5 - Michael
Michael
The atmosphere inside Frost Bank was a physical weight, thousands of fans screaming for a comeback after the Chicago disaster.
On the ice, the Surge were a different team.
We were fast, lethal, and hungry as ever.
Grayson and Mason carved through the Jets' defense like they hadn't spent the night before the last game face-down in a bucket of ice.
I sat on the edge of the bench, my gloved hands resting on my knees, watching the speed of the game. My heart was already up to tempo, but my body was stuck in the standby of a third-line winger.
"Nice view from the cheap seats, isn't it, Seattle?" Landon muttered as he skated past during a line change, his face slick with sweat. “See anything to write home about?”
"I can see you’re missing the back-post late," I said, my voice flat. “Might wanna focus on your forecheck.”
"I’m scoring goals. You’re counting them. So stay in your lane, Seattle."
I turned my head just enough to catch his eye. "My lane is making sure the puck doesn't end up in our net because you're too tired to skate forty feet. If you’re looking for a fan, go to the stands. If you want to win, do your job."
Landon opened his mouth to get the last word, but a heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder. Coach was there, his gaze fixed on the ice, but his presence was a localized storm.
"Landry's right," Coach said, the words cutting through the arena noise. "Landon, take a seat. You’re ball-watching. Landry, get out there with the second line. Take his wing."
The bench went cold. Landon stared at his skates, and I felt the collective ego of the team shift out under me. I hopped the boards, the transition from the heated bench to the sub-zero air hitting me like a punch in the face.
I joined Mason and Cash for the face-off. The puck hit the ice, and the disconnect was immediate. I moved to the high slot, expecting the puck to follow the triangle we’d practiced a thousand times. Instead, Mason kept it on his string, trying to dance through three Winnipeg jerseys.
"Open! Right here!" I yelled, my stick blade flat against the ice.
He ignored me, losing the puck to a heavy Jets defenseman.
They broke the other way, a three-on-two rush that caught our defense flat-footed.
I back-checked until my lungs burned, but the lack of communication on the transition was a canyon.
A quick cross-ice pass, a one-timer, and the puck was a black blur hitting the back of our net.
1-0, Winnipeg.
"Great work, Landry," Cash spat as we skated back toward the center. "Try being where the play actually is next time."
"I was where the play should have been if you two weren't playing hero puck," I retorted.
The ice felt a mile wide. We had the talent to bury the Jets, but right now, Mason and Cash were treating me like an imposter in a Surge jersey.
It wasn’t long before it infected Grayson and Tucker too.
Every time I moved to support, they moved away.
Whenever I called for the puck, they looked for a harder, more dangerous option.
It was a sticky, disjointed mess, and as the clock ticked down on the first period, the scoreline was the only thing telling the truth.
The second period was a car crash in slow motion.
When I touched the puck, the air on the ice curdled.
Landon came back on for Grayson, and was intentionally overshooting my lead passes.
Mason played a solo game, trying to weave through three Jets defenders while I stood wide open in the high slot.
We were down 2-0, and the home crowd was beginning to turn, the rhythmic thumping of the boards replaced by the restless low drone of a disappointed city.
When the whistle blew for a puck out of play, I didn't head for the bench. I skated straight to the center circle and raised my gloved hand, signaling the ref for a timeout.
"What are you doing?" Landon hissed, his chest heaving as he skated over. "We don't need a breather. We need you to keep up."
"Shut up," I said. It was a low, jagged command that stopped him mid-stride. The rest of the unit gathered around, looking at me with a mix of confusion and naked hostility.
I leaned on my stick, eyes tracking from Landon’s arrogant sneer to the frustration etched into Mason’s face.
"Look at yourselves," I said, my voice cutting through the arena’s artificial thunder. "You’re playing like you have a hundred years left in your legs. Like this game is just a backdrop for your little locker-room drama. You think you’re punishing me by freezing me out? You’re not."
I stepped closer, the steel of my skates grinding into the ice.
"I’m thirty-six years old. I’m at the end of a very long, very loud career.
I know exactly where the exit is. But you?
You’re acting like you’ll never be where I’m standing.
Like the game owes you a win just because you showed up with a Surge logo on your chest."
Landon opened his mouth, but I stepped into his space, the scent of sweat and frozen oxygen between us.
"The game doesn't care about your ego, Landon.
It doesn't care who ratted who out or who’s the 'alpha' in the room. It only cares about the puck. And right now, the puck is telling the world you’re a bunch of amateurs who can’t handle a veteran in the room.
You want to have a legacy? Start acting like it.
Or keep playing for yourselves and watch the Jets walk out of here with your dignity. "
I turned and skated toward the face-off dot before they could respond. The silence behind me was heavy, but the air felt different, vibrating with a new kind of tension.
The puck dropped, and for the first three shifts, the distrust lingered. It was a "sticky" kind of hockey. Passes were a second late, eyes were looking for anyone but me. But the Jets were relentless, trapping us in our own zone.
The change happened at the twelve-minute mark.
Cash was pinned against the boards, two Winnipeg jerseys suffocating him.
Normally, Landon would have stayed high, waiting for a breakout.
Instead, I dove into the scrum, using my frame to wedge a gap.
I took a heavy elbow to the ribs, but managed to kick the puck loose.
Without looking, my instinct drove toward the outlet and I banked a hard, rim-around pass off the glass.
Landon caught it in stride. He hesitated for a heartbeat, then realized I’d just bought him five yards of open ice. He screamed down the wing and fired a cross-crease pass back to the middle. I wasn't there for the goal, but Grayson was.
2-1. The celebration was brief. Just a few glove taps, a wary nod from Grayson. But the ice was starting to tilt.
In the third period, the hesitant trust turned into a flow state.
On a power play, I was stationed at the net front, taking a beating from the Jets’ goalie and their lead defenseman.
My job was to be the screen, the meat shield.
Landon had the puck at the point. In Chicago, he would have fired a low-percentage shot just to keep it away from me.
This time, he waited. He saw me tie up the defender's stick, creating a screen.
He didn't shoot. He slid a deceptive, no-look pass to my tape. I didn't have room to turn, so I redirected it between my own skates. A dirty, redirected goal that trickled past the goalie’s pads.
2-2. The arena erupted. As I skated toward the bench, Landon was the first one there. He didn't smile, but he slammed his glove against my shoulder hard enough to bruise.
"Nice hands, old man," he muttered.
The game-winner was a work of art. It started with a defensive stand in our zone. I blocked a shot with my shin guard and chipped the puck to Cash. We moved as a unit, a three-man weave that felt like the Surge of the old highlight reels.
Cash to Landon. Landon to me. I drew the defender toward the corner, then feathered a backhand pass into the slot where Landon was waiting. He didn't miss. He buried it top-shelf, then let out a primal roar that echoed off the rafters.
3-2, Surge.
We added an empty-netter in the final minute to make it 4-2. When the final horn sounded, the discord hadn't magically vanished but the hierarchy had been restored. Every one of us was a player in this team, and part of something bigger.
I skated off the ice last, my body screaming, my breath coming in ragged stabs.
As I entered the tunnel, I saw the team ahead of me.
They weren't looking back for a rat or a guest. They were moving like a pack again. I’d asserted myself not by shouting the loudest, but by reminding them that in this building, the only thing that mattered was the scoreboard.
And for the first time since I’d landed in San Antonio, the jersey didn't feel like a rental. It felt like my new armor.
The adrenaline was beginning to ebb, replaced by the dull, throbbing ache of a shot-block to the shin and the bone-deep weariness that follows a comeback.
The locker room was a chaotic symphony of tape being ripped, Velcro snapping, and the heavy bass of a victory track thumping through the speakers.
It was loud, it was rowdy, and for the first time, I didn't feel like the volume dropped when I walked past.
I sat in my stall, methodically unlacing my skates.
My fingers were stiff, the cold of the rink still clinging to my joints.
Across the room, the younger guys were already halfway dressed in tailored suits and expensive denim, trading chirps about which North Side bar they were going to colonize tonight.
I reached for my bag, planning my own route: a quiet drive, a hot shower, and a bottle of ibuprofen.
"Landry."
I looked up. Hunter stood there, leaning against the neighboring stall. Six-foot-four of quiet authority and a face that looked like it had been carved out of a granite cliff. He didn't talk much, and when he did, people usually stopped breathing to hear it.
"Yeah?" I kept my voice neutral, my hands busy with the laces.
"A few of us are heading to the Faucet.” He grabbed his keys from his locker, the metal jingling in the sudden pocket of silence that had formed around us. "I’m driving. You're coming."
It wasn't a question, but an opening. Landon paused mid-sentence, and even Cash looked over from the training table. In the hierarchy of this team, an invite from Hunter wasn't just a ride; it was a stamp of legitimacy. It was the goalie saying the "rental" had earned his keep.
I felt a strange, tight knot in my chest, a flicker of something that felt dangerously like belonging. But I couldn’t let it reach my face. I just gave a slow, measured nod and shoved my skates into my bag.
"The Faucet, huh?" I stood up, testing the weight on my bruised shin. "Hope your driving’s better than Tucker’s defense in second period. I’d like to get there in one piece.”
Hunter’s mouth didn't move, but his eyes crinkled at the corners. It was the closest thing to a laugh I'd seen from him all season. "Just get your gear, Seattle. We're leaving in five."
I zipped my bag with a subdued laugh. I was still an old man at the end of a long road, but as I followed Hunter out of the locker room, the night didn't feel quite so cold anymore.