Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
LUKAS
Idrop my bag onto the wooden bench in the locker room and unzip it slowly, listening to the usual pre-game soundtrack of tape ripping as someone thumps out music from a tinny speaker. Callum’s arguing with Isaac about whether pineapple belongs on pizza, as if it’s a matter of national security.
“It absolutely does not,” Isaac says, pulling his undershirt over his head. “It’s a crime.”
“It’s culture,” Callum fires back. “Expand your palate.”
Ryan laces his skates with methodical precision, shaking his head. “You’re both wrong. Barbecue chicken is elite.”
“Animals,” I mutter, digging my tape out.
Brennan, our captain, sits opposite me, elbows on his knees, already half-dressed. He’s quiet and focused at this stage. He doesn’t waste words before a game. He glances up at me. “You good tonight?”
I shrug one shoulder. “Always.”
He holds my gaze a second longer than necessary. It’s not a challenge, more of a check-in. Brennan doesn’t care about ego or headlines; he cares about consistency. “Keep it simple early on,” he says. “They’ll come at you hard first period. You’re their target in this match.”
I nod once. “Let them.”
Callum flops down beside me and nudges my shoulder. “Try not to skate through the entire defence alone this time, yeah? We like to feel involved.”
I smirk, winding tape tight around my blade. “If you could keep up, you would be involved.”
“Oh, he’s spicy tonight,” Ryan says.
Isaac tosses a roll of tape at my chest, and I catch it on instinct without looking.
“Two goals minimum,” Callum says. “Or you’re buying after.”
“Three,” I counter.
Brennan finally smiles. “Win first. Then you can negotiate your ego.”
I love this part. The ribbing and the rhythm of it all. No one takes it personally. We push because we trust each other. It’s the family we’ve built. This may only be my second season here, but I’m now embedded within the team. Part of the fixtures and fittings, or so they tell me.
When Coach steps in, the conversation dims, but it doesn’t die. He runs through the plan, stating that we need an aggressive forecheck, keep the neutral zone tight, and, above all, force turnovers high.
“Lukas,” he says, pointing his pen at me. “Don’t drift.”
I raise my hands slightly. “Moi? Drift?”
The room chuckles.
“Stay inside the structure,” Brennan adds quietly.
I nod, serious now. “Got it.”
Helmets go on, and chin straps are snapped. The noise of the arena seeps through the walls like electricity as I tug at my neck guard, making sure it’s going to do the job if the worst happens and I take a blade to the neck.
We file out in a line, blades clacking down the corridor, and the cold air hits as soon as the rink doors open. It wakes something in me every time, sharpening everything within me.
The ice gleams under the lights, and the crowd is already thick, buzzing as people find a seat or a safe place to stand behind the plexiglass.
I circle once during warm-up, stretching my edges and feeling the glide.
I like to use this time to get a feel for the gathered fans.
The puck comes to my stick, and I flick it lightly to myself, catching it mid-air before dropping it and snapping a quick glove-side shot.
Clean.
“Show-off,” Ryan mutters as he skates past.
“Je suis précis,” I reply.
“English,” he says dryly.
“I am precise.”
Brennan gathers us at the bench just before puck drop. His voice is low but steady. “First ten minutes are ours. Set the tone.”
We tap sticks and break. The game starts fast.
They come hard, as Coach predicted, with heavy hits along the boards and high, constant pressure in our zone. I take the first check square on the shoulder and absorb it, rolling off and clearing the puck without panic.
“Good!” Brennan shouts as we change.
Second shift, I get space along the wing.
Callum threads a pass through the traffic, and it lands flat on my tape.
The Rangers’ defenceman steps up. I drop my shoulder, sell the outside, then cut inside and pull the puck through my skates.
The crowd reacts before the shot even leaves my stick.
It pings off the crossbar, a narrow miss.
I exhale sharply. “Ah, merde.”
Ryan skates by. “Less style, more finish.”
“Next one.”
We settle into it after that. Isaac throws a hit that rattles their centre, and the bench erupts.
“Sit down!” Callum yells.
Brennan wins a faceoff clean, and I circle high, reading the play.
The puck squirts loose at the blue line, and I’m already moving before anyone else registers it.
It’s Instinct. I scoop it up, accelerating down the right side.
One defender at my back, I fake a slapshot.
He flinches, and I drag it left and snap low, far side.
This one doesn’t hit iron. The net ripples and the sound hits like a wave, sharp and explosive.
I pump my fist once before Brennan slams into me, helmet to helmet.
“That’s it,” he growls, grinning.
Callum barrels in from behind and nearly knocks me off my skates. Ryan jumps on the pile. I laugh, breathless. “Two more,” I remind them.
“Greedy,” Isaac calls from the bench.
Second period turns scrappier. They start shadowing me, leaning on me every chance they get. A stick hooks my hip as I break through centre and I stumble but stay upright.
“Ref!” Callum shouts. I don’t bother. I just reset and call for it again.
Midway through the period, Brennan feeds me a blind pass through the slot. I catch it backhand and flip it toward the goal in one smooth motion.
Saved.
I circle back hard, crashing the net for the rebound. There are bodies everywhere. I feel a glove grab at my jersey, but I wrench free, jamming at the puck until the whistle blows.
“Hungry,” Ryan says approvingly as we skate off.
“Always.”
By the third period, we’re up 2–1. The arena feels tighter now. Louder in short bursts, and every shift matters more than ever. Brennan taps my shin pad before we hop over the boards together.
“Smart,” he says. “Not flashy.”
I grin at him. “Define flashy.” He just shakes his head.
The winning goal doesn’t come from me this time. Callum steals it in the neutral zone and feeds Isaac, streaking down the middle. Isaac rips it top shelf, and the place detonates. We seal a 3–1 win with ease.
As the final buzzer sounds, we celebrate with gloves thrown in the air. The handshake line is quick and rough, and then we’re back in the locker room, sweat-soaked and buzzing.
Callum flings himself onto the bench. “That’s how you close a game.”
Isaac points at me. “You still owe us one.”
“I scored first,” I remind him.
Ryan tosses a towel at my head. “You promised three.”
“Next time.”
Brennan stands in the centre and claps his hands once. The room settles instinctively. He likes to share his take on our game after every match. It’s a privilege we afford him as captain. “Good structure. Good discipline. That’s how we play.”
It’s a simple but effective address, and we all whoop and holler in appreciation.
As we shower and dress, we trade jabs about missed chances and questionable facial hair. The mood is high but contained, professional to some extent. I’m halfway through pulling on my hoodie when the PR manager pokes his head in.
“Meet and greet in fifteen, lads. VIP winners.”
Callum groans theatrically. “Can’t we just send Lukas? He likes the attention, in fact, he thrives on it.”
“I do not like attention,” I say solemnly. “I tolerate it.”
We file out toward the hospitality suite, where the meet-and-greet is set up.
There’s a long table with a branded backdrop behind it.
Sharpies are laid out like surgical tools in front of the ten seats for the specially selected players who were lucky enough to get roped into this shit.
By the door, there is a table where the winners can pick up laminated photos of the team and a few other bits of memorabilia, which they’ll no doubt shove under our noses to sign.
The VIP group is already gathered and waiting. There’s a mix of kids, parents and couples. You can tell the avid fans from a mile away, all adorned in team jerseys, matching scarves, and carrying those big foam fingers in the team colours.
And then I see her. The woman I remember from the school engagement visit we did last week.
Kate stands slightly apart from the main group, one hand wrapped around a plastic cup, the other resting lightly at her side. She’s dressed simply in dark jeans and a soft jumper, yet she carries herself with the same calm steadiness I remember from the classroom.
Beside her is a woman I recognise vaguely from the stands earlier, she’s all bright-eyed and excited. And there’s a teenage boy with them, who must be hers.
“Ah,” Callum murmurs under his breath beside me. “Lady from the school visit.”
“Shut up,” I mutter as we take our seats at the table and the line starts to move. Each person asks for an autograph and a selfie, and we take our time, making sure everyone gets their two minutes with each player.
When Kate steps forward, she offers a polite smile. “Good game,” she says. Her tone is warm but measured. Not dazzled or flustered like some of the winning group.
I lean back slightly in my chair, tilting my head. “You came,” I say.
Her brow furrows faintly. “My friend won tickets.”
“Still,” I reply. “You could have stayed home.”
She shrugs lightly. “My son, Hudson, wanted to see what all the noise was about.”
Hudson steps forward then, offering a programme for me to sign. Up close, I can see the assessment in his eyes. “You played well,” he says.
“Merci,” I answer automatically before catching myself. “Thank you.” I try to use English as much as possible, but when I’m in the thick of it, I sometimes slip back into my native language. He nods once, as if filing the information away.
Kate smiles faintly at my slip into French. “Do you swear in another language? That must be quite handy.”
I grin. “Only when I miss.”
Her lips twitch despite herself.
I sign the programme and slide it back toward Hudson. “You play?”
“Football, not hockey,” he says.
“Good,” I reply. “Different rhythm. Same instinct.”
Kate watches the exchange quietly, something thoughtful in her expression. Her friend nudges her suddenly. “Told you it would be fun.”
Kate laughs softly. “You did.”
I lean forward slightly, lowering my voice just a fraction. “We have another home game in two weeks.”
She blinks. “I’m not sure our social calendar revolves around hockey.”
“Perhaps it should.” The words come easily, light and teasing, with a little edge to them.
She laughs as if I’ve made a joke. Which, to her, maybe I have. “I think we’ll survive without season tickets,” she says. I hold her gaze a beat longer than necessary, then nod once, accepting the brush-off without pressing. “Enjoy the rest of your night,” she adds politely.
Hudson watches me the entire time they step away, as though he’s evaluating every second of our interaction.
Callum leans toward me as the next family steps up. “You’re flirting.”
“I’m being friendly.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Sure you are.”
Across the room, Kate stands beside her friend, listening to something animated and shaking her head fondly. She doesn’t glance back at me, not once.
And for some reason, that hits me hard.