18. Hudson
HUDSON
Warmups end, and the horn sounds. We huddle at the bench for the starting shift. Rocco takes the face-off dot at center. I line up at the left wing, skate blades on the paint. Oliver taps my shin pad with his stick at the right wing. Our D pair is Ellis and Carter.
Puck drops. Rocco wins it back on his backhand and turns his hips to shield. I swing across the red and take the touch pass. Their right D gaps up early. I chip to space off the wall, beat him to the dot, and rim it behind the net.
Oliver gets there first and bumps it back to Rocco. We start the cycle. Low to high to low. Ellis drifts down the wall, takes a return, wrists it on the net through a screen. Goalie kicks it to the corner. I seal the boards and tap it back to Rocco. He cuts middle. Shot. Pad save.
It’s quick and brutal. Everything I love about the game.
Second shift, neutral-zone regroup. Carter hits me in stride at the far blue. I drag to my backhand, lay it for Oliver through the seam, and drive the far post. He shoots, and the rebound pops out.
I get a stick on it, but their center ties me up. The puck dies under a pile. Whistle.
We take the O-zone draw left side. Rocco sets his feet, wins it clean to Ellis. One-timer, wide. We stay on them. Rocco stays between the dots and cheats to the strong side. It clicks early. We hold them to the outside. Our gaps are tight, and sticks are in the lanes. We’ve got this.
Midway through the first, we get a matchup we like. Their second pair is slow on pivots. I take the puck on a controlled entry and push wide left. Their D swivels. I cut to my forehand and feed a late trailer. Rocco one-times.
Crossbar, out.
The crowd groans. The bench pounds sticks. We keep going. We always keep going. That’s what makes us the hometown heroes. Not the wins. The determination.
Defensive zone, face-off right side. Rocco ties his man. I crash inside hash marks, and the puck squirts weak side. Oliver lifts a stick, chips the glass, and out. I win the race, angle the defenseman, and put it deep.
Later, we get our break. I pick off a lazy pass on the wall and feed Rocco in the slot. He snaps it low blocker. One–nothing. We skate through the line of arms, gloves to gloves, and return to the bench, breathing hard.
Between shifts, Coach says, “Keep reading that weak side—he’s late every time.”
The next period starts heavy. They switch to an aggressive mode, and our defense is hammered on retrievals. I skate low to help, present a short outlet, and eat a hit to get a clean chip. Travis jumps their bench for his line change and chirps at me as he crosses. I don’t look. I hold the rail.
Fuck that kid.
Six minutes in, their captain throws a reverse behind his net.
I read it and arrive at the same time as their left D.
I get body position and separate him from the puck.
He turns, expecting a soft finish. I shoulder through him harder than I should and ride him into the wall after the puck is gone.
It frees the puck. Oliver picks it up, walks the short side, and tucks it before their goalie resets. Two–nothing.
It’s ugly, but we’re not at a tea party. I’m done playing nice.
The boos start on the far side, then spread. It isn’t the whole building. It’s enough. Their bench leans over and points. The linesman skates by me and says, “Watch your finish.”
The ref’s arm stays down.
I know why. My feet were moving. My hands were low. It was late by less than a beat. But it still looked bad.
I skate to the bench and sit. My chest feels tight in a way that isn’t about lungs. Coach leans in. “They’re hunting a call.” I nod and force my face flat.
Rocco bumps my shoulder once with his glove. “Next one, make him play the puck.”
Next shift, they send their hitter after me. He’s a piece of work, like me. I peel off early twice rather than invite another gray hit. I’m not playing by their rules. Fuck all of this bullshit.
The crowd lets me hear it. I keep my head down and skate my routes. On a back-check, I pick up weak-side responsibility, switch with Ellis at the dot, and front a shot that stings but dies in my pads.
They score one late on a screen. Two–one.
We lock it down in the third with a heavy, simple game.
Pucks deep, bodies on bodies, no east-west. I take short shifts and change hard to keep my legs fresh.
Final minute, I eat a puck on the thigh—damn near the same spot as before—and limp the last twenty seconds.
We block two more and flip one out to the red. Horn.
Win. Barely.
We tap gloves in the line. Their D jaw at me as we pass.
What the fuck ever. I keep my mouth shut. I lift my stick to our end of the building, then drop it fast because the boo pocket is still there, and I don’t feel like feeding it. The room is loud.
In the tunnel, trainers hand out water. Ellis slaps my helmet. “Good read on the reverse,” he says.
Carter adds, “Just finish it cleaner.”
I nod at both. It’s the right note.
In the room, gear off, towels, tape, the usual.
Coach gives a quick wrap. “Bank the points. Learn the lesson. Media in five.” He looks at me once, then moves on.
I press a cold pack to the thigh and change into sweats.
I tape my wrists out of habit. I towel off, pull on a hat, and head to the media area.
The scrum forms fast. The first questions are fast. I answer straight. No sense in not giving them what they want to hear. We won. That’s what matters.
But one of the freelancers pivots. “Hudson, can you talk about the video from outside Bea’s? Looks like you and Meg and your linemates are…closer than teammates.” He smiles like he’s found something. “Is this a poly thing? Does that explain your recent slump and the cheap shot tonight?”
The room goes quiet. I taste metal. “We’re here to talk about the game.”
He pushes. “Fans want to know if the barista drama is a distraction. They say you’re personally involved with that coffeeshop owner, and women want to know—are you three sharing the same woman?”
I see red and take a step forward before my brain catches up. My hand rises halfway because the part of me that wants to grab his recorder runs hot. Fitz’s hand lands on my biceps and squeezes. Rocco steps between us like he’s checking a man out of the crease. The PR rep says, “Next,” sharp.
The scrum shifts like a school of fish. Another reporter asks about our neutral-zone coverage, and I latch onto it like a lifeline.
In the car, the radio is off. I replay the hit.
I replay the step toward the reporter. Neither looks like the person I try to be.
I think about Travis, about his mouth in practice, about how fast I’ve been reaching for heat lately.
I think about Meg telling us the cooldown is important until the legal mess stabilizes.
I want to argue with the world about all of it.
Arguing won’t fix anything. When has it ever?
I park at home and go upstairs. The apartment is empty. The kitchen still smells faintly like honey cedar from the last batch of candles. I set my phone on the counter and stare at it.
I know what I should do. I don’t want to do it. I’m going to do it anyway.
I prop the phone on a mug and open the camera. I frame my face and shoulders. I hit record.
“Okay,” I say to the lens. “Here it is. I took a cheap shot tonight. It wasn’t a penalty.
But it still looked bad. It worked, and I don’t like that it worked.
I’m mad I did it. I’m mad I almost swung on a reporter who tried to drag Meg and my friends into a story that isn’t his business.
I’ve been easy to rile lately. That’s on me. ”
I look down, then back up. “I’m not sending this to social.
I’m sending it to you, Meg. You said clear is better.
So clear—I’m worried about my temper. I’m not putting it on you to fix.
It’s on me to fix this. I’m talking to our team counselor tomorrow.
I’m going to ask Coach for a referral for anger management, not because I’m breaking things, but because I don’t want to be the guy who almost does. And I don’t want to break me.”
I breathe. “Travis gets in my head because I let him. The fans boo because sometimes I earn it. The legal mess is twisting me up because I want to help, and I can’t fix it with my hands. Your cooldown is the right call. It doesn’t feel good. That isn’t a reason to push. I’m going to respect it.”
I keep my eyes on the lens. “I’m ashamed of the hit I took tonight.
I’m ashamed I let that reporter touch the wire.
I’m sharing this because you asked us to tell the truth even when it isn’t pretty.
We’ve always told the truth. If we end up together, or not, we’re still us.
I don’t want to lose that because I stopped saying the hard parts out loud because I’m afraid of losing the physical part of things with you.
We’re more than that. We always have been. ”
I pause and add one more thing. “I’m not asking for a gold star.
I’m asking for help to stay honest. If you hear me getting loud in the wrong way, tell me.
I’ll listen. And if I see you spiraling, I’ll tell you.
This isn’t me asking for favors. This is me reminding myself that I have the best friends in the world, and we can count on each other. ”
I stop the recording. I watch it once. I hate watching myself. Hate the sound of my voice. But I send it anyway. I put the phone face down and wait for the sound it makes when a message lands. It takes three minutes that feel like twenty.
Her reply is text, not video. That was very brave. Thank you for trusting me. I’m proud of you for getting help, no matter how things go for us. Drink water. Eat. Sleep. You’re okay.
I lean on the counter and let my shoulders drop an inch. I drink two glasses of water because she told me to and because my mouth is dry. I pull chicken and rice from the fridge and eat standing up. Our counselor and I text until she pens me in for her first appointment tomorrow.
After the dishes, I set up the melter and all the other equipment. I pull three scent bottles from the shelf and set them in a line—honey accord, sweet cream, roasted coffee.
Smells like Bea’s.
I test ratios on paper. First blend is too sweet.
Second, coffee dominates. Third, better.
I make small tester tins at different blends and label them with a marker: A1, A2, B1, B2.
I let them sit for twenty minutes, then warm the tops with the heat gun to smooth the sink marks.
I note wick size on the sheet—CDN 8 for these eight-ounce tins—so I don’t guess later.
It’s methodical and creative and kind of boring. Exactly what I need right now.
I open my label template and type a name: brAVE.
That’s what she called me, just for sharing my feelings.
All caps, plain font. No flourish. I add the notes under it in small type: honey, cream, coffee .
I print one label and stick it on a tin.
I set it on the counter and look at it until the word stops looking like a stranger.
I text a photo to Meg, the tin on the counter, the label clear. New one. brAVE. Honey, cream, coffee. Your candle.
She replies fast. Save me one.
I pour a small run, six tins, all at the final ratio. I write the batch number in the corner of the label. I clean up as they cool. I wrap one in brown paper and set it aside for her. The rest go on the shelf to cure. I’ll test burn one tomorrow for a full three-hour cycle and trim the wick after.
After the kitchen is clear, I sit at the table with a notebook. I make a list for the morning. Call the counselor. Deliver Meals on Wheels at noon. Drop Meg’s candle at Bea’s if she has a minute, no pressure. Cook dinner. Sleep early.
I check the highlight clip on my phone because I need to see the hit once more to fix it in my head. It looks like what it was. Not good.
I close it and open the team app. I type a short note to the group chat: My bad on the reverse finish. Won’t happen again. Ellis reacts with a thumbs-up. Carter sends: we got the two points. Rocco adds: learned. next. Fitz sends me a separate text: Proud of you.
I shower, set out my gear for tomorrow, and climb into bed. The room is quiet. The rest is noise I filter out, thinking about what I can do to change things.
Before I sleep, I send Meg one more text: I’ll keep you posted after I talk to the counselor. No replies needed. Rest. She sends back a bee and a heart. I put the phone on the nightstand and turn off the light.
In the dark, the word on the tin across the room helps. brAVE. It isn’t a headline. It isn’t a chant. It’s a step.
Tomorrow I skate, I call, I deliver meals, I pour a few more, and I keep my hands where they belong.
Tomorrow, I’ll be honest with myself about myself.
Tomorrow, I’ll be brave.