Chapter 12 - Landon
Landon
Practice at Honda Center was already the kind of thing I hated even before Coach decided to make it the worst day of our lives.
The Ducks’ ice smelled faintly of sweat and fresh wax, boards rattling under the first slap shots of the morning.
Warm-up laps had barely finished when he clapped his hands and barked a set of instructions that made my teeth grit before the whistle blew.
“Power skates. Hard edges, fast transitions. Ten laps, and no whining!”
I glanced around. Grayson tried to keep a straight face as he dug deep, and the guys followed suit. Me? I was already moving, already feeling my muscles light up under the pressure. He wanted hard? Fine. I could go harder than any of them.
The first drill was edge-to-edge sprints with a puck on our backhand, weaving through cones set up like miniature defenders. By the third lap, my lungs were screaming, calves burning, but Coach didn’t break. Not once.
“Faster!” he yelled. “You’re soft, is what you are. Soft in the league, soft on the ice!”
Tucker muttered something under his breath, and Mason growled, “That’s enough, man—”
“Shut up and push!” Coach snapped, eyes tracking our movements with his ever-present stopwatch clenched in one hand. “Every second you waste crying about it is another goal you’re letting through this season! You like fifth place? This is how you keep fifth place!”
We switched to passing drills. Fast. Quick tape-to-tape, one-touch only. Mistake, and you run again. Shawn’s stick smacked the ice in frustration.
“What the fu—?”
“Shawn! Lap! Now!” Coach’s whistle cut through the air.
By the time we hit the shooting drill, I was already soaked through my jersey, gloves tight against blistered fingers.
He had us taking slap shots from the circles, then immediately racing back to the boards to touch them, then sprinting to the blue line for a wrist-shot round, one after the other until my legs quivered like cooked spaghetti.
Grayson tried keeping spirits up. “Come on, boys. You’ve got this. Last time we hit this hard, it clicked against San Jose.”
He could usually get everyone riled up enough to finish. Today? It wasn’t enough. Everyone was dragging. Every step felt heavier. Every pass felt like it had sand in it.
I leaned on the boards for a second, stick down, chest heaving for a breath. “Coach, can we ease up a sec? The guys are beat and we’re gonna need our legs for the game tonight.”
Coach whirled around, eyes like daggers.
“Ease up?” He shoved his whistle into his mouth, the leather straps tight across his fingers.
Everyone came to a halt on the ice, their eyes moving between the stand-off he’d created.
“You think the Ducks care if you’re tired?
You think they give a shit if you can’t breathe for two minutes?
You want to dig yourselves out of a hole?
This is how it starts. This is how you claw your way back! ”
I let my hands drop to my hips, fuming despite the lack of breath in my lungs. “Coach, seriously. We’re running ourselves into the ground. Some rest and focus will do more than this yelling.”
“Cross—” Grayson tried to pull me back, but it was too late.
I saw the thing snap behind Coach’s eyes as his face went totally red.
“If your attitude won games, we’d be number one.” He seethed, his face shaking with how hard he worked to keep his shit from spilling out right there on the ice. “Talking back fixes squat, you hear me? You want to be a hero, then shut the hell up and do as you’re told.”
Heat crept up my neck. I’d had about enough of this attitude talk. It was coming at me from all directions, and it was bullshit. I was the one scoring goals and winning games. We would’ve been way lower in the league standings if it weren’t for me.
“You’re losing perspective,” I said, keeping my voice even.
Wrong move. His eyebrows shot up. “I’m what?”
“Coach, we’re all spent. Pushing us harder won’t make us win.”
His face tightened, fingers curling over his whistle like he could crush it.
“You. Me. Now.” His tone had no room for debate.
“Don’t make me remind you why management’s breathing down my neck about your little stunt last game.
You think being the rookie star gives you free reign?
It doesn’t. You better learn to shut up and play my game, my way. Or your ass is warming the bench.”
I squared my shoulders, fire mixing with fatigue. “I’m trying to keep the team from falling apart, Coach. You could stand to take a breath yourself.”
“Enough,” he snapped. “Surge, let’s go! Thanks to Landon Cross, you each get suicides until you puke. Slow down, that’s ten pushups. Mouth off about it, that’s ten more. Move!”
The guys shot me scathing looks as they fell into the laps. I did too, but that feeling never left me. I wanted to scream at Coach. To tell him that he was getting this all wrong. That maybe a team might actually respond better to someone who had their backs.
Instead, I took a deep breath and dug my skate into the ice, following them back into laps.
But I didn’t shut off my brain. I watched the guys around me, watched Grayson keeping the line moving, Mason huffing at turns he would normally make without breaking a sweat, Shawn gritting teeth with every switch.
We cut lines across the ice until Coach had enough, then he pushed us back into more drills: stickhandling through cones while yelling about speed, precision, and not letting the Ducks smell fear.
My legs were burning, lungs on fire, and I was half-lost in the rhythm of it when I noticed Mason line up beside me. He didn’t rush the drill, didn’t cut in front of me. Just slid in, stick on the ice, eyes locking with mine.
“You’ve got to stop acting like the world owes you the ice, Landon,” he said, voice low but firm, leaning into the movement without breaking stride.
I smirked, not missing a beat. “Oh? Enlighten me, old man. I’m all ears.”
“Don’t give me that,” he shot back. “I was a rookie once. You think I didn’t want to blow past everyone, show the world I belonged? I get the fire, I get the ego, but there’s a line. You cross it too many times, you burn bridges you can’t rebuild.”
I glanced at him, annoyed, half-laughing under my helmet. “Bridges? Mason, if the Surge don’t like me, I’ll find a team that does. A team like the Florida Panthers would know how to handle someone like me.”
He blinked at me, clearly thrown, maybe even a little confused. “What— what are you talking about?”
“Nothing,” I muttered, gripping my stick tighter, letting the frustration pulse down my arms and into my legs. “I’m not here to babysit feelings, Mason. I’m here to play, to win.”
He shook his head, disappointment lined across his face, the kind that actually hit harder than a check.
“Winning’s one thing. Acting like a kid with a stick is another.
You don’t get both without respect for the team.
And respect comes from knowing when to shut up, when to listen, when to grow the hell up. ”
I wanted to argue, to fire back, to tell him he didn’t get it, but Mason wasn’t the problem.
I was. Frustration had built in my chest, curling in tight coils, and it wasn’t even about him.
It was about Coach, management, expectations.
The stupid press who couldn’t quit salivating over the next headline.
“Yeah, well,” I said, voice tight around the words, “if anyone can’t handle me, that’s their problem.”
Mason’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He didn’t need to. I already knew what he thought.
I let the comment hang, skating off to the next cone with a little extra shove in my stride.
I bent my knees deeper, pressed my stick harder against the puck, every slap and wrist shot carrying the annoyance that had been building since the first whistle.
My edges dug into the ice, carving tight turns, every drill a chance to burn off that heat, to turn the energy into something solid.
I wasn’t going to beg for approval. I wasn’t going to simmer quietly and obey blindly. I had skill. I had speed. I had fire. If The Surge didn’t want me, I’d find a team that did.
My frustration melted into motion, letting the puck roll under my stick, every sprint, every hard cut…
I let every pass fuel the anger and the injustice at once.
Mason stayed in my peripheral, but didn’t say anything more.
I knew he was watching though, waiting, hoping I’d figure it out before I passed the point of no return. Or whatever he thought it was.
I wasn’t listening. Not yet. Not until the drills were done and McAvoy’s shouts faded behind the echoing clang of sticks and skates.
*
Game on, and the energy in Honda Center was electric, but for all the wrong reasons.
We skated onto the ice and the Ducks were already moving like they owned every inch of it, crisp passes, sharp angles, bodies cutting across our lanes before we could even get set.
I felt it immediately—something was off.
Mason had spilled. The locker room chatter, the tension lingering in every glance, made everyone skate hesitant, paranoid.
The guys kept throwing me looks that made it plain.
I’d said too much at practice, and all that talk about finding another team probably spooked them.
I tried to push it aside, telling myself it was game night, and I could salvage it.
First shift, puck on my stick, I attempted a quick breakout through the neutral zone.
A Ducks winger read me perfectly, stick slapped the puck away, and I nearly collided with Tucker trying to cut through behind me.
He tumbled into the boards, muttering under his breath.
I shoved off, spinning past a defender, looking for a lane.
Nothing. Every pass bounced off sticks, every shot deflected. Nothing went right.
By the second shift, we were already one down.
Ducks scored after a cross-ice feed found the slot, Hunter had no chance, and Tucker’s lazy arm couldn’t get there in time.
Play opened up, and I carried the puck into their zone on the next rush, weaving between two defenders.
I saw a sliver of open ice, and shot hard.
The puck hit the post, shot off Mason’s shin, and back out.
Tucker tried to recover it, but the Ducks’ defense closed every gap.
I was skating in circles, chest pounding, frustration building, yelling at the air more than anyone else.
I caught glimpses of the stands during line changes, scanning for Nicole.
She didn’t have her usual seat with away games, but after the fourth or fifth check I was sure she wasn’t there.
My stomach twisted. She never missed a game.
Not one. And here I was, scrambling, trying to drag this team through what felt like a death spiral, knowing she was missing this one.
Second period started, and things got worse.
Ducks scored two more. Quick one-timers, both rebounds we failed to recover.
Their checks were perfectly timed and they made us pay in the worst way.
Grayson shouted lines at us to stay tight.
Mason went down after a collision, shook it off but still looked dazed and out of it. The weight in the arena was crushing.
Coach’s voice cut across the ice: “Act like you want it! Stop handing it to them as if you don’t care! We fucking care!”
I tried to pull the guys together on a rush, juking past a defenseman, carrying the puck deep, seeing a lane for a shot.
I took it, hoping for a miracle rebound.
The puck slid wide. Mason skated past, cursing under his breath, and Grayson tried a wraparound but their goalie blocked it clean.
Somehow the Ducks were already back in transition by the time I rallied for a comeback.
Third period came, and the scoreboard read six nothing.
It seemed over, but I couldn’t stop. I wanted to take control, prove I could still shine even if the rest of the team were dead in the water.
I pushed hard, skating end to end, taking every puck, forcing plays, chasing loose pucks, and elbowing my own guys through checks.
I carried it into their zone, tried a behind-the-net feed to Grayson, but misjudged the angle.
Ducks intercepted, rushed the puck down the ice, and scored again. Seven nothing.
I skated off the ice, hands on my knees, trying to breathe, trying to plan the next move. I yelled at myself, at everyone: “Come on! We can still get one!”
They looked at me like I’d lost it. Maybe I had.
But if we had to lose, I needed it to be with at least one fucking goal in the net. At least one.
Minutes later, with the third winding down, scoreboard glaring eight nothing, I spotted Shawn streaking down the wing.
There was a glimmer, a chance to get a goal, to reclaim a scrap of dignity.
I shoved every ounce of desperation into the play.
Skating hard, weaving between defenders, I knew if I got my stick on the puck I’d sink it.
“Shawn!”
His eyes stayed down. The damn puck glued to his stick as he drove forward.
But there were three guys gearing up to wall him off, and if that happened—
I lurched across the ice, pushing harder than ever, stick out.
A defender moved to block me, and I side-stepped him with a clip that usually works out fine.
This time though, there were too many of us in the mix.
I slammed into Shawn, my stick jamming his skates at full speed.
He scrambled, arms flailing to break his fall.
But it was too late. He fell hard, head slamming against the boards.
Blood bloomed instantly, vivid and horrifying across the ice.