11 - Aiden
Aiden
Coach was already halfway through the whiteboard when I finished lacing my skates.
“Vancouver’s first line likes the stretch pass,” he said, circling a route with the marker. “If we let them build speed through the neutral zone, we’re chasing all night. I don’t want us chasing.”
The locker room had that tight pregame focus where everyone listens even when they pretend not to. Gloves thudded into stalls. Tape tore in short pulls. The dryers rattled under the benches.
I sat with my elbows on my knees, stick resting against my thigh, and kept my eyes on the board.
Coach capped the marker and turned around. “We’re adjusting lines.”
A few heads lifted. Mine stayed where it was, fixed on the scuffed floor between my skates.
“Aiden, you’re centering second.”
The words took a second to register because I’d trained myself not to expect them.
Shawn, two lockers down, let out a low whistle. He was rolling his shoulders under his pads, testing the range. “There you go.”
I looked over at him.
He nodded once, sweat darkening the collar of his undershirt. “You earned it.”
He didn’t sound threatened. He sounded relieved, if anything. Last season took a chunk out of him. Rehab, conditioning, watching from the press box while someone else filled his spot. He’d fought his way back and still talked about gas in the tank like it was something he rationed.
Coach kept talking about matchups, but my focus shifted across the room.
Mason sat directly opposite me, elbows on his thighs, gloves dangling from his hands.
First line center. Captain in everything but title.
When Coach announced the change, Mason’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t question it.
He just looked at the board a fraction longer than necessary before reaching down to tighten the strap on his shin pad.
Everything he wasn’t saying crept into the tension seeping over the locker room. Because why did I get bumped up and nobody else?
Coach finished, told us to keep shifts short, and clapped his hands once. “Let’s go to work.”
The room broke into motion. Sticks lifted. Helmets snapped into place. I stood and slid my mouthguard between my teeth, then reached up to adjust the strap at the back of my helmet.
Shawn stepped in front of me to get to the door, shoulder brushing my arm as he passed. “Second line suits you,” he said, not slowing down. “Don’t make it awkward.”
I gave him a look. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He grinned and kept moving.
We funneled into the hallway in pairs. The concrete under my blades scraped faintly as I walked, stick tucked against my side. The sound from the arena filtered through the walls, a steady swell that rose and fell.
Mason walked ahead of me with Grayson. Close enough that I could see the number on the back of his jersey. Far enough that they didn’t have to lower their voices much.
I didn’t mean to listen. I just didn’t have anywhere else to put my attention.
“We’re not a charity team,” Mason said. His tone stayed even, but there was weight under it. “Ice time isn’t a participation trophy.”
Grayson adjusted his gloves as he walked. “Coach isn’t handing out any favors. Santos is good. He’s been solid every time I’ve shared game time with him.”
Hearing Grayson stick up for me was unexpected, and it made me feel more than I was ready for. This whole time, I didn’t think anyone on this team gave a shit about me. About whether I showed up to warm the bench or not.
Or maybe I was just still sensitive over Sage walking out on me the other night.
She hadn’t returned my texts or calls, and when I’d showed up at Purple Rose, it was always one of her colleagues there to ‘deal with me’ while she was busy with a client.
Once I’d peered into the back and saw the curtain drawn, but I just knew she was in there, hiding. Knew there was no client.
“I’m not saying he is.” Mason pushed the door at the end of the corridor open with his shoulder, letting a draft of cold air roll in from the rink. “I’m saying we’ve built something here. You don’t mess with that because somebody had one strong game.”
The word ‘somebody’ hung in the air, and pricked the back of my throat. I’d been with The Surge for five fucking years.
I kept my stride steady. Didn’t crowd them, but didn’t fall back either.
One strong game.
I thought about the last one. About how everything had clicked in a way it hadn’t before. Clean reads, good timing. Coach had caught my eye on the bench after a shift and nodded once. That had felt bigger than any stat.
I also thought about Sage rolling the door on that storage unit, her expression shuttered before I could ask what the hell was wrong. There was still no answer to that, and none for why my own teammate had it in for me.
Mason was one of the golden boys of the team. He was center, sure, but in no way under any kind of threat from the likes of me. He had youth and talent on his side, and a fan following that came second only to Landon’s.
Now his voice filled the narrow corridor, and I could see the other guys trying to act like they weren’t listening too.
Grayson replied, careful. “You’re still first line. Nothing’s changed there.”
“That’s not the point.” Mason gave a short laugh that didn’t carry much humor.
We reached the mouth of the tunnel where the light from the rink spilled across the concrete. The team bunched up, waiting for the cue to step out for warmups.
I stopped a few feet behind Mason. From here, I could see the back of his helmet, the scuff marks along the boards just beyond the door, the thin layer of frost creeping along the glass.
Charity team.
He wasn’t yelling about it, or trying to start anything. He was just protecting his ground.
And something in me reacted to that.
Because why the fuck didn’t I have a claim to this ground too? After all the time I’d put in. Practices, games—whether I ended up on the ice or not, I’d been here for every one of them.
This was my ground too.
Grayson’s stick hit mine before the ref even finished setting his feet at center, and I bent into the draw with my weight forward, blade angled to pull the puck back clean instead of tying up.
The Canucks’ center crowded me early, shoulder pressing into my chest as the puck hit the ice. I twisted my wrists and dragged it behind my skates toward our blue line, where our defenseman stepped in to collect. It wasn’t pretty, but it was ours.
“Good,” Grayson called as we turned up ice. “Stay above it.”
I pushed through the neutral zone, tracking his lane to my right. He cut wide along the boards, drawing their left defenseman with him. I slipped into the soft space between their center and winger and called for it with my stick on the ice. He fed me just inside the line.
The shot came off quick from the high slot, but their goalie got a pad on it and kicked the rebound into the corner. I followed my shot instead of admiring it, absorbing contact along the boards as their defenseman pinned me. My shoulder hit glass, stick jammed against the kickplate.
“Move it,” Grayson barked.
I dug the puck free with my skate and chipped it behind the net before they could tie me up. By the time I fought loose, Grayson had it on his blade, curling toward the crease. His backhand lifted and rang off the crossbar.
We cycled for another ten seconds before the whistle blew.
On the bench, I dropped down between shifts, lungs working, helmet tipped back just enough to catch air. Mason’s line went out next. He stepped over the boards without looking my way.
Coach crouched in front of us. “They’re collapsing low. Shoot through traffic. Santos, don’t drift above the circles. Stay inside.”
“I’ve got it.”
Mason’s line hemmed Vancouver in for a full shift. He won his draw clean and set up a point shot that deflected wide. When he came back to the bench, he kept his eyes on the ice while he adjusted his gloves.
I caught his profile as he passed behind me. His jaw was set the way it had been in the locker room.
I didn’t chase it. The game would speak for itself.
Second shift, the Canucks pressed harder. Their forecheck came in with speed, forcing our defense to rush an outlet. The puck hopped over my blade at center, and their winger stepped into it.
“Back,” Tucker shouted.
I pivoted and chased, cutting through the middle to block the passing lane. Their winger tried to thread it across to the far side. I got a piece of it with my stick, enough to slow it down, but not enough to stop the shot that followed. Hunter swallowed it against his chest.
As we circled back for the next faceoff in our zone, Grayson skated in close. “You’re reaching,” he said, not exactly accusing me but giving me something to think about. “Get your feet there first.”
I nodded. He was right. I’d tried to make it happen with my hands instead of my legs.
We tied it up on that draw and chipped it out. I stayed low through the neutral zone this time, matching their center stride for stride. When the puck squirted loose near the red line, I stepped into him and took body instead of puck, knocking him off balance long enough for Grayson to scoop it.
“That’s it,” he said as we crossed their blue line again.
Midway through the first, we broke through. I won the draw back to Tucker, who slid it across to the weak side. I cut toward the net instead of hanging high, dragging their center with me. Grayson drifted into the space I vacated and one-timed the return pass low blocker side.
The red light flared.
He skated past me with a grin and tapped the side of my helmet. “That lane opened because you moved.”
I wanted to say it was just positioning, that anyone would’ve done it, but the goal felt like more than a stat. It felt like proof the line worked.
On the bench, Mason clapped his gloves once against his stick in acknowledgment. No smile. No comment.