Chapter 31
Chapter thirty-one
A name I carry in my bones
Reid
Ican already tell this is gonna be a fast one.
The Canucks are fast, but we’re faster. It’s two games into preseason, and we’re already humming off the back of two wins. Everyone’s legs are fresh and heads are sharp.
And I feel good. My knee feels good.
I track the first shot clean—wristed in from the high slot, a quick toe-drag release I’ve seen a hundred times. I butterfly down, seal the pads, and let it thud into my chest.
Whistle.
The ref skates in to collect the puck, and I hand it over with a small nod, then tap my stick twice against the post.
“Let’s go, Storm!” Eli bellows from the faceoff.
We win the draw clean, and Eli pulls it back to Logan, who rims it hard around the boards. Chase picks it up behind the net, pivots hard, and accelerates up ice. Viktor’s already streaking wide.
“Middle!” Viktor barks.
Chase threads it through to him, and we’re off. Up the boards, cross to Jake, who drags it between his legs to dodge a check and sends it across the slot toward Eli.
The puck bounces once, twice, then Eli hammers it off before it settles—but it clangs off the post.
“Goddamn it,” Jake mutters from the wing, peeling off on the change.
“Nice look,” Logan calls as the second line jumps over the boards.
The Canucks regroup fast, dumping it in behind me. I turn my head, scanning peripheral threats as Logan battles in the corner. Chase digs the puck out and reverses—a risky move, but it works.
Viktor slides into position and picks it up with a single stride. He moves with all muscle and angles, then slings it cross-ice with perfect weight.
Jake collects it on the rush, glances up, shoots—bar down.
One-nothing, Storm.
Back in my crease, I reset. Knees bent, weight forward, glove loose, and my vision locked in.
The second period hits harder. Vancouver’s top line is fast and nasty—a couple of rookies with something to prove and an overpaid vet who hasn’t realized his hands are slowing down.
They drive the net twice, trying to catch me out on rebounds, but I’m already square, and the puck flies wide.
“Eyes up!” I shout, warning Chase as a winger closes in from the weak side.
Chase swings around, skates backward at pace with his stick low. He pokes the puck loose, and Logan clears the slot with a full-body check that rattles the glass.
“Jesus, Hutch,” Chase mutters. “Next time, lead with ‘incoming freight train.’”
Logan huffs. “You didn’t see him?”
Viktor snorts as he skates by. “You have small reaction time. Like gerbil.”
I bite back a laugh behind the cage.
Next shift, the Canucks get a power play off a weak call—Logan’s caught for interference after a clean rub-out.
“Softest penalty I’ve ever seen,” Eli growls as he slides into the faceoff dot.
I stay focused because power plays are where everything slows down and speeds up at once.
First shot is a blast from the point. I flash the pad out and kick it into the corner. The second comes off a one-timer from the circle. I slide across and glove it mid-air.
Whistle.
“Fucking brick wall!” Jake skates by, slapping my shoulder as he changes lines.
The kill holds, and we survive it, and by the time the penalty expires, the crowd’s lost some of their edge.
We strike again on a clean cycle from the third line—one of our rookies finishes a rebound, and I catch his grin all the way from my crease as the guys crash the glass to celebrate.
Two-nothing, Storm.
By the time we hit the third, my jersey’s clinging to my chest and soaked through. I’ve stopped twenty-two shots, and my legs fucking burn.
They finally get one past me midway through the period—quick redirect in traffic, screened by two of their guys and Chase’s ass. Not my best angle, but not a soft goal either.
Doesn’t matter. We’re still up, and we tighten as they regroup.
“Eyes on twelve,” I call, tracking their sniper, who hangs near the dot. I’ve seen him finish those backdoor passes with surgical hands.
The puck swings wide—shot incoming.
I drop. Blocker save, then I kick out hard, pushing off left to smother the rebound before anyone can crash my crease.
Whistle.
Eli leans in on the next draw and wins it clean. He flips it to Viktor, who eats a hit but gets it out of the zone. Jake skates it down and doesn’t miss.
Three-one, final.
The locker room is all noise and laughter and thudding footsteps on wet tile. Jake’s shirtless, chirping everyone. Viktor’s giving one-word answers in a corner while the trainers try to stretch out his hip, and Chase is standing on a bench giving a speech about his assist, which no one asked for.
“Most selfless play of the night,” he declares.
“You deflected it off your skate,” Logan calls. “While trying to get off the ice.”
“I was creating confusion.”
“You were confused,” Eli mutters, unlacing his skates.
“Boys,” I say, shaking my head as I peel off my gear, sweat-slick and buzzing with the win. “Good fucking game.”
Jake raises a fist. “Three and oh, baby. Home opener’s gonna slap.”
Chase whistles. “Someone get Hutch a crown. Brick wall, back-to-back-to-back.”
I grunt and drop onto the bench, reaching for my phone to check the time, to see how late it is back home, and whether she’ll still be awake.
My thumb stills. Three missed calls. Two texts from Carina.
Havoc: Call me when you can
Havoc: Please.
That second message lands wrong—it’s too short and bare, even for her. Everything drops out of me, and the sound of the room fades as my pulse spikes.
She never calls during games. Never. We agreed on that early—no distractions unless it’s urgent, same for her when she’s in surgery. And please isn’t her word, not like this.
My mind is already running through a fast and brutal list of nightmares. Pain and bleeding, contractions that won’t stop. Something is wrong with the baby.
The room tilts, and I’m already on my feet, half my gear still on, dialing as I shove past Chase without answering whatever he’s saying now.
She picks up on the first ring.
“Reid.”
“Carina?” My voice comes out tight, sharp around the edges. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is it the baby?”
There’s a pause, just long enough for my stomach to drop through the floor.
Then she exhales, shakily.
“It’s Harry,” she says through a broken whisper.
Not the baby, not her, but a name I carry in my bones all the same.
My glove falls to the floor.
And suddenly, the rest of the world doesn’t make a sound.