Chapter 18 The File
THE FILE
Game three, semis, the kind of night you remember for the rest of your life or erase with enough whiskey that it never happened.
The arena’s only half-full, but every seat’s alive, humming, every face craning to get a look at the "team that survived."
That’s what the banner says, hanging limp above the Zamboni doors, "Survivors." The joke is, the city didn’t give a shit about us until we got shot up.
Now it’s all candlelight vigils and trauma porn and reporters in the tunnels with their hungry, wet eyes.
I tune it out. Try to.
But there’s no getting around it, we’re circus animals.
The pregame anthem is louder than usual, the lights hit just a second longer, the camera crew from KIRO stalking us all the way from the locker room to the bench, like we’re going to collapse before puck drop and make their evening.
Ash is the last one out of the tunnel, helmet tilted just enough to keep his face in shadow.
He always does this thing where he taps his stick twice on the dashers before taking the ice, and tonight the sound bounces through the building like gunshots. The crowd eats it up.
They love him now, the perpetual benchwarmer turned star, the guy with the scar on his chin and the look in his eyes that says "hit me again, see what happens."
The Titans are already lined up at the blue line, helmets off, every head turned toward us.
Their captain, Kruchten, is front and center, shoulders squared, jaw tight. He’s got the kind of face that would be handsome if it wasn’t for the perpetual sneer carved into it, like he’s chewing glass even when he’s not.
He catches my eye for a second, then shifts to Ash. Doesn’t look away.
There’s a myth that hockey is noble, that it’s just good clean violence, but anyone who’s spent more than a period on the ice knows: it’s personal.
Every cross-check, every face wash, every chirp at the dot—it's a test to see who will break first.
I watch the handshake, the ceremonial stick tap, the polite murder that passes for sportsmanship in this league.
Ash doesn’t flinch. Kruchten leans in, says something, and Ash just laughs, helmet bobbing, and I know the sound even from fifty feet away.
Puck drops, and we’re off.
First period is all nerves, all adrenaline, both teams playing scared and sloppy, nobody wanting to make the first mistake.
Ash is on the second line tonight, Coach giving him more ice time because his hands are hot and the last game winner still made Sportscenter.
He’s flying. Every shift, he digs deeper, chasing pucks he has no business reaching, slamming into bodies twice his size, coming up grinning every time.
Kruchten targets him early. First shift, he runs him into the boards so hard the glass flexes.
After the whistle, he buries his glove in Ash’s face and calls him something. I can’t hear it, but I can guess.
Next time down the ice, he does it again, only now the ref’s not looking, so he throws in a little elbow for free.
Ash pops up like it’s nothing, mouthguard in, already jawing back. I want to tell him to keep his head down, to let it slide, but I know it’s useless. He’s not wired that way.
He never has been.
From the net, you see everything. The way plays develop, the seams in the defense, the set of a guy’s shoulders before he snaps off a wrist shot.
But what I see tonight, more than anything, is the slow-motion trainwreck of Kruchten versus Ash, two magnets locked in, neither of them willing to veer off course.
We kill off a penalty early, then give up a shit goal on a weird bounce off Raz’s skate. I bang my stick on the post, the vibration running up my arms all the way to my teeth.
The whole time, Ash is on the bench, chewing his lip, watching the Titans' captain like he’s waiting for permission to punch him in the throat.
Between periods, the locker room is dead quiet. O’Doul tries to break the silence with a joke about the ref’s hairpiece, but nobody bites.
Even Coach is muted, just dry-erase marker on the whiteboard, hands trembling like she’s on a caffeine drip.
Ash sits at the end of the bench, helmet off, sweat running in a line down his temple. He’s got a cut over his eyebrow, already scabbing, but he doesn’t wipe it away.
He looks at me, just for a second, and the flash in his eyes is something between "help" and "don’t you fucking dare."
The second period is worse. The Titans get mean, start running our guys in the corners, hacking at wrists, slashing ankles behind the play. The refs miss half of it, or pretend to.
Midway through, Ash takes a high stick to the mouth, goes down, and stays down.
I can feel my blood pressure spike, every heartbeat in my ears like a bomb ticking down.
I see the trainer start to come out, but Ash waves him off, gets up slow, spits a mouthful of blood onto the ice, then skates straight for the bench.
He grabs a towel, jams it to his face, and I watch him laughing with Tommy like it’s a fucking joke.
It isn’t.
Next shift, Kruchten lines up opposite Ash on the faceoff. He leans in, says something. Ash responds with a head tilt, like he’s daring him to say it again.
The puck drops, and Kruchten doesn’t even go for the puck. He just barrels straight through Ash, sending him flying.
This time, Ash doesn’t get up right away. He’s curled on the ice, one glove off, holding his side.
For a second, the world goes silent, the whole arena holding its breath, and I feel every muscle in my body contract, ready to bolt from the crease and end this myself.
But he gets up. Of course he does. He always does.
He skates to the bench, one hand on the dasher, breath coming in shallow gasps. I can’t see his face, but I know he’s trying not to let anyone see how much it hurts.
The rest of the period is a blur. I make a couple of saves I have no business making, pure adrenaline, pure hatred.
The Titans score again, but we claw one back on the power play, Ash getting the assist even though he can barely hold his stick.
By the third, it’s a war zone.
We’re down one, ten minutes left, and every shift is a death march. Ash is out there, eyes glassy, skating on fumes. Kruchten is everywhere, shadowing him, chirping, slamming him into the boards every chance he gets.
With two minutes left, Ash takes the puck in deep, weaves through two guys, and gets flattened by Kruchten at the top of the crease.
I watch his head snap back, helmet flying off, and he hits the ice so hard the sound echoes in my chest.
Time slows.
I see the blood first, bright and clean, splattering the ice in a perfect arc.
Ash is motionless, arms splayed, blood pooling under his chin. Kruchten stands over him, breathing hard, grinning, waiting for the ref to call something.
I want to kill him. I want to skate the length of the ice and put my blocker through his teeth.
But I don’t move.
I stay in my net, pads glued to the ice, hands locked on my stick so tight I can feel the composite creak. My mouth is dry, my eyes are burning, but I don’t leave my post. I can’t.
The trainer is on the ice now, rolling Ash to his side, mopping the blood with a towel. He blinks, once, then sits up, mouth full of red, and looks straight at me.
He smiles.
The crowd goes fucking ballistic. They chant his name, the whole building shaking with it, "ASH-ER, ASH-ER," over and over, and I want to believe it’s enough to pull him back to life.
He stands. He spits another mouthful of blood, grabs his helmet, and skates to the bench like he owns the place. He high-fives Tommy, then sits, head down, towel pressed to his mouth.
I lose it. For a second, I see nothing but red.
Next whistle, I skate to the ref, tell him if he doesn’t get control of this game, I’ll handle it myself.
He gives me a warning, tells me to get back in my net. I want to smash my stick over the crossbar, but I just skate back, jaw clenched so hard my teeth might crack.
We pull the goalie with thirty seconds left, Ash on the ice for the last push, blood still dripping down his chin.
We don’t score.
We lose.
When the horn sounds, Kruchten is the first to celebrate, arms raised, stick in the air. He skates past our bench, winks at Ash, and the look on his face is pure, undiluted contempt.
I want to murder him.
But Ash? He just stands, helmet off, blood on his jersey, and gives Kruchten a salute.
After, in the locker room, nobody talks. Tommy is icing his hand, O’Doul is face down on the bench, and Coach is in her office with the door closed, probably breaking things.
Ash is at his stall, taping a new stick, like nothing happened. I walk over, stand behind him, waiting for him to look up.
He doesn’t.
“You good?” I say.
He nods, but his hands are shaking.
“You want to talk about it?”
He shrugs. “Just another game.”
I don’t buy it, but I don’t push.
Instead, I reach out, rest my hand on his shoulder, and squeeze.
He doesn’t pull away.
For a second, the world is quiet. Just us, just the ache, just the echo of a fight that’s never going to be over.
I stand there, hand on his shoulder, and wish I could fix it.
But I can’t.
So I just hold on.
And promise myself, next time, I’ll put Kruchten through the fucking glass.
———
After a loss, the walk to the locker room is the slowest mile on Earth. But tonight, it's more like running a gauntlet of open mouths and snapping teeth.
Reporters everywhere, voices ricocheting off the cinderblock, lights so bright it’s like being interrogated in a cop show.
They want the narrative, "The team that survived." I can see the headline in their eyes. "Steelhawks Fall, But Refuse to Break." They want tears, confessions, raw meat.
I keep my head down, helmet cradled in the crook of my arm, pads creaking with every step.
My body is a single unbroken bruise and my brain feels like it’s had a power drill through both hemispheres, but I walk tall. It’s the only dignity you get.
I don’t stop at the first wave of cameras, the local station guys with their furrowed brows and the sound guy who always points his boom mic at the crotch.