20. Chapter 20
Chapter twenty
~DOMINIC~
I hop the boards for my next shift, skates carving as I slide back into position. We’re up by two, but I’m not coasting. Not with this much time on the clock and a team full of desperate assholes clawing for blood.
My hip barks the second I dig into my stride. Took a hit early in the first — left side, full weight, straight into the boards. Felt fine then. Doesn’t feel fine now. It’s probably nothing serious. I’m thirty-two, not fifty-two. Still got time before the warranty runs out.
Blazers 2, Red Wings 0.
We’re controlling the pace, cutting off their transition plays before they form. Zed’s been a wall in the net, like always. We’re rolling three forward lines and two defensive pairings tonight.
I’m centering Line One with Jace on right wing and O’Connor on left. Addams has been working with our conditioning team, so I’ve been doubling shifts, pulling back defensively to anchor when needed.
Coach tried to tell me to conserve energy. I told him to watch the scoreboard.
Jace peels off to my right, skating wide, calling for the puck.
I don’t give it to him yet. I skate the line, baiting the Wings into committing, and they do.
I fake the pass, drop a shoulder, and cut left.
Their defense bites too late, and I’ve already threaded through.
I snap a backhand to Jace behind the net and skate into the slot, circling out.
Jace doesn’t miss a beat as he slings it right back.
The puck lands on my tape and I fire. Bar down, net ripples.
3–0.
Crowd goes feral, but I don’t celebrate with them. I’ve played long enough to know how fast a game can turn. People get sloppy when they think they have it in the bag .
I know Jessica’s in the stands tonight. I know exactly where she is — section 112, third row from the glass. I could pick her out in a second. I’ve been doing it each time my shift ends, like muscle memory. The second I let myself glance up, my eyes find hers like a homing missile.
But I can’t afford to get distracted with twenty minutes left. So I keep my eyes forward and fight the urge to find her.
I spit onto the ice, slap the back of Tanner’s helmet as he rotates in for his shift, and drop back onto the bench. I’ve got twenty minutes left to finish burying the Wings and then I’m going home to finish what I started.
I rotate my shoulder and glance up at the clock. Still time to bury them deeper.
But when I lean forward to rest my forearms on my knees, a jolt of pain radiates through my left hip.
Fuck.
There it is again. I grit my teeth and shift my weight off it, rolling slightly to the right. It dulls the edge, but not by much .
Younger me would’ve ignored it. Would’ve skated the full sixty, limped through media, and lied straight to the team doc’s face while he pressed on it with cold hands and too many questions. Back then, I thought pain meant I was tough. Like gritting through it made me untouchable.
Now I know pain only makes you a liability. Every game I ignore it is a game closer to losing ice time and ending my career earlier than it needs to end.
I glance down the bench toward the team PT. I’ll get it checked after this. See if it’s something serious or if it just needs a few days off, some RICE, and less ego.
For now, I adjust. Stay off the inside edge on that side unless I have no choice.
The Red Wings are frustrated, down by three, and we’re not letting up. Their second line’s been getting chippy all game, but now they’re throwing desperation at the net, hoping something might stick. Frustration makes people stupid.
No. 93, Tyler Jackson, flies up the wing.
Of course it’s him. I clocked his rotation earlier. Jackson’s a sniper with a temper, always the type to take cheap shots when he’s getting shut out. I’ve played against him too many times. Never liked him. Nobody does.
Zed used to be on the same roster with him back in New York, years ago. The Rangers let Zed go first. More money, more talent, more potential. Jackson never got over it. Pretty sure he still thinks it should’ve been the other way around.
He winds up and rips a puck at Zed from just over the blue line. It’s not a scoring attempt. He knows Zed will stop it. It’s a fuck-you.
Zed blocks it with his chest and the rebound snaps back so fast it smacks Jackson in the helmet. Not on purpose, but it completely destroys the message Jackson was trying to send. His helmet jolts and Jackson skids a bit before charging the net.
We’re all halfway there the second he does.
But Zed moves first, ripping his gloves off just in time for Jackson to reach him. The announcer goes crazy, booming from the speakers, words spilling so fast they’re barely comprehensible .
Zed gives Jackson a small shake of his head, shoving him backward hard enough to send him sliding, nearly tripping over his skates.
The refs rush in, whistles blowing, crowd losing their minds. The jumbotron replays the moment from five angles.
Zed slides his glove back on and puffs out a mildly annoyed sigh.
Coach leans down over the boards toward me, completely unbothered. “You good to go next shift?”
“Yeah,” I say, rolling my shoulder. “Tanner’s still got juice in the tank, though. Let him skate one more with Matt.”
Coach nods. “Jackson’s out. They’re gonna reshuffle his line after that stunt. Probably swap him to third or fourth.”
“Good. He doesn’t deserve first.”
Coach snorts and taps the board with his marker. “After this shift, I want you back on. Run support for Line Two. Tanner and Matt might have one more left in them, but I want to stabilize the middle before we rotate.”
“Copy. ”
I glance toward the ice, where Jackson is still barking at the refs like a kid who didn’t get picked for dodgeball. Then my eyes slide back to Zed, adjusting his stance. Yeah, we’re lucky to have him. Coaches talk about him like he’s a gift. Stats don’t lie. He’s a huge name for a reason.
But after what I found online, there’s a lot about my old friend that doesn’t add up. I want to ask him. Hell, I’ve been meaning to. But how the fuck do you bring something like that up?
I’m not going to pretend hockey isn’t a violent sport; sometimes players seek an opportunity to channel their adrenaline into a fight. Not Zed, though. I have never seen him violent. I haven’t even seen him riled up. Anyone else would’ve let Jackson hit them just so they had a reason to hit back.
Zed only gave him a warning shove.
Yet… there’s a difference between calm and contained. And I don’t know which one Zed is.
The post-game high hasn’t worn off .
We’re still riding it — sweaty, half-sore, and full of steak. We drive home from team dinner with the windows cracked, letting the humid Miami night air cut through the leftover heat of the game.
Jace is in my passenger seat, legs kicked out, hoodie on even though it’s probably eighty degrees outside.
“I’m telling you, I’m gonna put fake spiders in Hutch’s skate bag next week,” he says, grinning out the window. “Not real ones. I don’t want to hurt the little guys. But he’ll shit his pants before he realizes they’re fake.”
“Just ’cause he mixed up your gloves with O’Connor’s last game?” I ask.
Jace nods. “O’Connor sweats like a drowning horse. I almost barfed. Revenge is necessary.”
I shake my head, laughing as I pull off the highway. We cruise through the streets, still buzzing from the win.
“Think the girls had fun?” Jace asks, elbow resting on the window frame.
“Better than spending two hours watching the eating contest between you and Tanner,” I say .
Mel and Jessica left after the interviews. Wanted some time to hang and have Melody meet Jessica’s friend — Denise? Denny? Whatever her name was; she dipped early. Jessica and Mel stuck around a bit longer.
“They’re getting along pretty well,” he muses.
“Yah,”
Jace grins, eyes sliding to me. “So…”
“My God,” I grunt, rolling my eyes.
“What’s happening with you and Miss Viral Content Creator?”
I exhale through my nose, one hand on the wheel. Jace raises a brow, waiting. I’ve wanted to talk to him about this, but playoffs swallowed up our time.
“I tried to dislike her,” I admit.
He snorts. “Sure.”
“Honest to fucking God, Jace, I gave it a real shot. But the little menace won’t let me. Anything she does, there’s this weird feeling in my chest that makes me want to rip it open and give her whatever’s in there.”
“That’s fucking disgusting.”
“What’s fucking disgusting is my inability to grow a spine.” I roll down the window another inch. “She bats her pretty eyes and suddenly I’m a damn mess. I feel like a guard dog on a short leash, ready to bite someone if they look at her.”
“Ooh,” Jace grins. “Say woof woof.”
“I don’t even know why the hell I’m telling you all this.”
“No, no. This is serious intel. Captain Dominic Moreal has been turned into a house pet.”
I side-eye him. “We fucked.”
“Bout time.” His grin widens. “So, what’s the issue?”
“Every time I think about this ending, this PR bullshit, my blood boils. Like I’ll rip a door off the hinges if I picture her leaving.”
Jace is quiet for a second. “That’s how I feel about Melody,” he finally murmurs.
I glance at him. “Are you saying I’m in love?”
Jace shrugs. “You might be in lust. People confuse the two all the time.”
“I thought so too,” I say slowly. “But it doesn’t feel like just lust. ”
“I’m saying,” he says as we pull into our street, “you might just be getting there.” He shrugs. “Do you even know enough about her to want more?”
I chew on that. No, I don’t. Not even close. But I want to know. What flowers she prefers, the songs on her playlist, her views on everything, the thoughts running through her mind. I want all of it.
Conclusion: I need to talk to her more.
Jace taps his knuckle against the window frame, waiting.
“I’m scared I’m gonna fuck this up.”
“You mean emotionally, or like… dick game not hitting?”
I shoot him a glare. “My dick game always hits.”