like it’s air, while Dan gives our shift a rest and puts the second penalty kill line on the ice.
And still, all I’m thinking about is Harper.
I crane my neck to try to catch a glimpse of her in the stands.
All I want is to end this game so I can be face-to-face with her again.
To explain what happened and hope she forgives me.
I lean forward on my elbows, eyes darting between the countdown clock and the action on the ice. There’s barely a minute left in the third period, and we’re still down a goal. If we can just score once more…
Dan nods at my line, and we’re back on the ice. Ryan comes off defense to help, and together the three of us are unstoppable.
The line in action. Like it was always meant to be.
We run play after play of Coach Dan’s, and I can hear his animated shouting from the stands even if I can’t quite make out the words.
Ryan drives for the goal, dekeing like only a defenseman as good as him can, and holy shit, he ties it up in the dying seconds of the game, and his whoop of joy rises above all the other cheers in the arena.
It’s all I can do not to slide across the ice on my knees myself, breaking out his famous hockey-stick-as-air-guitar celly in tribute.
2–2, and the horn sounds.
Overtime.
We hit the bench for a short rest, roars of excitement from the stands ringing in my ears. I’m breathing hard and doing my best to hydrate, but my eyes reflexively search for Harper in the sea of blue. Is she cheering me on? Or did whatever Noah say to her make her hate me forever?
But then we’re back on the ice, and the combination of exhaustion and adrenaline snaps me into the zone. Sudden death—first team to score wins.
The sweat dripping into my eyes, the fire in my quads, the roar of the crowd around us—it’s all just a backdrop for the most focused tunnel vision I’ve ever had, passing faster and sharper than I have in my life, feeling only my skates on the ice and the puck on my stick.
Looking for any opening. If Harper’s watching—if I still have a chance with her—I want her to see us win.
Alex checks one of their D-men to clear me a path, just like we practiced during those endless extra morning drills, and for a minute it’s only me and the goalie.
My pulse thunders in my ears, drowning out the noise of the arena. The only voice in my head is the quiet, constant one that’s always there, humming somewhere in my brain stem. The closest thing to an unshakable core that I have.
The one that says I can do anything. The one that says I have this talent for a reason, and all I need is the drive to match. The one that says this is my chance to prove to myself and everyone around me that I’m the best player I’ve ever been today.
I keep my speed up as I race for the goal on the breakaway. Their goalie comes out toward me, and I’m locked in. Just come out a little farther, dude… and then…
I make like I’m going for a backhand from the left, and he moves with me.
I have just enough time to shift right for a forehand shot.
But he doesn’t.
The sound of the puck swishing into the net without meeting any resistance is the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.
Until the cheers erupt, that is. My name rises over them.
The team pours off the bench, their shouts deafening, and they’re on me to celebrate the game winner before I’ve even reached the sidelines.
I let myself be enveloped in their pride, shouting my praises right back at them.
That goal was only possible because of the way we played together, the way they set me up.
Talent is nothing without your team.
As the celebration rages around me, I raise my fist toward the stands. I can’t help looking for Harper.
I really hope she saw that goal.