Chapter 7
HOME OPENER
JACE
The tape squeaked against my stick blade, high-pitched and grating, and I wanted to rip the whole fucking thing apart and start over. Again. For the fourth time in twenty minutes.
My hands weren't cooperating. The tape was too tight, then too loose, then uneven in a way that would bother me all game. I tore it off with more violence than necessary and started again.
Home opener against Vancouver Giants.
The Giants were fast, disciplined, and had just come off a road win in Montreal where they'd put up six goals.
Their top line was dangerous—skilled forwards who could punish mistakes—and I knew their right winger, Adam Bowen, from junior hockey.
We'd played against each other in the OHL, and he'd always been a chirpy bastard who got under people's skin.
Last I'd heard, he was having a career year, leading their team in points.
“Hart, you wrapping that thing or proposing to it?” Finn's voice cut through my focus. “Because at this point it looks like a prom corsage.”
I grabbed a protein bar from my stall and threw it at him. It hit his chest, and he caught it reflexively, blinking at me.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “Pre-game shit. You're good.”
His face split into a grin. “Apology accepted via snack. This is growth, Hart.”
“Fuck off.”
I finished the tape job and looked up, scanning the room. Rook was watching me. Our eyes met, and he tapped his sternum once with his fist, slow and deliberate. I mirrored the gesture, tapping my own chest, and dragged in a breath that felt like it had been stuck behind my ribs for the past hour.
Warmups felt different tonight. The energy in the building was electric. Our fans wanted to believe.
I fired shots at Elias, working my way around the net, and on my third lap I skated past the Vancouver bench. Bowen was stretching near the boards, and when he saw me, he grinned. “Hartley! Heard you got a new coach. How's that working out?”
I didn't bite. Just kept skating.
“No, seriously,” he called after me, loud enough that his teammates laughed. “Must be nice having someone hold your hand through drills. Maybe he can fix that choking problem you've got.”
My stick tightened in my hands, but I kept moving. Chirping was part of the game. Let it go.
The lights dimmed for player intros, and when they called my name the noise hit me like a physical force. I raised my stick, skated to my spot, and tried to let it settle in my chest instead of turning into pressure. Rook glanced over at me and nodded once. Game face. Let's go.
The puck dropped and Rook won it clean, snapping it back to Volkov. Our breakout looked textbook—exactly what Coach had drilled into us all week. I took the puck wide on my wing, but their defenseman had good positioning and I had to dump it deep.
“That the new system?” Bowen skated past me, smirking. “Dump and chase? Revolutionary.”
“Fuck off, Bowen.”
“Touchy.” He grinned. “Heard your coach is already on the hot seat. That true?”
I didn't answer, just skated back for the change. Coach's voice came calm from the bench: “Stay patient. Don't force it.”
The second shift came faster than I expected.
Their forecheck came hard, three guys collapsing on Volkov before he could make a clean outlet pass.
He tried to thread it through to Tate, but their center read it perfectly, intercepted, and suddenly they were flying the other way three-on-two.
Their winger walked in alone on Elias and buried it far side. One-nothing, three minutes in.
As I skated past their bench for the faceoff, I heard their coach—a grizzled veteran named Sullivan who'd been in the league twenty years—say loud enough for our bench to hear: “That's what happens when you hire a has been coach.”
We pushed back for the next ten minutes, getting shots, creating chances. But their backup goalie—some kid making his third career start—was playing possessed. I had a clean look from the slot that he robbed with a glove save that drew gasps from the crowd.
“Nice try, golden boy!” Bowen yelled from across the ice. “Maybe next time.”
When Mace crashed the net on a rebound and got stopped again, Bowen skated past him during the whistle. “Your guys can't buy a goal tonight. Should've kept the old coach, eh?”
Mace shoved him hard enough to draw the ref's attention. “Keep talking and I'll shut your mouth for you.”
“Ooh, scary.” Bowen laughed, skating backward. “What's wrong, can't handle some chirping?”
The ref separated them before it escalated. This wasn't just a game—they were making it personal.
Then they scored again. A nothing play, really—a point shot that deflected off Tate's stick, changing angles completely. Two-nothing. The building deflated with that collective exhale of disappointment, and I heard the first scattered boos. Not directed at us, exactly, but at the situation.
As we lined up for the faceoff, their center—a big French-Canadian named Bergeron—leaned in close to Rook. “Your coach, he looks nervous. Maybe he should be.”
Rook's jaw tightened but he didn't respond.
He won the draw clean and got us moving.
This time we executed. Quick passes, bodies moving, exactly what Coach had been drilling.
I got the puck at the blue line, walked it to the circle, and fired.
Their goalie made the save, but Mace was crashing the net and he buried the rebound. Two-one.
The building erupted, hope flooding back in, and I slapped Mace's gloves as we skated back. But we still went into intermission down one, and the room felt tight with frustration.
Coach kept it simple between periods. He stood at the front of the room, hands in his pockets, and looked at each of us in turn. “They're executing their system. We're not executing ours. Clean up the turnovers. Win your battles in the corners. Stick to the structure. We do that, we win this game.”
The second period started badly. They scored thirty seconds in—another deflection that Elias had no chance on. Three-one. The crowd groaned, and the boos got louder.
Bowen skated past our bench during a TV timeout, making sure his voice carried. “How's that system working now? Maybe try the old one?” He grinned at Coach. “One and done, right? That's what they're saying about you.”
“Shut your mouth,” Mace snapped from the bench.
“Just trying to help.” Bowen's smile was all teeth. “Heard your GM's already regretting the hire.”
I wanted to jump the boards and slam him into the glass. Instead, I focused on Coach's voice calling the next line change, steady and certain despite everything.
We started grinding. Not pretty hockey, but effective. I had a chance from my office that their goalie robbed with his glove, and I heard Bowen's voice: “Choke artist strikes again!”
But then we caught a break. Volkov pinched at the blue line and stripped their winger. He fed it to Rook in the slot, who one-timed it past their goalie. Three-two.
Two minutes later, Finn showed why he was worth the rookie hype.
He picked off a lazy pass at center ice, turned on the jets, and blew past their defense like they were standing still.
Breakaway. He went five-hole and buried it.
Three-three. The crowd was deafening now, the momentum completely shifted.
“Lucky break,” Bowen said during the next faceoff. But his voice had lost some of its edge.
We took the lead with thirty seconds left in the second. We scrambled in front of the net, bodies everywhere, and the puck somehow found my stick. I didn't think, just one-touched it toward the net. It went in off their defenseman's skate. Four-three. The building absolutely erupted.
As we skated back to the bench, Bowen's chirping had stopped. Sullivan looked pissed on their bench, gesturing angrily at his team.
We went into the second intermission with the lead, and the room felt completely different. Energy. Belief. We'd clawed back from two goals down.
Coach didn't let us get comfortable. “Twenty minutes. That's all that matters. They're going to come out desperate. We stay disciplined. We play our game. We finish this.”
The third period was a war. Vancouver threw everything at us, and we bent but didn't break. They scored with twelve minutes left—a perfect shot that Elias had no chance on—and suddenly it was four-four. The building went quiet with tension.
Then I got my chance. Tate carried the puck into their zone, drew two defenders, and slid it across to me at the top of the circle. My office. Time slowed down. I could hear Bowen somewhere on the ice, probably about to chirp something about choking.
I fired.
The puck hit the post with that sickening metallic ping. It bounced out harmlessly, and the crowd groaned.
“Post! That's twice in two years, right Hartley?” Bowen's voice, loud and mocking. “Starting to be a pattern.”
My vision tunneled. My hands tightened on my stick.
“Hartley.” Coach's voice cut through. “Next shift.”
I nodded and sat down, forcing myself to breathe.
Three minutes left. The game felt like it could break either way. Both teams were exhausted, sloppy, making desperate plays. Then Rook won a faceoff in our zone, and Volkov made a perfect breakout pass to Finn. Finn hit Mercer in stride, and Mercer carried it into their zone with speed.
I was trailing the play, trying to get into position. Mercer drew the defense, then made an impossible pass—threading it through two sticks directly onto my blade at the top of the circle. Same spot I'd just hit the post from.
Their goalie was cheating left, expecting me to pass. I could hear Bowen yelling something.
I fired.
Top corner. Bar down. The goalie never had a chance.
Five-four. Two minutes left.
The building detonated. My teammates mobbed me, and I couldn't hear anything except roaring and the sound of my own heartbeat. When I looked at the bench, Coach was standing there, arms crossed, and he gave me one small nod.
Good.