Overtime (San Antonio Surge #7)

1 - Michael

Michael

I wore black the last time I played St. Louis. Home colors in a whole other arena. The jersey didn't feel like mine then, and now—in the Surge’s blue and white—it felt no different. A sweater was a sweater until the results made it something more.

"You awake, Seattle?" Shawn tapped my helmet with the end of his stick, quitting only once I'd swatted him away. "Just checking. My grandpa always nods off in the middle of a conversation."

"Maybe you should try being more interesting." My eyes stayed on the ice, tracking the puck as it zipped along the boards.

Shawn’s laughter rippled just beneath the constant buzz of the arena. “I wouldn’t assume the entire third line’s a drag just because you’re bored, Landry. I’m the biggest comeback story of the season, and the fans are eating it up.”

I didn't answer. I kept my focus on the play, my pulse a steady rhythm against the collar of my jersey. The game didn't care about narratives or hometown heroes. It only cared about the next hit, the next pass, and the ice that didn't stay smooth for anyone.

“Are you kidding me, ref?” We were leading, but Coach wasn’t acting like it. His default brand of angry instruction hadn’t wavered since the first whistle blew. “Make him pay, Mason. Fuck that guy!”

Frost Bank hummed with a frequency I wasn't used to. Seattle had energy, but this was different. These fans expected a win like they expected the sun to rise. It was a heavy sort of confidence that settled over the bench. The guys used it as fuel, amping up the closer it got to them jumping the boards. Meanwhile, I felt like a hitchhiker who’d managed to flag down a bullet train.

Landon took a hard hit near the blue line, his shoulder catching the plexiglass with a thud that echoed over the roar of the crowd. He stayed down for a beat too long, then scrambled up, skating toward the bench with his head tucked low.

"Landry, you're up." Coach didn't look at me, his focus already on the next shift.

I hopped the boards, the transition from the heated bench to the cold bite of the rink hitting me all at once. My skates bit into the scarred ice. It felt thinner here, faster. Or maybe that was just the pace of a team that didn't know how to lose.

"Look at that," Tucker muttered as we lined up for the face-off. "Coach brought out the vintage collection."

He had a few inches on me, his jersey pristine compared to the sweat already soaking my base layer. I ignored him, settling into my stance. Grayson won the draw, a clean win that sent the puck sliding back toward our point. I moved.

My legs felt the miles. Every stride was a calculation, a choice to conserve or explode.

I stayed on the wing, finding the pockets of open space the younger guys ignored in their rush for the highlight reel.

When the puck found me, it felt right. I didn't overthink the handle.

Just chipped it past a reaching stick, using my frame to shield the play as I drove toward the corner.

The contact came fast. A shoulder caught my ribs, pushing me into the boards.

I braced, digging my steel into the ice to hold my ground.

I wasn't the fastest man on the ice anymore, but I knew how to be an anchor.

I fed the puck back to the high slot, a simple, veteran play that kept the cycle alive.

We scored thirty seconds later. Not my goal, but I’d cleared the screen for it.

“Not bad for an old timer.” Grayson slapped my back as he skated past me.

It had been months, and somehow, the jokes about my age never dried up.

As the horn signaled the end of the game, I skated back toward the tunnel. The win was ours, 4-2. My lungs burned, the dry Texas air a contrast to the damp cold of the Pacific Northwest.

"That was a good show tonight," Shawn said, pulling his jersey over his head once we reached the locker room.

"Yeah, well, I didn’t get a new hip for nothing."

Shawn’s laughter broke out, a loud, sharp sound that bounced off the steel lockers. He shook his head, his damp hair sticking to his forehead in messy clumps. "Better not broadcast it, or the league will be fielding everyone’s grandfathers on Monday."

He gave my shoulder a heavy, solid thwack before turning to face his own stall, whistling a tuneless victory march.

I sat on the bench, the weight of the gear suddenly doubling as the adrenaline began to dip. My fingers were steady, though my heart took its time settling back into a normal rhythm. I reached down and started unlacing my skates, the tug of the waxed strings familiar and grounding.

But the championship banners printed on the floor mats had the opposite effect. An entire life spent wearing someone’s kit, carrying some team’s name, and I’d never once lifted silverware. It was still kinda unbelievable that I was a part of this now.

On paper, anyway.

Whether I belonged was a different story, one that a single win against St. Louis wouldn't settle. I needed to prove I wasn't just a body taking up space on a roster of giants.

"Heading to the Faucet?" Landon asked, tossing a towel into the bin.

"The what?"

"The bar. Where we go to pretend the coaches aren't watching our caloric intake." He grinned wide, showing off a busted lip that would double in size within the hour. "First round’s on you, new guy. Don't worry, we'll find a glass to drop your dentures into when we get there."

I stood up, the ache in my lower back reminding me exactly how long I'd been doing this. "Lead the way. I’d hate to get lost on my way to a well-timed soak for my fake teeth."

The nylon straps on my bag zipped through the sudden quiet of the room as I swung it over my shoulder. Something had changed in an instant, but I wasn’t sure what. Most of the guys were already half-dressed, the air heavy with the scent of tape, sweat, and victory.

"The Faucet?" Tucker didn't look up from his phone, his voice carrying over the sound of the showers. The defender with a reach that spanned two zip codes, and a mouth that usually moved faster than his feet. "Didn't know we were hosting senior members tonight."

Cash and Hunter chuckled, the sound low and rhythmic.

Cash leaned back against his locker, tossing a roll of stick tape between his hands.

"Seriously. If we show up with Landry, every girl in there is gonna think we’re out with our uncle.

It kills the curve, man. Hard to look like a dynasty when you’ve got a guy in the group who remembers the invention of the wheel. "

It was the kind of jab that came wrapped in a grin, the "just kidding" defense already loaded in the chamber. But the edge was there. I was a variable they hadn't accounted for, a break in the momentum of a team that had spent the past few years feeling invincible.

"I've got tons of film to watch at home anyway," I said, shoving my hands into my jacket pockets. My voice was flat, devoid of the irritation tightening my jaw. "Enjoy the drinks."

"Sit down, Michael." Grayson didn't raise his voice.

He just stood in the center of the room, his presence enough to pull the air out of the lame jokes.

He looked at Tucker and Cash, his eyes unblinking.

"Post-game is open to the roster. All of it.

You got a problem with that, my door is open. Otherwise, keep it to yourself."

The tape in Cash’s hands stopped moving. The tension morphed, thickening until it felt like a physical weight on my shoulders.

"The curve's fine," Aiden chimed in from the end of the bench. He’d spent most of last season watching from the press box before clawing his way onto the second line, and the memory of the cold shoulder seemed fresh in his eyes.

He stood up, grabbing his hoodie. "Actually, having Landry there might help. Some of us could use a little maturity by association. Maybe then you’ll stop getting ghosted by every waitress in the city. "

Tucker rolled his eyes, but didn't push back. The hierarchy was clear, and I was currently the uncomfortable beneficiary of it.

Aiden looked over at me, ignoring the lingering stares from the others. "The Faucet is fine, Michael. Better than a quiet apartment and a microwave dinner. Come on. I'll buy that first round Landon was talking about."

I hesitated, my hand resting on my bag. I didn't need a babysitter, and I certainly didn't need a bodyguard. But the alternative was staring at the four walls of a rental that still felt like a crappy hotel.

"One drink," I said, finally pulling the bag onto my shoulder. "I’m a nightmare when I miss my bedtime."

*

The double doors of The Leaky Faucet swung open to a wall of sound that had nothing to do with the jukebox. It was a roar of recognition. The regulars didn't just cheer us; they surged forward, a sea of blue jerseys and weathered ball caps. This was their church, and the apostles had just arrived.

"Landry, get in here!" Shawn shouted over the noise, already swallowed by a group of fans near the pool tables.

I stayed at the back of the pack, the collar of my jacket turned up.

In Seattle, we had fans, but they were polite.

In Canada, they were clinical. Here, it was a fever.

People reached out to clap shoulders, their faces flushed with the reflected glow of a three-peat in the making.

I moved through the press of bodies like a ghost, feeling the weight of the "fresh meat" label more than ever. I hadn't earned this noise.

A flash of movement behind the long mahogany bar caught my eye. A woman with dark, wavy hair moved with lethal efficiency, pulling taps and snapping caps without looking down. She didn't seem impressed by the chaos, but looked as though she were managing a minor riot with practiced boredom.

I bypassed the booths where Grayson and the others were already settling into the role of local heroes, and found a stool at the very end of the bar.

It was tucked into a pocket of shadows where the light from the neon Shiner Bock sign didn't quite reach.

In other words… Perfect. I dropped my bag at my feet and looked at the scarred wood of the counter, waiting for the noise to become background static.

A fan, already three beers deep and wearing a jersey two sizes too small, stumbled toward my corner. He started to reach for my shoulder, his mouth opening to bark out a stat or a question I didn't want to answer.

"Back it up, Jerry."

The voice was dry, cutting through the bar’s roar with ease. I looked up, and the bartender stood there, a damp rag in one hand and a look of appraised curiosity in her brown eyes. She hadn’t raised her voice, but Jerry stopped like he'd hit a brick wall.

"He's just a guy in a jersey," she said, her gaze fixed on the fan until he muttered an apology and drifted back toward the jukebox. Then her electric gaze was on me. "And I don't allow people to loiter in the dark unless they're paying for the privilege of being miserable. What’s your poison?"

Up close, she had the kind of face that didn't demand attention because it already held it. Intense. Grounded.

"Whatever you serve backups, I guess." My voice sounded rough even to my own ears. “Probably something lukewarm and invisible.”

"You're a Surge player in San Antonio on a Saturday night. There’s no such thing as invisible." She didn't look away, her eyes lingering on the haunted space around mine before she glanced at the logo on my chest.

"Trust me. I'm just the guy they brought in to make sure the bench doesn't float away." I reached for my wallet, but she was already turning toward the taps.

She intercepted a pint meant for a server and slid it toward me instead, the glass stopping exactly an inch from my hand.

"In that case, this one's on me," she said, her weight centered as she looked at me over the counter. "And judging by that look on your face, you’ve got a much longer night ahead of you than the guys who actually lost."