Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
LUKAS
Itape my stick the same way every game day. Left to right. Tight around the toe, then smooth along the blade. Some would call it a ritual or superstition, but it’s the way my dad taught me, and I can’t deviate from it now.
I lean my hip against the bench in the locker room and roll my shoulders once, twice, feeling the arena’s hum through the concrete beneath my skates. It’s proving to be a good crowd already. You can tell by the way the bass of their noise settles into your ribs.
“Lukas,” Ryan calls from across the room, snapping his chin strap. “Try not to disappear after warm-up tonight, yeah? We need you for the full sixty.”
I don’t look at him. I just give him a slow grin and tug my mouthguard between my teeth. “Relax, mon ami. I only disappear when the company is better.”
There’s a chorus of groans. “See?” Isaac mutters. “Ladies’ man.”
“Professional menace,” adds Mike.
Callum lobs a balled-up sock at my head. “Score first, chat later.”
I catch it one-handed without breaking eye contact and toss it back. “Always.”
Coach steps in, and the atmosphere sharpens. The chatter drops from noise to focus in a heartbeat. That’s what I love about this place. We can rip each other to shreds and then lock in like soldiers the second it matters.
“Fast start,” Coach says, pacing in front of us. “They collapse low in the defensive zone. Lukas, drive wide early. Make them turn. Ryan, crash the net. Isaac, stay high and don’t get cute.”
“Moi? Cute?” Isaac presses a hand to his chest.
“Especially you,” Coach says.
Laughter ripples through the room, and then it’s helmets on and gloves pulled tight.
The door opens, and the cold hits my face like a slap.
The ice is clean and waiting for us to carve it up.
As we hit the ice, the gathered crowd begin to cheer for their favourite player, even before the puck drops and the game begins.
Warm-up is a rhythm of crossovers deep into the corners, with a few lazy wrist shots to feel the flex in my stick. I cut hard around the face-off circle, dig my edges in, and spray a line of snow towards Ryan.
“Oi!” he shouts out, indignant.
“You’re too slow,” I tell him.
He shoves me with his glove, and I bump him back, grinning. It’s that kind of camaraderie that’s helped me settle into my new life in England. My body feels good tonight. Loose and light. It feels as if the puck is already listening to me.
When the lights dim and our names are called, I bounce on my blades and tap my stick against the boards.
The roar hits like a wave as we skate out, and I automatically lift my chin, scanning the stands.
It’s a habit. I like to see the audience, take it all in before the puck drops.
Then I force myself back into the moment.
This is mine for the next sixty minutes. Smooth ice and nothing else.
During the first shift, I win the puck along the boards off the draw and chip it behind their defence. Ryan barrels in like a freight train. He shoulders a guy twice his size and frees it up. I curl behind the net, collect it blind, and slide a no-look pass through the slot.
“Ah, tabarnak,” I mutter under my breath as the puck skitters wide.
Isaac skates past me. “Maybe pass it where I am, yeah?”
“Maybe be where you should be,” I shoot back.
In the second shift, I carry it end-to-end.
Their defender steps up at the blue line.
I fake inside, pull it through my skates and drive wide as Coach said.
He bites hard. I feel his stick catch my hip, but I power through and cut towards the crease, snapping it short side.
It hits the post, and the clang rings sharp and cruel.
I tilt my head back and laugh once. “You owe me,” I tell the hockey gods.
By the middle of the first period, we’re flying. It’s not even about goals yet; it’s the pace. We’re dictating it. We dump and chase when it suits us, and we stretch passes when they sag. I call for the puck along the half-wall, and Ryan threads it through two sticks like he’s sewing fabric.
“Beautiful,” I call as I gather it. I draw two defenders towards me and slip the puck back door to Isaac, who buries it with a snarl. The goal horn rings out loud and proud.
He slams into me against the glass, grabbing my helmet and shaking it. “That’s how you pass.”
“That’s how you finish,” I correct.
The bench erupts. Our guy’s sticks pound against the boards in euphoria. Coach doesn’t smile, but his jaw loosens in approval.
Second period, they adjust and start shadowing me heavily, as I’d expected.
One guy practically breathes down my neck every shift.
“You like me?” I ask him in the corner as he pins me to the boards.
He grunts something in English I won’t repeat.
Instead, I brace, shift my weight, and spin off him, sliding the puck between his skates before he even realises it’s gone.
Isaac scoops it up and fires, but it’s saved this time.
I circle high, calling for the puck again. I want it on my stick. I always do. There’s a pulse that runs through me when the puck touches the tape, something that began on frozen ponds back home in Québec, where my father would stomp his boots and shout for me to keep my knees bent.
Je me souviens.
I remember.
In the third period, we tie the game, 2–2. The bench is tight now, with breath fogging and gloves sticky with sweat. Coach leans in and reminds me, “Next one wins it.”
I nod once.
The shift changes, and I hop over the boards.
The world narrows to white and black and the sharp scrape of blades.
Ryan wins the draw, clean back to Mike. I peel wide, stick on the ice, and call out silently.
The pass comes fast, and I catch it mid-stride, head up.
Their star defender steps into the lane.
I hesitate for half a second, just enough to sell the shot.
He bites, and I drag it around him, cut inside, and take the hit as I release the puck.
It’s not clean or pretty, but it’s heavy.
The puck rockets low blocker side and hits the net with a satisfying snap. For a split second, there’s silence, and then the place explodes. I don’t even see it go in, but I feel it in my chest. I roar, loud and raw, and slam into the boards as the boys pile on top of me.
“Filthy!” Isaac shouts into my helmet.
“Lucky,” Ryan adds.
“Genius,” Mike corrects as he pats my helmet. I grin so hard my cheeks ache.
We lock it down in the final two minutes. I throw myself into a block that rattles my shin, then clear the rebound without thinking. When the final buzzer sounds, I tip my head back, breathing hard and soaking up the noise. That’s the thing about hockey. It doesn’t leave room for anything else.
In the locker room afterwards, it’s chaos. Music blasts and tape balls fly. In celebration, someone dumps water over Ryan’s head, and he chases them, half-dressed, through the room and into the showers.
Callum slaps my shoulder. “That was obscene.”
“You’re welcome.”
He laughs as he draws me in for a man hug and a back slap. “Drinks on you.”
“Always.”
The pub is already packed when we roll in.
It’s loud in a different way from the arena; it’s a warmer, thicker sound, with music pulsing low, beer glasses clinking, and happy conversation carrying through the room.
The second we step through the door, heads turn.
There it is, the energy shift that follows us after a home win.
Rose is tucked into Callum’s side, camera strap slung across her chest even off-duty. She gives me a knowing smile as we approach.
“Try to behave,” she says with a smile, and there’s a glint in her eye. We’ve become good friends of late. After everything with Callum’s ex and the crash, she needed a confidante to help her find her way back, and she found one in me.
I place a hand over my heart. “Madame, I am always a gentleman.”
She laughs outright at that.
Mike’s wife, Hannah, hugs him tightly when he reaches her, and I look away automatically. That steady affection always feels like watching something private. It’s good, but it’s not mine.
We take over the long table in the centre of the pub. Pints arrive on several trays, set out along the table, and then shots appear like magic. The boys are loud, re-enacting moments from the game with dramatic flair.
“You should’ve seen his face,” Isaac says, pointing at me. “Thought he’d missed again.”
“I never miss twice,” I say as I take a long pull of my pint.
“You hit the post in warm-up.”
“That doesn’t count.”
I’m distracted from the banter by a group of girls hovering near the bar; they glance over every few seconds. One nudges the other forward. Here we go. They approach as they always do, with bright smiles, too much perfume, and eyes scanning for the most available target.
“Great game,” one says, leaning into the table.
“Thank you,” I reply easily, offering a small smile but not encouraging too much.
Ryan elbows me under the table. “Your fan club has arrived.” He teases me relentlessly about the attention I attract from the puck bunnies.
They like to try to bag themselves a player after a win.
And I won’t lie; I’ve often partaken of the readily available goods.
They helped me erase Camille a little at the beginning; now they’re just a momentary pastime when the nights get a little long.
“Je suis fatigué,” I murmur.
“You’re never that tired.” Ryan shakes his head in amusement.
Another girl slides in beside me. She’s blonde and confident. Her hand rests lightly on my forearm, as if she’s testing the temperature. “You were incredible tonight,” she says.
I tilt my head slightly. “You understand hockey?”
She grins. “I understand goals.”
The boys howl. “Subtle,” Mike mutters into his pint, and Hannah hides her giggles behind her beer bottle. I resist the urge to kick Mike under the table, laughing and shaking my head, but I don’t pull my arm away. This is easy. It’s always easy. Attention without expectation. Heat without weight.
More girls drift over, and the table splits naturally.
Callum anchored with Rose, Mike protective of Hannah, and Ryan fielding two at once like it’s a competitive sport.
And me? I lean back in my chair, stretching my legs under the table.
The blonde stays close. Her name is Erin, or Emma maybe, something like that anyway.
She laughs at my jokes and traces idle patterns along my wrist while trying to keep my attention.
“You fancy celebrating somewhere else?” she asks eventually, her voice low.
I meet her gaze, and she knows the answer before I speak. “Perhaps,” I say, finishing my drink.
Callum watches me over the rim of his glass. There’s no judgement, just understanding. We’ve all got our ways of keeping things simple. “You’re disappearing already?” he asks.
“Early training,” I reply smoothly.
“Liar.” I shrug one shoulder, my grin crooked.
Rose squeezes Callum’s knee and murmurs in his ear.
He relaxes back into her, grounded in a way I don’t recognise in myself.
I’m glad they found their way back to each other.
It was a rocky path at times, but Callum stayed focused and played the long game.
He’s a better person for having Rose in his life.
Erin, I think that’s right, stands when I do. She presses close as we weave through the crowd towards the door, her hand resting on my back. Outside, the air is cold and sharp against my overheated skin. “You always this popular?” she teases.
“Only when I score,” I answer with a wink.
She laughs and loops her arm through mine as if it’s natural, as if she’s always been there.
In the taxi, she rests her head against my shoulder while I stare out the window at the passing streetlights, watching them blur.
The adrenaline from the game still hums under my skin.
That’s the real high; the rest of the night is just an extension.
Back at my flat, I unlock the door and flick on the lights. It’s quiet, clean and minimal. My hockey gear sits by the door. A framed photo of a frozen river back home adorns the wall. I watch her closely as she kicks off her heels and wanders in as if she belongs here.
“You live alone?” she asks.
“Always.”
She turns towards me, her hands sliding up my chest, her mouth finding mine.
It’s easy to respond, like muscle memory.
The heat from her body courses through me as I lift her effortlessly and carry her down the short hallway, her laugh soft against my neck as she lays down hungry kisses.
For tonight, this is enough. Tomorrow, there will be practice, a film review, and the next opponent to focus on.
Tonight, the echo of the goal horn still rings in my ears and the taste of victory lingers on my tongue.
And that’s all I need.