Chapter 20
Mikey
The smell of a locker room never changes. It doesn't matter if it's a practice rink in Naperville, the high-tech facility of the Detroit Red Wings, or the dingy, sweat-soaked catacombs of the North Ridge Arena. It always smells like rubber, anticipation, and fear.
But today, for the first time in my life, I didn't smell the fear.
Around me, the room was buzzing. It was the CCHA Championship Game. North Ridge vs. Michigan Tech. The winner went to the NCAA tournament.
Technically, I wasn't supposed to be playing. I had signed my pro contract with Detroit two weeks ago. I was ineligible for NCAA play.
But this wasn't an NCAA game for me. It was an exhibition farewell. A "Senior Night" ceremony before the puck drop where the graduating players took a final lap.
I looked around the room.
Jagger was taping his stick, humming a Taylor Swift song. Miller was vomiting in the trash can (tradition). Mac stood at the whiteboard, drawing plays that looked more like abstract art than hockey strategy.
I closed my eyes and thought back to September.
Back then, I was a ghost haunting these halls. I was a 240-pound weapon with a ticking time bomb in my DNA. I was isolated, angry, and terrified that one day I would wake up and not know my own name. I thought love was a weakness. I thought connection was a liability.
I opened my eyes and looked at my wrist.
Under my glove, taped securely to my skin, was a small, white strip of athletic tape with "MOUSE" written on it in black marker.
I wasn't a weapon anymore. I was a husband (well, fiancé, but the paperwork was just a formality). I was a partner. I was a man who had stared into the abyss and had the abyss blink first because Lydia Cross was standing next to me holding a flashlight.
"Holt!" Mac barked. "Stop daydreaming about your girlfriend and get out there. Ceremony starts in five."
"Fiancée, Coach," Jagger corrected from the corner. "Respect the tape ring."
"Shut up, Vance," Mac grumbled, but he was smiling. Actually smiling.
I stood up. My leg—the titanium-reinforced miracle—felt solid.
"Let's go," I said.
The arena was deafening.
Five thousand fans, all wearing North Ridge grey and black. The band was playing the fight song. The student section was holding up a massive banner that read: THANK YOU MAULER.
I skated out onto the red carpet that had been laid on the ice. The PA announcer was booming.
"And now... graduating senior... bound for the Detroit Red Wings... Number 14... MIKEY HOLT!"
The place exploded.
I waved, feeling a lump in my throat the size of a puck. I didn't deserve this. I had almost quit on them. I had signed a confession that could have ruined the program.
But they didn't care. They just saw the guy who hit people so hard their ancestors felt it.
I skated to center ice where the families were waiting.
My mom wasn't there, obviously. My dad wasn't there—he was safe in the facility, watching on a TV I had bought for his room, hopefully recognizing the number on my back.
But someone else was there.
Lydia.
She was standing next to Mac. She was wearing my jersey—the one I had worn in the game where I broke my leg. It was huge on her, swallowing her frame. She looked ridiculous. She looked perfect.
When I reached her, she didn't offer a polite hug. She launched herself at me.
I caught her, my skates digging into the ice for stability. I buried my face in her neck, inhaling the vanilla and lavender scent that had become my oxygen.
"You made it," she whispered into my ear. "You made it to the finish line."
"Start line," I corrected, pulling back to look at her. "This is just the start line."
She beamed, tears streaming down her face. She reached up and wiped a tear from my cheek with her thumb.
"Go say goodbye to the fans, Problem," she said. "Then come find me. We have a U-Haul to pack."
I kissed her. Right there. Center ice. Five thousand people watching. Mac watching. The cameras broadcasting to the local news.
I didn't care.
I kissed her like she was the reason for gravity.
When we broke apart, the crowd was cheering louder than they had for any goal.
I took my lap. I raised my stick to the student section. I tapped my chest.
I see you.
Then I skated off.
I wasn't playing the game tonight. My job was done here. The team—Jagger, Miller, the rest of them—they were ready to take over. I had taught them how to be tough. Now they had to learn how to win without me.
I stood in the tunnel as the game started. I watched the first shift.
Jagger threw a massive hit in the corner. Clean. Brutal.
I smiled.
"Not bad," I muttered.
"He learned from the best," a voice said beside me.
Lydia was there. She had slipped away from the ceremony and found me in the shadows.
"He needs to keep his elbow down," I critiqued, though my heart was swelling with pride.
"He'll figure it out," she said. She slipped her hand into mine. "Ready to go?"
"Don't you want to watch the game?"
"I've seen enough hockey to last a lifetime," she teased. "Besides, we have a six-hour drive to Detroit. And I want to get there before the movers show up tomorrow."
I looked at the ice one last time. I looked at the North Ridge logo at center ice.
It had been a hell of a ride. I had bled on this ice. I had broken bones on this ice. I had found my soulmate in the hallway behind this ice.
"Yeah," I said, turning away. "Let's go."
Lydia
The U-Haul was packed to the brim.
It contained everything we owned. My textbooks. His hockey gear. A box of Aunt Sarah's casseroles (frozen). And a brand new dog bed that was optimistically large.
We were parked outside the Hive. Mikey wanted to say one last goodbye to the house that built him.
He stood on the lawn, looking up at the log cabin structure. It was loud inside—post-game party (they won 4-1).
"Gonna miss it?" I asked, leaning against the truck.
"The smell? No," he laughed. "The brotherhood? Yeah. A little."
He walked back to the truck. He looked different than the boy I had met in September. He stood taller. The shadows under his eyes were gone. He wasn't carrying the weight of the world anymore; he was just carrying the weight of moving boxes.
He opened the driver's door.
"You driving?" I asked.
"I'm the one with the commercial license," he grinned. "Hop in, Mouse."
I climbed into the passenger seat. The cab smelled like stale coffee and new beginnings.
We pulled onto the highway, heading south. Toward the Lower Peninsula. Toward Detroit.
"So," Mikey said after an hour of silence. "Corktown."
"Corktown," I confirmed. "Loft 4B. Brick walls. Big windows. Close to the dog park."
"And the facility is only forty minutes away," he added. "I can visit Dad on off-days."
"We can visit him," I corrected. "I want to meet him, Mikey. On a good day."
He reached across the console and took my hand. His thumb rubbed the tape ring that I refused to take off until he replaced it with a real one (which he promised to do with his first paycheck).
"You're amazing," he whispered.
"I know," I smirked. "I'm a genius."
"A genius who blackmailed a rookie," he reminded me.
"Hey, it worked out. Davis is transferring to Alaska Anchorage. He'll freeze."
Mikey laughed. "You're ruthless."
"I'm protective."
We drove into the night. The stars were bright above the highway.
I thought about the future.
It wasn't going to be easy. Being a rookie in the AHL was a grind. The travel was brutal. The money was tight. And the specter of Feral Madness would always be there, lurking in the DNA strands.
But I looked at Mikey.
He wasn't white-knuckling the steering wheel. He was relaxed. He was humming along to the radio (badly).
He wasn't afraid anymore.
And because he wasn't afraid, I wasn't afraid.
We passed a sign: WELCOME TO DETROIT.
"Here we go," Mikey said softly.
"Here we go," I echoed.
He squeezed my hand.
"Hey, Lydia?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for not running."
I looked at him, my heart full to bursting.
"Thanks for giving me a reason to stay."
The city lights appeared on the horizon, glittering like diamonds.
We were just two kids with a U-Haul and a dream. A wolf and a mouse. A trainer and a problem.
But as we crossed the city limits, I knew one thing for certain.
We were going to be legends.
Three Years Later
The ice at Little Caesars Arena in Detroit was pristine.
The crowd was already chanting. "MAU-LER! MAU-LER!"
It was Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals. Detroit Red Wings vs. Chicago Blackhawks.
I stood in the tunnel, adjusting my credential. LYDIA HOLT - TEAM PHYSIOTHERAPIST.
(Okay, technically I was a consultant, but they gave me the all-access pass because the GM was terrified of me).
I watched the team skate out.
And there he was.
Number 14. An 'A' stitched onto his jersey now. Alternate Captain.
Mikey Holt. The Wall.
He was massive. He was terrifying. He was the best defensive defenseman in the league.
He did his lap. He shot a puck into the empty net.
Then, he skated over to the glass where I was standing.
He didn't care about the cameras. He didn't care about the millions of people watching.
He took off his glove. He pressed his hand against the glass.
On his ring finger, tattooed in black ink, was a simple band. A permanent replacement for the tape.
I pressed my hand against the glass, matching his palm. My own ring—a platinum band with a small diamond—clinked against the pane.
He winked. A golden flash of wolfish mischief.
Then he turned and skated to the blue line.
"He looks good," a voice said beside me.
I turned. Uncle Mac was standing there. He had retired from coaching last year and was now a scout for Detroit. (Nepotism? Maybe. Or maybe he just had a good eye).
"He looks focused," I said.
"He looks happy," Mac corrected. "That's all you, Lydie."
"It's us," I said. "It's always been us."
The puck dropped.
The game was a war. Bodies flying. Sticks breaking.
In the third period, tie game, Mikey blocked a shot with his chest. He went down.
The crowd gasped.
I didn't flinch. I knew him.
He got up. He shook it off. He cleared the zone.
And then, with ten seconds left, he made the pass. A perfect, sixty-foot stretch pass to the winger.
Breakaway. Goal.
The siren wailed. The confetti cannons fired.
Detroit had won the Cup.
I didn't wait for permission. I ran onto the ice.
The celebration was chaos. Men crying. Beards everywhere.
But I only had eyes for one man.
He was in the center of the pile, holding the Cup over his head. He roared—a sound of pure, unadulterated joy.
He saw me.
He handed the Cup to the Captain and skated toward me.
He picked me up, spinning me around as the red and white confetti rained down on us.
"We did it!" he shouted. "We won the damn Cup!"
"You did it!" I screamed back.
"No!" He set me down, but kept his arms around me. "We did it. The team."
He kissed me. Deep and hard and full of three years of hard work, late nights, and defied expectations.
"I have a surprise," he whispered against my lips.
"Better than the Cup?"
"Maybe."
He reached into his pocket (who keeps things in hockey pants?) and pulled out a photo. An ultrasound.
I froze.
"What?" I gasped. "How... I haven't even taken the test yet! I just suspected this morning!"
"I smelled it," he grinned, tapping his nose. "Changes in pheromones. You smell like... well, like a mom."
I stared at the photo. A tiny little bean.
"A pup," I whispered.
"A pup," he agreed.
"Is it...?" I gestured vaguely to his eyes.
"Don't know yet," he said. "But if it is... we'll handle it. We have the data."
He looked at me with so much love it almost knocked me over.
"We have the house," he said. "We have the dog (Barnaby, the 150-pound Newfoundland waiting at home). We have the Cup. And now..."
He put a hand on my stomach.
"Now we have the pack."
I covered his hand with mine.
"Yeah," I said, tears mixing with the sweat on his face. "We have it all."
The cameras flashed. The crowd cheered.
But in the center of the ice, in the center of the noise, it was quiet.
Just the Wolf. Just the Mouse. And the beautiful, messy, perfect life we had built out of broken pieces.