CHAPTER 27 — THE FINAL SHIFT
POV: Damon Blackwood
The morning of the final began with Noah knocking on my bedroom door at six forty-three, carrying coffee, a sour expression, and that same irritating boldness—walking into my space like he already knew the way, yet still asking permission with his eyes.
I’d been awake for almost an hour, sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulder brace half undone, my shirt abandoned on the floor, and the arena glowing in the distance beyond the glass—too small for everything it would demand of me that night.
The conference final against Hartwell should have filled every inch of my head.
In another life, it would have. I’d wake up thinking about lines, passes, angles, Elias Ward’s mocking smile, the roar of the crowd, and the brutal pleasure of crushing a rival in front of an entire university.
But that morning, the ice competed for space with the smell of coffee Noah had brought, the external investigation scheduled for the next day, and the uncomfortable certainty that I no longer knew how to win if it meant becoming the man I was before him.
“Did you sleep?” Noah asked, pausing in the doorway, his eyes dropping to my shoulder before returning to my face.
“Did you bring coffee or an interrogation?”
“Both. The coffee’s your reward if your answers are decent.”
“I slept a few hours.”
“That means two.”
“Three.”
“Damon.”
“Two and a half.”
He stepped inside, closed the door with his hip, and set the mug on the nightstand.
He wore a dark shirt and sweats, his hair still damp from the shower, and there was something too domestic about the way he walked over and crouched in front of me to examine the brace—not touching until he asked.
The room had seen Noah in many forms: furious, wanting, hurt, open in a way neither of us knew how to sustain without fear.
But seeing him there that morning, coffee in one hand and athletic tape in the other, saying little and staying anyway—it made something in my chest tighten with a force the game couldn’t explain.
“May I?” he asked.
“You may.”
His fingers touched the edge of the brace carefully, and my body responded to the familiarity before any thought could interfere.
It wasn’t just desire, though desire was always there, always close, always ready to turn distance into provocation.
It was something else, deeper and less convenient: my body’s trust recognizing someone who knew where it hurt and, for the first time in too long, not trying to bite the hand that cared.
Noah removed the poorly positioned tape, cleaned the skin, and began redoing the brace with slow, attentive movements, in no hurry to turn the touch into anything more than what was necessary.
“Marjorie will evaluate you before warm-up,” he said. “So will I. Nothing changes just because it’s the final.”
“Sounds like something you rehearsed in the mirror.”
“I rehearsed it mentally while picturing you trying to argue with anatomy.”
“What if I say the team needs me?”
“Then I’d say the team needs a captain who finishes the night on his feet and can sign a statement tomorrow without heavy painkillers.”
The investigation. The next day. Julian.
The name he didn’t say crossed the room and settled between us without asking for space.
My brother remained distant, but not defeated.
Men like Julian don’t fall from one meeting, one recording, and a pile of documents.
They retreat, call lawyers, reorganize allies, try to change the narrative before the old one finishes rotting.
The external consultants had summoned everyone for a preliminary hearing after the final—Carter by video, Henry Bennett formally represented, and Valerie authorized to publish the new developments as soon as certain legal confirmations came through.
I should have been thinking about the game.
Instead, I was thinking about what it would be like to face Julian again and see not my brother, but the architect of a lie that had used my grief as raw material.
“You’re tensing,” Noah said, pressing two fingers to my chest, just below the collarbone. “Breathe.”
I obeyed. No joke. No comment. He noticed, and for some reason, that made him more vulnerable than if I’d pushed back. His hand stayed there a second longer, warm and firm, before pulling away.
“Don’t play against Julian today,” he said. “Don’t play against the article, against the past, against what you did to me, against what they did to you. Play against Hartwell. That’s all.”
“That’s all,” I repeated, a humorless laugh almost escaping. “You make it sound easy.”
“It’s a lot. But it’s only one thing. You get lost when you try to beat all the enemies in the same shift.”
I looked at him. Noah was close, kneeling between my feet, white tape wrapped around his hand, his eyes steady on my face.
The words seemed simple but carried weeks of hard-won learning.
I had tried to win everything at once since he came back: the shoulder, the past, the desire, Julian, the guilt, the longing, my own need to be right.
Maybe that’s why I had almost destroyed so much.
The ice, at least, had always had rules.
Lines. Penalties. Time. The rest of life refused to offer the same.
“And you?” I asked. “What are you fighting today?”
The question caught Noah off guard. He lowered his eyes to the tape, finished securing the last edge, and only then answered.
“Against the urge to run before someone asks me to stay.”
My chest tightened. I didn’t reach for him right away. I was learning that some words need space before touch.
“I want you to stay,” I said. “But I don’t want it to feel like a cry for help.”
“It's going to weigh on you no matter what.”
“Then carry what you can handle. I'll take the rest.”
He looked at me, and his eyes said he wanted to believe, but he was still tallying up every time believing had cost him. Then he stood up, grabbed my mug, and put it in my hand.
“Start by holding coffee and not doing anything stupid until warm-ups.”
“Ambitious.”
“I'm trying to set realistic goals.”
Northaven's arena had never felt as packed as it did that night.
The conference final had transformed the campus into one giant roar: students painted in black and silver, alumni in old jackets, sponsors trying to look less nervous than they were, journalists with credentials gleaming under the lights, cameras positioned at too many angles for me to forget that any expression of mine could become a headline.
Valerie's article had changed the atmosphere around the game.
It hadn't drained the excitement—it had made everything more tense, as if the entire university were trying to celebrate while part of it was being investigated for what it preferred to call ancient history.
Hartwell took the ice to boos, Elias Ward at the front, that easy smile on his face but something less mocking in his gaze when his eyes passed over Noah in the medical area.
He didn't joke this time. Didn't blow a kiss, didn't provoke with some loaded comment.
Maybe he'd read enough to understand the game was already too charged for irresponsible flirting.
Maybe he just knew how to read a room. Either way, when his gaze met mine, I didn't see jealous rivalry or that stupid need to prove ownership.
I just saw the captain of the other team.
It was almost strange to realize that, in the middle of everything, one of my most idiotic grudges had run its course.
In the locker room, before we went out, the team waited for me in silence.
Not the tense silence from the article, not the uncomfortable silence of guys who didn't know what to do with their questions.
It was a different kind of waiting—the kind where players knew the captain would speak before a final.
Mason was leaning against his locker, already suited up, eyes sharp.
Caleb hung back, but he didn't look away when I glanced his way.
My father wasn't there. Coach Bennett was watching warm-ups from outside, still on the partial leave that left him in a strange position—coach for some decisions, witness for others.
Noah wasn't there either. And that was right.
What I needed to say to the team couldn't look rehearsed under his eyes.
“Today it's Hartwell,” I began, helmet in my right hand, shoulder braced under the pads. “Not the article, not the council, not sponsors, not the investigation. Hartwell. They're going to try to push us out of our game because everyone knows we're carrying more than usual. Let them try.”
Mason tapped his stick once on the floor.
“I'm on medical restrictions,” I continued, and saying it out loud in front of them felt like tearing out a piece of old pride without killing me.
“I'm playing limited minutes. If Noah or Marjorie signal, I come off.
No discussion. And if anyone here thinks that makes me less of a captain, say it now and take the lead on the ice with the same willingness you'd carry the weight off it.”
No one spoke.
“Good,” I said. “Because leadership isn't staying on the ice longer when your body's saying no. It's knowing when another line needs to come in and trusting the team won't collapse because you sat down. Today I'm trusting you. Make it count.”
Mason looked at me like he'd just spotted a rare and dangerous species emerging in its natural habitat. “I'm touched, but I'm going to turn this into a joke later so I don't have an emotional breakdown.”
“Do it after you block twenty shots.”
“Twenty? Modest. I'm blocking twenty-eight because of that speech.”
The team's laughter was brief but enough. When we headed for the corridor, Mason fell in beside me and bumped his good shoulder against mine.
“You know he's going to be proud, right?”
“Noah?”
“No, the entire physical therapy department. Of course Noah, idiot.”
“I'm not doing it for his pride.”