Chapter 4 Kieran
Chapter four
Kieran
The puck dropped.
Our center won it cleanly. I collected along the boards, absorbed pressure, and chipped it into space.
No hesitation. Execution without thought.
I shot the puck low toward the goalie's stick side, aiming for a gap.
Forty-seven seconds.
I sat. Three swallows of water.
Coach Markel didn't look at me. The shift had met expectations, which meant it required no comment.
My legs weren't burning. Opening night was supposed to feel knife-edged, heavy, but for me, it was almost routine.
Three spots down, Heath sat with his helmet on and gloves in his lap. Shoulders drawn inward. Listening to Markel like there'd be a quiz later.
Less than twelve hours ago I'd watched him wrap both hands around a coffee mug at 2am. Felt his knee bump mine under a diner table.
Now we were three bench seats apart with nineteen thousand people watching.
The whistle blew.
Heath stood—two ritual taps against the boards—and vaulted over. His first stride was full commitment, all elbows and acceleration.
Clean shift. Forty-one seconds. He came off and sat two spots down, closer than before. Pulled his helmet off. Hair damp, breathing harder than me after less time.
My second shift: responsible entry and coverage requiring no adjustments.
Heath went right back at it, attacking immediately. Read their defenseman's step-up and drove low instead of drifting wide where safety lived.
It was the same Heath who leaned forward at the diner when asking me about my routines. Honest curiosity with no hesitation.
When the whistle blew, he landed next to me. Sweat beaded on his temple, tracking down to his jaw.
Rook leaned down the bench. "Good shift."
Heath nodded once. Didn't speak.
I turned back before someone noticed I'd been staring.
On the ice, our third line won a corner battle. Someone's shot rang off the iron and the crowd groaned.
Heath's knee bounced. Nervous energy.
Markel called the change. I stood and climbed over.
Won a footrace. Made a pass. Absorbed a hit. Thirty-eight seconds.
When Heath went out again, he nearly deflected a point shot.
Coach Markel watched with arms crossed and face blank.
Late in the first period, their defenseman pinched too aggressively. Julian Cross, our center, intercepted and chipped the puck forward.
Heath drove toward the net, a straight line, no wasted motion.
Cross carried wide, drew two defenders, and fired from a bad angle. The goalie kicked it out.
Bodies converged. Their defenseman crosschecked Heath in the lower back. Heath absorbed it, skates planted, stick blade flat.
The puck squirted loose. A defender's stick slashed across Heath's shins. The goalie lunged. Someone's glove caught Heath's shoulder, trying to move him.
He didn't move.
The puck hit his blade, not a shot, barely a touch. Redirected off the post, and caromed past the goalie's reach before anyone could react.
Red light. Horn.
Nineteen thousand people stood and roared.
The sound was a physical thing. It moved through the ice, up through my skates and into my chest.
Heath raised his stick briefly, reflexively. Cross grabbed his shoulders. Rook tapped his helmet.
Heath's face showed surprise more than celebration. Almost like a trespasser at midnight.
The jumbotron cycled replays. Three angles in slow motion.
The PA boomed: "IRONHAWKS GOAL SCORED BY NUMBER FORTY-EIGHT, HEATHCLIFF DONNELLY!"
During the timeout, Varga leaned over and grinned. "Hell of a tip, Donnelly!"
"Just got lucky."
It wasn't luck. The puck had deflected at the exact right angle because Heath kept his blade flat in traffic. He'd absorbed a crosscheck without losing position.
The timeout ended.
I pulled my helmet on and hopped over.
Skating past the bench, I tapped my stick once against the boards.
Heath glanced up. We looked at each other, connecting for half a second.
The puck dropped.
I won a draw along the wall, chipped the puck deep, and finished a check that slowed their breakout. Nothing flashy. Doing what the game asked of me.
We carried the lead into the intermission.
Markel made minor adjustments. Standard recalibration.
I retaped my stick. Stretched while half-listening to Varga explain why Cross's earlier chance had violated physics.
The horn sounded, and we filed back out.
Six minutes into the second period, I scored.
Clean. No scramble.
Cross won the draw and pulled the puck back. I drifted toward the far post, reading the play half a second early. Their defenders collapsed high, and the passing lane opened.
Our defenseman threaded it through. I collected at the crease top, shifted the angle, and snapped it short side.
Bar down.
The crowd noise rattled the foundation.
I raised my stick. Cross tapped my helmet. Quick touches, back to business.
The announcer: "IRONHAWKS GOAL SCORED BY NUMBER SEVENTEEN, KIERAN MATHERS!"
Back at the bench, Heath stood and tapped my shin pad.
"Nice goal."
Sincere.
I felt it, and then I moved on.
Two goals now. One mine, one Heath's. Same position. Same night.
The story was writing itself.
Veteran legacy player versus hungry upstart. Only room for one.
The pattern repeated. I executed cleanly. Heath held his own in net-front chaos.
The crowd picked up on it.
Every time Heath touched the puck, they cheered.
As the clock wound down, their coach pulled the goalie.
Markel sent me out. High-leverage defense.
I won the draw. Chipped it deep into their empty net.
Twenty seconds. Ten.
The horn sounded.
We won. Final 3-2.
The bench emptied chaotically, gloves off and helmets loosening.
The PA repeated the final score and named three stars.
Third: Cross.
Second: Me.
First: Heath.
The crowd roared at Heath's name.
First star. Opening night. And he looked terrified.
He skated out slowly, accepting congratulations with brief nods.
He tried to make himself smaller while the crowd chanted his number.
We lined up for handshakes. Their team filed past, exhausted but professional.
When it finished, we skated off. The crowd was still standing.
I glanced back once. Heath was last off the ice. Head down. Skating fast, trying to outrun the noise.
Back in the locker room, Varga held court near the showers.
"—Cross's goal violated physics. The puck curved—"
Pratt walked past in full gear minus his mask. "Newton could explain it. Did you ever take a physics class?"
"Newton never tracked a puck through five bodies while someone's stick was in his armpit—"
"That's called screening. Not physics."
"Screening is applied physics—"
Rook's voice cut through from near the showers. "Varga, if you're gonna defend your education, maybe start by finishing one."
General laughter. Varga flipped him off cheerfully.
I pulled my jersey over my head. Hung it in my stall. I stripped methodically. Shoulder pads. Elbow pads. Shin guards stacked precisely.
Down the row, Heath sat at his stall. Already mostly undressed, he stared at his phone, scrolling without focus.
First star. Opening night.
Rook walked past, towel around his waist. Stopped at Heath's stall.
"Good game, kid."
Heath glanced up. "Thanks. You too."
"You earned it."
I pulled on a clean t-shirt and reached for a pair of joggers. In five minutes, I'd sit next to Heath in front of cameras and lie about what we were.
The door opened.
Media coordinator. Clipboard in hand.
"Scrum in five. Mathers, Donnelly, Cross—you're up. Coach after."
I finished dressing. Quarter-zip. Ran a hand through my damp hair.
Cross was already moving, and I followed.
Behind me, Heath stood.
We all walked out the door into the hallway. Cross led. Heath fell into step beside me.
The silence between us was heavier than on the bench. Loaded with everything we couldn't say.
The media room had one long table. Three chairs. Microphones. Cameras. Reporters watched as we entered.
I took the middle seat. Cross left. Heath right.
We'd barely sat down when the first question came.
"Kieran—opening night, two left wingers scored from the same position. How does that feel?"
I leaned forward. Calm. Controlled.
"Feels like a win. That's what matters. We played solid team hockey, and this is the result."
The reporter didn't let go. "But both goals came from your position. Does that create internal competition for ice time?"
Next to me, Heath didn't move. He braced for my answer.
"We're all competing for ice time every shift. That's professional hockey. The coaching staff manages deployment. My job is to play my shifts and help the team."
Polished. Safe.
Another reporter. "Heath, first NHL opening night, you score and earn first star. What was going through your mind?"
He leaned toward his microphone. Shoulders tight.
"Just trying to get to the net. Puck bounced my way. Right place, right time."
Quietly minimizing.
The reporter pressed. "Coach Markel gave you significant minutes in high-leverage situations. Does that feel like validation?"
Heath hesitated for a beat. "I'm just trying to do my job. There's a lot of really talented players on this team. I'm grateful for the opportunity."
Another voice from the back. Sharper tone.
"Kieran, you and Donnelly are both playing left wing at a high level. Realistically, is there room for both of you long-term?"
I leaned forward.
"That's not my decision. Coach Markel manages the lineup. We both play our game, execute our roles, and the staff figures out what works best moving forward."
Neutral. Deflective. What I didn't say was a denial of the premise. I didn't shut the building narrative down.
Shutting it down might risk exposing what was really going on—the growing connection beyond the ice.
The reporter nodded. Satisfied. Already writing the angle.
Next to me, Heath's hand moved slightly. He closed half an inch of the distance between us.
We sat with our hands almost touching in front of a dozen reporters, and it was the most honest thing that had happened all night.
More questions. They asked Cross about his goal. I fielded an inquiry about my father.
Finally, one cut deeper than the others.
"Heath, Kieran has a contract extension coming up. Do you see yourself as his replacement if he walks?"
I watched him take a deep breath before he leaned toward the microphone.
"I'm not here to replace anyone. I'm here to play hockey. What happens with contracts isn't my business—that's between players and management. My job is to show up and do the work Coach Markel asks me to do."
He pulled back from the mic. The coordinator called time. We stood and filed out.
In the hallway, Cross peeled off toward the training room. Something about his shoulder.
That left Heath and me.
We walked side by side in an empty hallway with no cameras. He had his hood up. Hands in pockets.
Heath's voice was soft when he spoke. "Did I make it worse?"
"What?"
"Scoring. Did I—" He swallowed. "The articles are already comparing us. Same position. Same night. The headlines are already there."
"You didn't make anything worse," I said. "You played well and earned first star."
"That's not what I'm asking."
Outside the locker room door, I stopped and looked at him. "I know."
His jaw tensed. "So did I?"
My voice was firm. "No. You did exactly what you were supposed to. This was always going to happen. Whether or not you scored."
"But now there's numbers. Stats. Evidence."
"Yeah."
"Which makes it harder."
"Yeah," I said again. "It does."
He reached for the door handle and then stopped. When he moved again, his fingers caught my wrist.
Not hard. Just contact. Then he wrapped his fingers around my wrist where my sleeve had ridden up.
We stood there in the empty hallway with his hand on my wrist, and neither of us breathing. I felt his pulse through his fingertips. Or maybe that was mine. Maybe both.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. For seven years, I'd been perfect, and it took five seconds of contact to undo all of it.
Heat spread up my forearm. My breath caught.
He pulled back. "I'm sorry. I just—" He didn't finish.
"Not here," I said, my voice low. "But yeah."
He pushed through the door, and I followed.
Inside, the noise had died down. Most guys had already dressed or were close. The showers still ran.
Heath went straight to his stall. Started packing without looking at anyone.
I returned to mine. Grabbed my phone from the shelf.
Three notifications. Two texts. One news alert.
I opened the alert.
IRONHAWKS WIN OPENER: MATHERS, DONNELLY BOTH SCORE—IS THERE ROOM FOR BOTH?
The article was already out there. Posted before we'd even finished the scrum.
I skimmed it.
The Chicago Ironhawks opened their season with a 3-2 victory, but the real story may be the emerging rivalry at left wing.
Veteran Kieran Mathers delivered a textbook second-period goal that showcased exactly why he was drafted sixth overall, while rookie Heathcliff Donnelly announced his arrival with a gritty net-front tally that earned him first star honors and raised questions about the team's depth chart going forward.
The question facing Chicago: Is there room for both?
"We're all competing for ice time," Mathers said in the post-game scrum, declining to comment on whether positional overlap creates internal tension.
Donnelly, for his part, deflected praise with characteristic humility. "Just trying to do my job," he said, emphasizing gratitude.
With contract extension talks looming for Mathers and roster uncertainty still hanging over Donnelly's future, opening night may have set the stage for one of the season's most compelling stories. Both players proved they belong. The coaching staff now has to figure out if both can stay.
I read it twice.
Every word was factually accurate, but it was all fundamentally wrong.
We weren't competing.
We were trying to figure out how to want each other in a league that would destroy us both if anyone noticed.
The rivalry narrative was one thing that might keep people from looking too closely at why I couldn't stop watching Heath. Why I'd tapped his knee. Why my hand had stayed next to his on the table.
It gave everyone a reason to watch our dynamic without seeing what was actually there.
Heath had his equipment bag packed. Rook said something, and Heath nodded.
He slung his bag over his shoulder and headed for the door.
At the threshold, he paused. Looked back.
He caught my eye across the locker room and held my gaze for a count of three. Long enough to mean something. Not long enough to be noticed.
Then he left.
I'd played well. Scored. Executed perfectly.
But somehow, I'd helped build a cage slowly closing around both of us.
My phone buzzed.
Heath: I can still feel it.
Simple. Direct.
I looked at my wrist. The skin still felt warm where his fingers had been.
Kieran: Good. Don't stop.