Chapter 19 Griffin
NINETEEN
Griffin
The game was a bloodbath between us and the Steel Saints. Despite all the drills, all the practice, all the strategizing, the Steel Saints were mean opponents, willing to get hurt just to get the job done.
This was the first game we played against them, and Easton wanted to prove a point. They’d stolen the awards last season right from under our noses, employing the mean bastards like Rhett Morrison and Elio Castelli against Andrei and me.
Their tactics changed, but their strategy remained the same. They started hard and kept it at a hundred, never too tired, never losing wind, never giving ground.
Andrei and I played like we always did, in perfect unison, and with a flowing grace that the Saints couldn’t match. Even so, when Castelli slammed me into the boards, I heard Andrei’s frustrated shouts and the undertone of genuine fear.
The word spun around me as my head smashed against the glass, my lip stinging where it split, and I lost balance, falling down just as a camera ran toward me from the other side of the boards.
Andrei skated over, helping me up, while Castelli pushed on to our goalie. Truly, the lucky thing was that it hadn’t been Patrick, who was much faster than the big brute.
“Fuck,” I spat while Andrei’s hand slapped the back of my head and he gazed into my eyes to see if I had any clear signs of a concussion. “I’m good. I’m alright.”
“Don’t scare me like that,” he whispered under his breath, then immediately mouthed a curse. The little microphones picked up on every breath. That line would be on all promo materials for this episode, and we both knew it.
I winked at Andrei. The camera couldn’t see it, but he could, and it dispelled a bit of that fear. Whatever they made out of it, we’d weather it.
“Let’s kick their asses,” I said. “Castelli’s a dead man walking.”
Andrei laughed wickedly as he skated back to our positions, glaring at Elio as he tucked his tail between his legs and chased after Mason, who had the puck and was on the offensive.
The pace only got uglier from there. The Steel Saints didn’t just play to win.
They played to dominate, to crush rhythm, to drag every shift into the mud.
Every pass we made was met with a body or a stick.
Every shot we took, they threw themselves in front of it like they’d rather bleed than let it through.
The puck snapped between blades like it was wired with electricity, twitching and changing course with every brutal collision.
There was no time to think, barely time to breathe. Just react or get swallowed.
They played dirty. There was no pretending otherwise.
Slashes came quick and sharp behind the ref’s back, just below the padding where they’d sting the most. Hooks curled around hips and wrists, masked as reach-arounds or failed poke checks.
Shoves sent us flying into the boards at angles that flirted with disaster.
Rhett Morrison leveled Mason with a cross-check to the chest that should have earned him five minutes and a one-way ticket to the locker room.
The whistle stayed silent. Andrei shouted at the ref, arms spread wide, his voice slicing through the noise, but the man in stripes didn’t even glance back.
The Saints smelled blood and leaned into it.
On the bench, Phoenix was seething. His voice carried over the roar of the crowd, over the scrape of skates and rattle of sticks.
He shouted orders that turned hoarse by the second, face flushed, expression hard.
“Keep your heads down and fight through it!” he yelled again and again, like he could will us to survive it.
Because that’s who Phoenix was. No matter how ugly it got, he stayed in it with us.
Andrei and I pushed harder. We dipped into patterns we hadn’t run since the preseason, instincts pulling us into sync.
We moved like a pair of gears locking together, silent, tight, and automatic.
We slipped behind defenders, looping wide, then cutting deep, dragging bodies out of position to open a lane.
We forced puck turnovers, hounded rebounds, drove through checks with our heads down.
It wasn’t elegant anymore. It was tooth-and-nail survival.
By the time the third period bled into its final minutes, the score was tied three to three. The whole rink seemed to hold its breath.
I could feel my lungs burning with every shift, each draw of breath heavier than the last. My shoulder throbbed from where Castelli had slammed me earlier, a dull, insistent ache that pulsed in time with my heartbeat.
Sweat dripped from my brow, curling through my hair, stinging my eyes until my vision blurred and blinked.
But we kept circling the zone, pressing them back inch by inch.
The puck stayed on our sticks, but the Saints closed ranks.
Their defense tightened into a wall. Their goalie crouched low in the crease, pads flared wide, glove twitching in anticipation. He wanted us to try. He was ready.
Andrei had possession behind the net. He didn’t need to look for me. He already knew.
I cut high along the slot, then slashed inward across the top of the circle, legs pumping, stick low.
He fired the pass at exactly the right second.
No hesitation. Just perfect timing and perfect weight.
The puck slipped between two defenders, right onto my blade in stride.
I caught it without breaking motion, dragged it once across my body to open the angle, then snapped a shot high to the far side.
The puck sailed. It struck the mesh with a sharp, clean thunk, and for a moment, everything stilled.
The horn didn’t even have to sound. Our bench exploded.
The boys leapt over the boards before the goal light even stopped flashing.
Gloves flew into the air. Sticks banged against the glass.
Andrei was the first to reach me, barreling into me full speed, helmet to helmet.
His hands grabbed my shoulders, squeezing tight like he couldn’t believe it had actually gone in.
“That’s how you end it,” I said, panting, chest heaving, head spinning from the rush.
He didn’t answer at first. Just laughed once, short and breathless, and shook his head.
“Fucking legend,” he finally muttered.
On the far end of the rink, the Saints fumed. Their captain was arguing with the ref over something that didn’t matter. Lennox Ellery shattered his stick against the boards in a tantrum that echoed like a gunshot. Splinters flew, but the scoreboard stayed unchanged.
We skated to center ice and raised our sticks to the crowd. The noise rolled over us like thunder, deafening and raw. Cameras swarmed for close-ups and wide shots, for crowd reactions, and for the Saints, who were sulking far from us.
We had taken the hits. We had taken the bruises. But we’d fought back with everything we had and stolen the win from under their goddamn noses.
And for the first time since the Steel Saints had stolen the spotlight and the trophy last season, it felt like balance had finally been restored.
The little smiles on Andrei’s face filled my heart more than anything, especially as he allowed himself to smile in front of the camera. The camera operator swung away from Andrei to me for a close-up before I could look away, catching me squarely, thirsting after my guy.
My heart sank to the pit of my stomach. A frown creased the space between my eyebrows as I looked away.
It shouldn’t have bothered me. Not after so many stories and edits, not after the NextPlay team had pushed us front and center as a bromance of the season.
Not after I’d fallen so hard for Andrei and wanted nothing more than to make this thing last a lifetime.
But I was the playboy Jen Harding made me out to be.
I was still the same unreliable guy, leading people on until my interest wavered.
Right? If I weren’t, I would have kissed him in front of everyone.
I would have held his hand and done what Beckett Partridge and Caden Jones had done.
I would have done what the Titans had done years ago when their first gay captain came out, and I would have worn a rainbow on my shoulder with pride.
But I did none of those things.
We moved off the ice for close-ups in the locker room and the commentary.
Jen Harding was moving around the teams to steer conversation into more dramatic directions, figuring it out on the fly, making it a season highlight.
Their new storyline would organically build around the tension between us and the Steel Saints.
Once all the shots were done and Phoenix got interviewed for the team, the crews emptied the locker rooms, but not before the cameras captured a few shirtless torsos and sweaty faces for the fans.
We showered and dressed, and I led Andrei out before the team decided on the venue for celebration.
Phoenix would text us to join them later, but I wanted a moment with him, because this victory was his as much as mine, as much as anyone’s, and I wanted us to have a moment to simply bask in the glow of glory.
We wandered out of the rink to the large parking lot. Most of the crowd had already filed out and driven away. A few cars from the administration, the Saints, and the NextPlay Media vans occupied the spots bathed in orange parking lot lights.
“How’s your head?” Andrei asked, pressing his shoulder against mine, thick jackets softening the touch and cold air burning my lungs. “I thought you were done there.”
“Takes more to crack this skull,” I said.
Andrei faltered and came to a halt, fingers trembling before he balled his hands into fists. “I was terrified.”
“I’m good,” I assured him. “I know how to fall down.”
“I know that, Griff,” he said, facing me. “I don’t doubt you. But there’s this irrational fear of…something.”