3 - Aiden
Aiden
“Again.”
Coach McAvoy’s voice carried across the ice without help from a whistle. He stood at the blue line with his arms folded, tracking the breakout as Mason looped low behind the net to pick up the puck.
I pushed off from the boards and joined the rotation, stick down, knees bent. Hunter rapped his posts with the heel of his stick, resetting in the crease.
“Faster through the neutral zone,” Coach called. “You win one Cup and forget how to skate?”
Landon barked with laughter as he took Mason’s pass in stride and cut wide along the boards. “I’ve never forgotten anything in my life, Coach.”
“Except backchecking,” Tucker called from the far side, and angled his body to close the lane.
Landon shifted the puck between his skates and slid it cross-ice to Grayson nice and easy, who snapped it on net without breaking rhythm. Hunter dropped and sealed the ice with his pads. The puck kicked out to the corner.
“Again,” Coach said.
We reset.
The arena felt different. No crowd pressing against the glass.
No music shaking the rafters. Just the scrape of steel and the puck clattering off sticks.
Banners hung from the rafters, last season’s run stitched in gold above center ice.
They caught the overhead lights every time I circled under them.
Grayson tapped his stick against mine as we lined up. “You’re late on the weak side, Santos. Trust the pass.”
“I was there.”
“You were drifting.”
Mason grinned as he skated past us. “He’s pacing himself, can’t you tell? Long season ahead.”
I didn’t answer. Coach blew the whistle and sent us through it again.
Breakout. Quick up. Cross. Shot.
I drove the net on instinct, hunting for a rebound, but Landon was already there, jamming his stick between Tucker’s skates.
“Move your feet, old man,” Landon tossed over his shoulder at me.
“I’ll file your notes under Rookie Smack-Talk, TBI. Thanks.”
He looked to the others for help. “What’s TBI?”
“To be ignored,” Shawn chuckled as he peeled off toward the bench.
Landon’s grin flashed through his cage. He circled back to center ice, twirling his stick once in his glove. “Ignore all you want. That Rookie of the Year title is carved into history.”
Coach skated into the slot and collected the loose pucks with the blade of his stick, corralling them into a pile. “Line rushes. First line up.”
Grayson, Mason, Landon.
They took their positions without looking at each other. Mason at center now, Landon on the wing. Shawn had dropped back to second line center after the offseason shuffle. Which meant I’d slid down another notch without anyone making a speech about it.
“On my whistle,” Coach said.
They exploded off the line, Mason winning the draw clean and feeding Landon in stride. Landon cut inside, pulled the puck across his body, and fired high glove. Hunter snagged it and tossed it back out.
“Again.”
They ran it twice more, each rep cleaner than the last. Landon finished the third with a backhand roof that clanged off the water bottle on top of the net.
He pointed at Hunter. “You’re buying the first round tonight.”
Hunter shoved his mask up onto his forehead. “You score in a real game, we’ll talk.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
The laughter carried as they skated off, and Coach jerked his chin toward us. “Second.”
Shawn took the draw this time. I lined up on the right. Cash Money drifted high near the blue line, ready to step into a shot.
The whistle cut through the rink.
Shawn tied up his man and kicked the puck back. I picked it up, shifted left to avoid Tucker’s reach, and sent it across to Cash. He wound up and drove it through traffic. Hunter blocked it with his chest and swallowed the rebound.
“Better,” Coach called. “But you’re still thinking. Stop thinking.”
I circled back to center ice. Thinking hadn’t been my problem. I knew all the ways that worked best to stop it in its tracks. In fact, I’d gone to that bar last night to get away from thinking.
Instead, I’d ended up with a stranger dissecting my game between sips of beer.
You put yourself on the sidelines.
I dug the toe of my blade into the ice and waited for the next whistle.
We moved into a small-area battle drill. Two-on-two below the circles. Tight space. Quick decisions.
Grayson paired with Mason. Landon with Tucker. Shawn with Cash. I rotated in after the first rep, stepping into the circle opposite Landon.
“Try to keep up,” he said as he squared off.
“Worry about your own feet, and let me do my job.”
The puck dropped between us and we collided shoulder to shoulder. He had speed, but I had weight. I forced him toward the boards, pinned his stick long enough for Shawn to scoop the puck and cycle it behind the net.
Landon shoved off me and chased.
“Good body,” Coach called from the top of the circle. “Now finish it.”
I drove toward the crease as Shawn wrapped it around. The puck bounced off Hunter’s pad and kicked loose. I jammed at it until the whistle cut us off.
Landon skated past, tapping his stick against mine once. “There he is.”
I didn’t know if that was praise or a warning.
We lined up for conditioning sprints to close it out. Blue line to blue line. Goal line and back. McAvoy skated alongside us for the first few, then dropped back to watch.
My legs burned by the fourth rep. Mason and Grayson raced each other on the outside lane, chirping the whole way down.
“Captain can’t even beat his center,” Mason called.
“Captain doesn’t need to prove anything in practice.”
Landon crossed the line a stride ahead of both of them and threw his hands up. “And youth wins out again, suckers.”
Tucker reached out with his stick and hooked Landon’s skate just enough to knock him off balance at the line. Landon windmilled but recovered before he hit the ice.
“That’ll teach you to respect your elders,” Tucker said.
“And I just taught you how cat-like reflexes will ensure this pretty face lights up the boards way more than your ugly mug that keeps smashing into the ice,” Landon shot back, grinning.
I finished my rep and glided to the boards, resting my gloves on top of the dasher. Sweat slid down my spine under the pads. The Cup banner hung above center ice, catching the light every time someone skated beneath it.
Five years in this jersey.
Two for Landon, and he was already stitched into the first line.
Coach blew the whistle one last time. “Bring it in.”
We gathered at center ice, sticks planted. Hunter pulled off his mask and shook out his hair.
“Good pace,” Coach said. “But don’t get comfortable. Last season is just a banner now. It doesn’t win you anything this year.”
Grayson nodded once. “We know, Coach.”
“Then show it,” Coach replied. His gaze moved across the circle and paused on me for half a beat before shifting on. “We have more to play for than ever before. If you thought people wanted to see us crash and burn last season, prepare to have that sentiment doubled.”
“We’re ready for it, Coach.” And Tucker fielded fist bumps from the guys in agreement.
Coach shook his head. “That’s not what it looked like on that internet stuff you kids keep doing. Cup tattoos? Your time would’ve been better spent in the gym, for God’s sake.”
“Aw, you hurt we didn’t invite you, Coach?” Landon’s eyes shone with laughter, and the guys soon joined in when it landed.
Coach’s laugh was rough along the edges. “Have your fun. When shit starts getting real out there, you’re going to want to remember what you’re playing for.”
We broke, tapping sticks against the ice as we peeled off toward the tunnel.
Landon skated backward in front of me, grinning through his mouthguard. “You joining us for the cool-off? Hunter’s buying.”
“Can’t tonight. I have… stuff.”
“Always with the stuff,” he said, and turned back around.
The scrape of blades echoed under the rafters as the guys filed off to the locker room, still jawing about who owed who a drink.
I kept my head down and followed the line.
The locker room was hotter than the ice had been, walls vibrating faintly from the pipes above.
Skates clattered against tile, sticks thumped into benches, the smell of tape and sweat clung to everything.
Mason was laughing at something Landon said, his arm slung over Shawn’s shoulder.
Landon’s grin stretched wide enough to cover half the bench, and the mouthguard made his voice garbled, but you could still hear the bite in it.
I slid onto my stall, and dragged my bag behind me. My skates scraped the floor once, twice. Pretending I was busy with my own thing didn’t work too well, and I found myself sneaking glances as they peeled out of their gear.
Hunter was stretching out, rubbing at his shoulder, and I caught the edge of his tattooed arm before he rolled onto the bench.
Smooth, precise lines. The Cup. I could even make out the dates from this angle.
Landon was admiring his bruises in the mirror, jersey over his head, flexing his “Cup arm” with pride.
Every guy in here carried their story in ink.
An announcement: I belong, I’m part of something etched in history.
I stuffed my gear into the bag and closed it. My fingers lingered on the zipper. Last night replayed in stabs. Sage’s words lodged themselves in my chest. She didn’t know me, but she wasn’t wrong when she guessed I’d taken myself out of the team without being asked.
Instead of sticking around for the photos and camaraderie, I kept walking away. Never went out to catch drinks after practice. Never hung around to rag each other after a game.
The locker room emptied around me. Grayson clapped Shawn on the back and headed for the shower. Cash Money muttered some complaint at Tucker over the benching drill, and I could hear them disappearing, voices fading down the hall.
I pulled on my hoodie and zipped it halfway. My skates were off. My bag was closed. My truck was waiting. My apartment? Not tonight. Not right now.
I walked past the mirrors, catching glimpses of my reflection. Face flushed. Hair stuck up from my helmet. Eyes tired. Hands sticky with tape residue.
The street was quiet, almost empty. Frost Bank arena was dark now, lights spilling from the main doors onto wet asphalt.
I shoved my hands into my pockets and kept walking.
Sage’s voice haunted the edges of my thoughts, each word a small, precise jab: not being part of the team.
I hadn’t realized how much it mattered—how much I’d let it slide in silence.
My truck rolled out of the lot, tires crunching against gravel at the curb. I didn’t think. Just turned the wheel, letting instinct guide me. When I got to a green traffic light, I paused. The way home was to the left, but after a second’s hesitation, I crossed lanes and swerved right.
Purple Rose was in darkness, the neon sign no longer flashing. It was late, but I figured I’d stand a good chance given everything being 24-hrs these days. As I pulled over, I saw Sage at the doors locking up for the night.
I cut the engine. A cough, a scrape of keys against metal. My sneakers hit the sidewalk in a hurry.
She glanced up at me, the keys jangling in her hand. I couldn’t tell whether it was surprise or annoyance on her face, so I played it safe.
“I heard you guys keep special extended hours for Stanley Cup winners.”
Sage’s eyebrows drew together, suspicion shading her expression. The keys slipped from the door, and she took a step back.
“Is that what you heard?”
I shrugged, hands buried in the pockets of my sweats. “I’ll pay extra?”
She assessed the situation with her usual candor, something mischievous flashing in her dark eyes. It gave her expression an even more mysterious air that tugged at something in my gut.
The lack of response got my blood pumping, and I was afraid I’d end up losing my nerve. “Come on. I have something to settle.”
Something I hadn’t realized I needed to settle until I didn’t take the turn back to my apartment.
Sage’s lips pressed together, and one eyebrow quirked up, making the silver bar in it catch the streetlight just right. “Okay, fine, now I’m curious.”
She stepped aside and swung the door back open, letting me through. I caught a faint glimmer of disbelief in her eyes, like she’d wound up in a story she wasn’t expecting to be part of tonight.
Which was kinda how I felt too.
The bell over the door chimed. I was inside.