Chapter 26 - Landon
Landon
The first thing I felt was the cut of the cold through my skates as I stepped onto the ice, the blade bite familiar enough that my body reacted before my head could catch up.
Sticks paused mid-tape job along the boards.
A puck stopped sliding near the blue line where Tucker had nudged it with his boot. A few heads turned at once.
Grayson squinted from the circle. “You’re back?”
“Not exactly.” My voice echoed more than I expected, thin against the empty seats.
Coach stood near the bench, arms folded, jacket half unzipped, watching the moment stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable. He stepped forward before anyone could decide what to do with me standing there in full gear.
“He’s here to help,” Coach said, nodding once in my direction. “Film study, reads on Oilers, support where I need it.”
Tucker pushed his visor up. “Why’s he dressed like that if he’s not playing?”
Coach rolled his eyes and jerked a thumb toward me. “So he’ll stop pestering me.”
That got a few laughs. Hunter tapped his stick twice against the ice. Mason caught my eye and gave a small nod that felt bigger than it should have.
Coach blew the whistle and pointed to the far end. “Enough. Warmup laps. Then we’re into transition work.”
I pushed off with the group, settling into the rhythm without thinking, the scrape of steel and the churn of legs easing something tight behind my ribs.
I stayed wide, kept my pace measured, made sure I wasn’t crowding anyone.
That alone felt new. I used to take warmups as a chance to make noise, to announce myself.
Now I watched spacing, watched how Grayson adjusted his stride when Hunter drifted inside, how Mason checked his shoulder before cutting across center.
Coach called the first drill, a three-man breakout with a pressure read layered in. Defense moved the puck up the wall, center swung low, winger timed the lane through the neutral zone. I stationed myself near the boards with Coach, tracking who rushed the play and who waited half a beat too long.
“Edmonton pinches hard here,” I said to no one in particular when Tucker tried to force the pass and Coach blew the whistle. “They bait that lane.”
Coach glanced at me, then nodded once. “Run it again.”
Second rep looked cleaner. Mason delayed just enough to pull the forechecker toward him before moving the puck. Hunter took it in stride and pushed wide. I caught Grayson’s grin as he glided past.
“That’s it,” I called. “Drag them out of position first.”
It felt strange, using my voice this way, not to demand the puck or call my own play, but to point out something that made the whole thing smoother. No one told me to shut up. No one shot me a look.
Coach shifted into a net-front drill next, heavy traffic, quick releases. I parked near the hash marks and watched hands, watched feet, watched how Edmonton’s goalie tended to drop early when bodies crowded his sightline.
“Fake the screen,” I said when Grayson fired one straight into pads. “Slide across late.”
Grayson tried it the next rep. The puck snapped into the corner of the net. He raised his stick in a small salute without breaking stride.
Practice rolled on, one drill feeding into the next.
Transition pressure. Corner battles. A set focused on short shifts and fast changes.
I skated when Coach waved me in, kept my touches simple, then stepped right back out to watch.
The energy buzzed through me anyway, a charge I hadn’t felt since the bench became off limits.
Between reps, Tucker skated over, breath fogging his visor. “You see something on their power play?”
“High seam opens when their weak-side forward cheats,” I said. “They trust their recovery speed too much.”
He nodded, thoughtful, then pushed off without another word.
That might have been the moment it really hit me. They were listening. Not humoring me, not waiting for me to mess up, just taking the information and folding it into their own game.
Coach gathered them at center ice for a water break. Bottles hissed open. Gloves thudded against the boards. I stayed back, content to watch the circle fill in without me.
Grayson skated over anyway. He stopped close enough that I could see the sweat darkening his collar.
“You’re different,” he said.
I shrugged. “Way more time to think on the bench.”
“That’s not what I mean.” He tipped his helmet back. “You’re making us better today.”
The words settled in deeper than any goal ever had. I didn’t have a smart reply ready. I settled for honest.
“That’s because I want you to win.”
Grayson studied me for a beat, then clapped my shoulder pad once and turned back toward the group.
Coach blew the whistle again. “Okay. Last set. Five-on-five pressure. Short shifts.”
The drill was fast and messy in the best way, bodies cutting lanes, sticks knocking pucks loose, voices calling coverage.
I paced along the boards, pointing out gaps, calling switches when I saw them late.
When Mason got caught too high, I shouted for Hunter to drop back.
When Tucker hesitated on a clear, I barked once and he sent it up ice without looking.
By the time Coach called it, my lungs burned and my legs shook even though I hadn’t logged half the work I used to. The guys drifted toward the bench, laughing, chirping, replaying moments from the drill.
Coach waved me over. “Good work today.”
It was a simple thing to say, but it didn’t feel small.
I peeled off my gloves and rested them on the bench, watching the team file past me toward the tunnel. Mason slowed, bumped my hip with his, easy and familiar. Hunter tossed me a grin. Tucker gave me a nod. Grayson went last, captain’s C catching the light as he passed.
“Be ready tomorrow,” Coach said quietly. “Your seat will be next to mine.”
I nodded, throat tight, and followed them off the ice, not playing, not benched in spirit either, finally part of the work instead of standing apart from it.
The building felt different when you weren’t dressing for the game.
I noticed it the second I stepped into the tunnel and took my place behind the bench instead of hopping over the boards for warmups.
The noise still hit the same—thirty seconds of chaos as the Oilers poured onto the ice, boos raining down from the crowd, the Surge faithful louder, sharper, defiant—but my body didn’t have an outlet for it.
The adrenaline had nowhere to go. It just sat there, buzzing under my skin, begging for a shift that wasn’t coming.
Round Two. Game Six. Closeout game.
Everything tight. Everything loud. Everything on a knife edge.
Coach leaned against the boards beside me, arms folded, jaw set. He didn’t say much before games like this. He trusted the work. Trusted the structure. Trusted the men wearing the jerseys.
And, somehow, he trusted me.
I tracked the Oilers during warmups out of habit.
Their power play unit ran reps with that same crisp arrogance they’d had all series.
Too much east-west movement. Too much faith in their cross-seam pass.
I’d watched it on film until the patterns lived in my head, the way you memorize exits in a burning building.
Nicole was already in her seat. Third row, center ice.
I found her without trying, like my eyes were hardwired for it now.
She had her Surge hoodie on, sleeves pushed up, fingers laced together like she was holding the team together through sheer will.
When she caught me looking, she smiled—small, nervous, proud.
That smile grounded me.
The puck dropped and the game immediately turned into a grind.
No flow. No freebies. Every inch of ice had to be earned with blood and lungs and bruises that would bloom purple by morning.
The Oilers came out desperate, fast through the neutral zone, forcing dump-ins and collapsing hard in their own end.
The Surge answered in kind, finishing every check, sticks in lanes, bodies in shooting lanes.
By the end of the first period, it was scoreless and ugly and perfect playoff hockey.
“Bench is tight,” Coach muttered beside me as the guys came off. “They’re squeezing.”
“They’re overloading the strong side,” I said without looking away from the ice. “Leaving the weak-side D high. If we can swing low and reverse quick, we get clean entries.”
Coach nodded once. “I see it.”
Second period. Same story, only louder.
The Oilers struck first off a broken play, a rebound that squirted loose in the crease and got jammed home before anyone could clear it. Their bench exploded. Our building went dead quiet in that awful way where thirty thousand people inhaled at the same time.
I felt it like a punch.
Nicole stood, hands on the glass, shouting something I couldn’t hear. She didn’t look scared. She looked furious.
Good.
The Surge pushed back, but nothing came easy. Shots died in shin pads. Passes hopped sticks. Their goalie tracked pucks like he was seeing them half a second before they were released. End of two, still 1–0 Oilers, and the air felt thin.
I leaned forward on the bench, elbows on my knees, heart pounding like I was about to take a draw.
“You okay?” Coach asked quietly.
“I hate this,” I said. “But I’m ready.”
That got the corner of his mouth to twitch.
Early third, the Surge tied it on a greasy net-front scramble. Mason took a beating in the slot and still managed to shovel the puck across the line with his backhand while flat on his stomach. The building erupted. Helmets flew. The bench lost its collective mind.
I caught Nicole jumping up and down, screaming, tears in her eyes. When she saw me watching, she pressed her fist to her heart and held it there.
I did the same without thinking.
Tie game. Everything to play for.
Then came the call.
Oilers defenseman hooked Grayson just enough to take his hands away as he cut to the net. The ref’s arm went up. The roar that followed felt like it shook the rafters.
Power play.
Coach slammed the door shut and waved the unit in tight. He looked at me instead of the whiteboard.
“Talk,” he said.
Every face turned toward me. Sweat-soaked. Breathing hard. Eyes burning.
This was it.
“They cheat the seam,” I said, voice steady even though my pulse was screaming. “Their weak-side winger collapses early. They think the cross-ice pass is coming, every time.”
I grabbed the marker and sketched fast. Simple. Clean.
“Start high. Pull them up. Don’t force it. When their winger bites, slip it low-to-high. Point shot, but not to score. You’re looking for the rebound off the pad. Their goalie kicks everything right.”
I looked at Mason. Then Grayson.
“Crash the weak side. Don’t hesitate.”
There was no doubt in their eyes. No skepticism. Just trust.
Coach slapped the boards. “You heard him. Go.”
They jumped over the boards and the noise somehow got louder.
I stood, hands clenched, every muscle screaming like I was about to take the shift myself. The puck dropped. Clean win back. Set up.
High cycle. Exactly like we’d drawn it.
The Oilers bit. Hard.
The lane opened.
Point shot. Low. Pad save.
Rebound.
Mason was there.
Goal.
I didn’t realize I was yelling until Coach grabbed my shoulder, laughing like a madman. The bench erupted. Helmets smacked glass. Sticks slammed the boards.
I looked up into the stands, chest heaving.
Nicole was crying now. Full-on, hands over her mouth, eyes shining. When she saw me looking, she mouthed, That was you.
I shook my head.
Because that was us.
The final minutes were survival. Blocking shots. Clearing pucks off the glass. Winning ugly battles along the boards. When the final horn sounded, the sound that followed was primal.
Series over.
Round Two belonged to the Surge.
The guys poured onto the ice, gloves and sticks flying, bodies colliding in joy. I stayed where I was for a second, overwhelmed in a way I didn’t have language for. I hadn’t scored. I hadn’t played a second.
And I’d never felt more part of a win.
McAvoy came up beside me, clapped me on the back hard enough to rattle my teeth.
“You see?” he said, grinning. “This is what happens when you stop trying to be the main character.”
I laughed, breathless. “Guess I needed a different role.”
He shook his head. “You’re not missing your moment, kid. It’s just coming a season late.”
I watched the team celebrate on the ice. Watched Nicole lean over the glass, face glowing. Watched something inside me settle into place.
For the first time in my career, the game wasn’t about me.
And it had never felt bigger.