Chapter 2
Chapter two
Kieran
The arena was mine after midnight.
I'd been skating for an hour, maybe more.
My edges bit clean. I took a tight turn at the far boards and accelerated through center ice. Stopped at the blue line, with my blades perpendicular and weight perfectly distributed. The marks I left were precise. Controlled.
The building settled around me. Somewhere overhead, a ventilation system cycled.
My phone buzzed on the bench.
I ignored it and skated another lap. Clean stops. Perfect edges. My blades sang against the ice.
The phone lit up again.
Agent, probably. Or my father's "advisor"—same thing, different area code. Checking in. Which meant reminding me that extension talks were approaching and everyone was very confident about how it would all go.
They were right to be confident.
I was the perfect machine they'd designed. For one more season, I'd follow the script. One more year of being inevitable, and then I'd be gone.
My plan was clean. Detailed. I'd accounted for all the variables and had contingencies in place. Graduate program applications waited in a file on my laptop. Scripps. The University of Miami. URI if I wanted cold water.
I stopped at center ice and let my skates settle. Stable. Predictable. Everything in balance.
Heading home would make the most sense. Sleep. Hydration. Mental preparation for opening night.
Instead, I thought about Heath Donnelly standing at the bar with his shoulders tight and his eyes on the Oscar named Melvin. I hadn't planned to talk to him. I'd finished fixing the blocked filter and checked the tank one last time.
The owner asked if I wanted a drink on the house. I'd been about to say no.
Then I saw Heath.
Legs and arms a little too long. Freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose. A smile that looked almost accidental.
I couldn't stop watching his throat when he swallowed.
The bar felt smaller as he moved closer.
I shoved off toward the boards, skating hard enough that my thighs screamed for mercy.
Heath tensed and made himself smaller when I said he'd played well in preseason. Like he didn't quite believe me when I spoke the truth.
I'd pushed back. Told him it wasn't charity. And Heath had gone still. His eyes steady on mine, deciding whether to believe me. My skin had gone hot. Face, throat, the back of my neck. Not subtle. Not safe.
My phone buzzed again. This time I skated to the bench and looked.
Three missed calls. Two texts. One headline notification.
Agent: Kier! Let's connect tmrw. Wheels are turning. Big things coming.
Scrolled past it.
The headline loaded.
IRONHAWKS' OPENING NIGHT: CAN DONNELLY PUSH MATHERS FOR ICE TIME?
Read it twice.
I'd been expecting articles like that. Heath and I played the same position. Media saw us as legacy versus raw hunger. Analysts would frame it as internal competition, like the coaching staff was running some kind of Darwinian experiment to see who deserved the most minutes.
"With contract talks looming for Mathers and roster uncertainty for Donnelly, opening night could set the tone for who really belongs on that top wing."
I clenched my teeth. The story was neat. Marketable.
It was also entirely wrong.
We weren't competing. Heath wasn't pushing me, and I wasn't defending anything.
Imagining otherwise was catnip to the media. An easy invention. It cast me as an obstacle for Heath, the gatekeeper between a kid and his dream.
Another lap. Faster this time. I bore down. Edges sharp. Weight transfer seamless.
My body executed on autopilot. No adjustments needed. No thought required.
Perfect.
That's what people said about my game. He plays the right way. Never out of position. High hockey IQ.
Translation: He does what he's supposed to.
They praised me that way my entire life. Disciplined. Reliable.
I used to think it mattered.
Now, I thought about Heath standing in net-front traffic during preseason. He'd planted himself just outside the crease. Elbows out, skates wide. Their defenseman leaned into him hard enough to move most players, but Heath absorbed the contact and kept his stick active.
When the puck squirted loose, he'd been precisely where he needed to be. He didn't drift when traffic got uncomfortable. He stayed to finish the play.
I'd watched from the bench, expecting him to get knocked down. Instead, he stayed there. Stubborn and absolutely committed to being where he was supposed to be, even if it hurt.
I slowed at center ice and let myself coast. My breathing evened out. The rink stretched wide and silent around me, but the silence had changed. Earlier, it was like privacy. Now it felt like a witness.
I ran the drill one more time. Edges and acceleration.
My blade caught. Not much. A quarter-inch too shallow on the turn, with too much weight leaning forward.
I corrected automatically. Finished the sequence cleanly, but I'd felt it. The slip.
It wasn't the first time I'd slipped.
My first and, so far, only kiss happened that way. A teammate in juniors. Late at night in a hotel room after a road win. Both of us were drunk on adrenaline and cheap beer.
The room smelled like pizza and sweat-soaked pads. The bed had been too soft, some budget chain mattress that dipped in the middle. He tasted like beer and spearmint gum, and when he grabbed my shirt, his hands shook.
Mine did too.
For ten seconds, my body moved without asking permission. Heat and want. A terrifying loss of control.
Then fear—sharp and immediate—that someone would uncover the evidence.
I buried it afterward. Discipline. Diet. Film study. Weight training. Razor-sharp focus that made coaches trust me in all situations.
Learned to channel everything into hockey. To perform so well that no one looked deeper.
It worked. Until tonight.
When I sat close enough to Heath to feel him adjust his position to make room for me.
I shook my head. Pushed off again. Hard.
Except Heath was still there. In my peripheral vision. Uninvited. Persistent.
I stood at center ice. Let the building hold its breath around me. My blades had stopped moving, and without them, the silence was enormous.
I headed for the locker room.
The night was supposed to be clean. Heath Donnelly had looked at me in a bar and asked honest questions about my aquarium maintenance. Normal, nothing unusual, except what was now sitting in my chest was anything but normal.
Back in my jeans and button-down, I headed for the players' parking. My shoulders were tense. Rolled them and winced at the pull in my traps. Too much time on the ice without stretching after.
Near the main corridor, light spilled from the security office.
"Night, Mathers."
I looked up. It was Davidson. Night security. Former Chicago PD, probably sixties, always had coffee and a paperback mystery on his desk.
"Night."
"Late skate?"
"Opening night tomorrow. Wanted to get some last-minute work in."
He nodded. "You guys'll be great. That Donnelly kid—he's got something, doesn't he?"
My jaw tightened.
"Yeah," I said. "He does."
Davidson smiled. "Get some rest. Big day tomorrow."
"Will do."
The parking garage was colder than the hallway. Concrete and shadows and the smell of motor oil mixed with tire rubber. My car was where I'd left it: third level, far corner, away from where anyone else parked.
Chicago at night was quieter than during the day, but never silent. Traffic lights cycling. Trains running. Music leaking out of open windows.
I'd bought a River North condo. Twelfth floor. View of the river. Twenty-three minutes door to door from the arena, traffic depending.
My building rose ahead, glass and steel, expensive and anonymous.
I pulled into the underground garage. Second level. Reserved spot.
I checked my phone before getting out.
Three more notifications since I'd left the arena. A text message.
Dad: Good luck tomorrow. Make it count.
He couldn't sleep either.
I pictured him at the kitchen table, reading glasses on. He'd have checked the preseason stats. Probably twice.
Make it count.
I grabbed my bag from the back seat. Got out and locked the car.
The elevator to my floor was empty. My condo was dark.
Before turning on any lights, I crossed to the windows looking out over the city. I'd chosen the condo because it could be anonymous while being close enough to the arena. Never looked at the view until after moving in.
The kitchen counter was clean except for a single coffee mug from this morning.
I opened the fridge.
Bottled water. Greek yogurt. Pre-made protein shakes. Nothing that required actual cooking.
My living room looked like a museum exhibit: Habitat of the Professional Athlete Who Doesn't Actually Live Here. It came with furniture the real estate agent called "modern" and "sophisticated."
I'd lived here for two years and never moved a single piece.
On the bookshelf, one frame didn’t match the rest. Me in a borrowed parka, grinning like an idiot beside Ansel, a beluga whale at Shedd. Taken over the summer. The glass fogged from his breath.
The coffee table was stacked with marine biology journals. The top one had a Post-it bookmark halfway through an article on ocean acidification. Next to it, grad school brochures with deadlines underlined in black.
Tomorrow was opening night.
Heath Donnelly would take the ice for the first time as a full roster player, fighting for a spot he'd already earned.
I would skate one shift ahead of him.
My phone buzzed.
Heath: You up?
I nearly dropped the phone.
Kieran: Yeah.
Another message came through almost instantly.
Heath: Can't sleep either. Coffee?
It was almost 2:00 am, the night before opening night. I looked at my dark condo. My expensive furniture. The grad school brochures with their underlined deadlines. The life I was carefully planning.
Kieran: Where?