Chapter 8
Landon
The Cotton Bowl locker room vibrated like it was wired directly into the crowd outside. No new year’s eve party for us, because the year was kicking off with the much-anticipated Winter Classic.
Concrete walls, temporary stalls, heaters fighting the January air that kept sneaking in every time the locker room door cracked open.
Music thumped low and aggressive, bass crawling through the benches.
Guys moved with that pre-game snap, tape tearing, skates clacking against rubber mats, equipment bags coughing up pads and gloves like offerings.
This was supposed to be my favorite part. The calm before impact. The moment when everything narrowed down to breath, muscle memory, and inevitability.
Instead, my mind kept drifting somewhere it had no business being.
I shoved my arms through my shoulder pads harder than necessary and caught my reflection in the mirror bolted to the concrete pillar. Focused face. Same look I always wore before puck drop. Anyone watching would think I was exactly where I needed to be.
I wasn’t.
Mason sat two stalls down, methodically taping his stick, head bent, locked in. If I wanted to talk without it turning into locker room theater, he was the one.
I grabbed my jersey and walked over, keeping my voice low. “Hey.”
“What’s up?” He looked a little annoyed. As if I’d interrupted a special moment.
“She asked me out.”
Mason paused mid-wrap, tape stretched tight between his hands. He didn’t look surprised, which annoyed me more than it should have.
“Nicole,” I added, like that mattered.
He snorted softly. “I figured. And?”
I pulled the jersey over my head, fabric catching on my pads for a second before settling.
“I said no.”
Mason’s hands resumed their steady rhythm. “So what’s the problem?”
“I said no because Coach told us now was the time to eat, sleep, breathe hockey.” I sat, lacing one skate, fingers moving on autopilot. “Not because I don’t want to take her out.”
Across the room, someone laughed too loud and a bag of backup sticks went clattering to the floor. Everything normal. Everything too loud.
Except I didn’t exactly feel like my usual self.
“I’m thinking I fucked up.”
Mason finally looked at me again. “You were right to say no.”
“Then why do I feel like shit?” I stood up and tested my skate on the mat. My leg bounced once before I forced it still. Mason’s eyes tracked the movement.
“She probably thinks I don’t like her,” I said.
“Which isn’t an issue, since you’re not dating her.”
I shot him a look. “I’m gonna overlook you being a dick for a second and pretend I can talk to you about this.”
“Sorry, go ahead,” he said, and laughed softly. It was the first sign of levity from him all morning.
I exhaled through my nose and grabbed my gloves, flexing the fingers. “It’s a problem because I do like her. A lot. I think. No, I’m pretty sure.”
Mason raised an eyebrow. “How much is a lot?”
I didn’t answer, which was an answer in and of itself.
Behind us, Hunter slammed his mask onto his head and started pacing, muttering to himself about keeping it tight, being a brick wall, the usual. The game was about to start, and Tucker turned the music up another notch. The room felt tighter, hotter, like the building itself was bracing.
“She looked like I’d shut a door in her face,” I added. “And I hate that.”
Mason leaned back against his locker, arms crossed. “I feel for you, man, but we don’t have time for this.”
“I know.”
“Everyone’s out there, foaming at the mouth to see us fuck this up.”
“I said I know.” If I didn’t get my head back in the game and fast, this was all going to be over before it even had the chance to start.
We started filing out, and Mason grabbed my arm, holding me back. “I get it. But if she thinks you’re not interested, maybe that’s not the worst thing.”
I scoffed. “That’s your advice?”
“That’s your reality for now,” he said, as simply as if he were telling me the weather.
I rolled my shoulders, feeling the weight of the pads settle. The worst part was… he wasn’t wrong.
“This team needs us locked in.” He made sure to catch my eye when he said it. “All of us.”
A trainer walked past, calling out a time check. Fifteen minutes.
“I’m never not,” I said, and shoved everything that wasn’t Dallas Stars and the Winter Classic to the back of my mind.
The noise shifted. Sharper now. More purposeful. Sticks knocked against the floor. Helmets came on. The air tightened into that familiar coil.
“Let her think whatever she needs to think. After the season, you can explain.”
After the season, sure. Provided she was still around and still gave a shit.
“Yeah,” I said, forcing the word out. “You’re right.”
He clapped my shoulder once and smirked. “I usually am.”
As I slid on my helmet, the outside noise filtered down to a dull roar, like hearing the ocean through concrete. It helped shrink my world back to nothing but the ice.
Nicole would be fine. She was smart. Strong. She’d move on.
That was the story I told myself as we lined up for the tunnel, as the door swung open and cold air rushed in, carrying the sound of ninety thousand people waiting to see if The Surge still deserved the crown.
I squared my shoulders and stepped forward.
I hit the ice already moving, legs warm, lungs ready, boards rattling under the noise pouring down from the Cotton Bowl stands.
The crowd never fully settled here. It rolled, surged, broke apart, came back again.
Every stride carried weight because nothing about this game was casual.
National cameras, and national pressure to prove ourselves.
No way was Dallas going to hand it to us.
I lined up on the right side, stick blade flat, eyes forward. Grayson took the draw, and the puck came back clean. Tucker stepped into it, sent it up the boards, and I was already gone.
Dallas closed fast. They always did. Heavy forecheck, bodies finishing every check, sticks in lanes.
I cut inside the blue line, chipped it past their defenseman, chased my own play into the corner.
Their left D tried to pin me, shoulder first. I rode it, skates carving, kicked the puck loose with my heel and fed it back to Mason trailing high.
Shot went wide. Grayson crashed the net anyway. Goalie covered. Whistle.
That was how it started. No easing in. No feeling anything out. Just full pressure from the first shift.
On the bench, Mason nudged my shin pad with his stick. “They’re biting early.”
“Good,” I said. “Means they’re nervous.”
He smiled without looking at me, already watching the next line jump over the boards.
Dallas struck first midway through the period. A turnover at our blue line. Quick pass through the slot. Hunter got a piece of it, but not enough. The Stars’ bench exploded.
1-0.
The crowd ate that shit up.
Grayson skated past our bench after the goal, jaw set, eyes scanning faces. “Answer fast.”
Next shift, I carried the puck end to end. Took a hit at center but kept it, slipped between their defensemen at the line. I drove wide, pulled the puck back toward my skates, and snapped a shot far side. Goalie got his fucking blocker on it, and the rebound got kicked to the corner.
I circled behind the net, scooped it up again, fed it to Mason parked near the crease. He got shoved just as he tried to jam it home.
Whistle again. Gloves stayed on, but the shoving that followed that call was more intense than usual.
Dallas liked to poke. They liked to test limits.
Late in the first, they took a penalty. Hooking on Mason as he cut through the neutral zone.
Our power play went out buzzing with intent without any need to name it. Tucker at the point. Grayson drifting to the left circle. Me on the right, waiting.
The puck moved clean. Tape to tape. Dallas collapsed hard, sticks out. Tucker faked the shot and slid it to me. I didn’t wind up for showmanship. I stepped into space and snapped it through traffic.
The net rippled.
1-1.
Our fans were out there somewhere, because their cheers lifted over the distinct groans of the Dallas supporters. A quick nod in Coach’s direction, and a salute to Tucker was all I gave the moment. We still had too much work to do to think about celebrating now.
The second period turned ugly.
Dallas came out hunting for us. Finished checks a half second after the puck was gone, drove our guys into the boards whenever they could. Midway through, one of their forwards ran Hunter after a whistle.
That did it.
Grayson surprisingly, was there first. Gloves off. Tucker didn’t need an invitation to provide backup. Fists flew. It wasn’t pretty, but goddamn, it was satisfying. The crowd agreed, roaring their disapproval when the linesmen came to drag the guys off each other.
Five each.
On the penalty kill, Hunter stood tall. Glove saves. Pads sealing the ice. Dallas pressed, but they couldn’t break him.
We killed it off.
The momentum swung, then swung back. I skated the edge of it, fighting for a gap to take my chance. But the fuckers weren’t having it. They closed me down consistently, obviously acting on orders to keep the rookie humble.
Dallas scored again late in the second. Point shot through bodies. For a second I thought Hunter would go at Tucker, who was the one caught sleeping on that. But a few curses was all it amounted to, and then they were back.
2-1 Stars, and we looked to be unraveling at the seams.
On the bench, I peeled my helmet off and wiped sweat from my face. The cameras found me like they always did, and I flashed my million dollar grin with a wink for good measure.
Third period felt like a grind carved out of bone.
Every shift mattered. Every inch earned. I took a hit that rattled my teeth along the boards. Got back up. Next shift, I gave one right back.
With six minutes left, we tied it.
Mason forced a turnover at the red line. I picked it up in stride, cut across the middle, drew both defensemen. Slid the puck to Grayson streaking down the left.
He buried it.
2-2.
The Cotton Bowl shook even though our fans made up only a fraction of the crowd. It infected us all, and a new rush of belief swept through the team.
The rest of regulation passed in tight, breathless hockey. Chances at both ends. Hunter bailed us out twice. Their goalie did the same.
Horn.
Overtime.
Three on three changed the ice. Opened it up. Legs burned, and minds raced to try and figure out a way out of the stale mate.
First OT went back and forth, end to end. Chances that made my stomach lurch, and when they came to nothing, made me want to throw up.
I had one late. Broke free down the right side, cut through to center, and tried to tuck it short side. Goalie got a pad on it.
Dallas nearly ended it seconds later. A two on one. Hunter slid across and robbed them with his glove and a shriek that vibrated through my bones. He’d gone feral with adrenaline.
When the horn sounded again, my hands were shaking, but not from fear. I was pissed off more than anything. If I were going to sacrifice everything for this game, it wasn’t going to be to come in second best.
Second overtime meant everything felt magnified. Not a single person in the crowd was sitting down. The noise pressed down from every angle.
On the bench, Grayson leaned toward me. “Now or never.”
I nodded. “I like now better.”
Halfway through the second OT, Dallas took a penalty. Too many men. Sloppy. Costly.
Our power play unit jumped over the boards, and I lined up on the right again. Same spot. Same expectation.
The puck dropped. Tucker won it back. We set up.
Dallas pressured hard, but cracks showed. Their legs were heavy. Reactions late.
Tucker slid it to Grayson. Grayson to Mason. Mason back to me.
Time stretched. The lane opened.
I didn’t think. I trusted my hands.
I walked the puck in, pulled it just far enough to change the angle, and dummied a shot that made their guys tangle up on themselves. Scooped it left, and through my own legs as I hit a spike-twist to make their goalie go sprawling in the wrong direction.
The sound of the puck hitting the net cut through everything.
3-2 Surge.
The bench emptied as I threw my gloves in the air, and bodies slammed into me. The noise from the crowd blurred into something vast and distant. Cameras everywhere. Teammates shouting my name.