Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
DYLAN
The pub’s already heaving by the time we get there.
It’s one of those places with sticky floors, too many TVs, and a permanent smell of spilt beer and fried onions. It’s familiar and loud. The kind of noise I can lose myself in when I’m tired of thinking too hard.
Murphy’s at my side, pint already in hand, leaning against the bar like he owns the place. He probably does, in spirit. Knows everyone. Talks to anyone. Makes the room bend toward him without even trying.
He claps a hand on my shoulder. The good one, thankfully. “You need to get that look off your face, mate. You’re off the ice, not on death row.”
I grab my pint and raise it. “Maybe I just don’t look as thrilled as you do to spend a night with five grown men all trying to out-banter each other.”
“Yeah, but you love it really.”
I don’t answer, but he’s not wrong.
We snake through the crowd to a corner booth already half-filled with the rest of the team.
Danny’s there, our second-line centre, proper Northern lad, quick as hell on skates and mouthy as fuck off them.
Next to him is Ollie, one of the younger ones, all hair gel and fresh-faced energy.
He looks about twelve but skates like he’s got something to prove.
And then there’s Jacko, team enforcer, hands like bricks and a surprising obsession with baking shows.
“Christ, he actually turned up,” Danny says when he spots me. “Thought you’d be at home icing your ego.”
“Was hoping you’d say that,” I reply, sliding into the booth opposite. “I’d nearly forgotten how much I hate you.”
Murphy slides in beside me, grinning. “Give him ten minutes and three pints and he’ll be doing karaoke.”
“I will not,” I mutter.
“You absolutely will,” Jacko says, pointing a sausage-thick finger. “You sang ‘Wonderwall’ last time and got half the pub involved.”
“That wasn’t singing,” Danny adds. “That was emotional damage.”
They all laugh, and I let myself relax a bit. The ache in my shoulder flares, but I ignore it. I’ve gotten used to playing through worse.
The night wears on in that way pub nights do; slow and easy at first, then loud and fast, like someone turned the dial up when no one was looking.
We talk about training, the next away fixture, and about who’s potentially getting traded where. Murphy tells a story about one of the rookies mistaking Deep Heat for hair gel, and the table practically collapses from laughter.
I’m watching them all laughing and insulting each other in the way only men who trust each other can, and I feel that familiar tug in my chest. Like I’m here and not here at the same time.
Part of it. But not in it.
Murphy nudges me with his elbow. “You alright, Diesel?”
I shake the thought off. “Yeah. Just watching the circus.”
“You’re quiet.”
“You say that like it’s new.”
He gives me a look. Not judging or probing. Just aware. “You’re thinking too much again.”
“Maybe.”
“Is it the shoulder or something else?”
I take a sip of my pint. “Both.”
He doesn’t push it. That’s why I like Murphy. He’s a pain in the arse, but he knows when to shut up and when to lean in.
At some point, Ollie starts doing shots and ropes Danny into some bet involving chilli vodka and a pool cue. It’s all downhill from there. I stay seated, watching the madness unfold, that dull ache still simmering under my ribs.
Murphy sits back down next to me. “You know, if you’re gonna mope, you could at least do it with style. Get yourself a dramatic cloak. Stand in the corner like a rejected vampire.”
I snort. “I’m not moping.”
“You’re brooding, then. Same difference.”
I shake my head. “You lot ever think about what happens when it ends?”
He raises an eyebrow. “What, the season?”
“No. All of it. The game. The career.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just takes a long sip of his pint and rests his forearms on the table. “Sometimes,” he says. “But then I remember I’m barely thirty and I’ve got at least five more years of being mediocre before I have to worry about it.”
A faint smile tugs at my lips. “Mediocre, right.”
He shrugs. “You’re not mediocre, though. That’s what’s eating you, innit?”
I glance over at Murphy with a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve hit the peak and you still don’t feel it. Still doesn’t feel real.”
I stare at the condensation on my glass, watching as the drips slowly track down towards the beer mat. “Something like that,” I mutter.
He leans in closer. “You know no one’s gonna give you permission to believe you deserve it, right? You either do or you don’t.”
“And what if I don’t?”
“Then that’s your own head lying to you. Not us.”
That sticks harder than I expect. I look at Murphy with his stupid grin, the half-empty pint, the grease on his sleeve from the chips he nicked off Ollie’s plate, and I realise he sees me clearer than most people ever have.
I give a small nod. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Ever. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
The rest of the night blurs in noise and dim lighting.
Someone starts a singalong near the bar.
Jacko ends up arm-wrestling a bloke twice his size and wins.
Ollie knocks a stool over and pretends it didn’t happen.
Some guy turns to call him out on it, but when he recognises my teammate, he thinks better of it.
Ice Hockey is more popular now than it’s ever been, and the fan base has grown wildly over recent years.
Which makes us mini celebrates sometimes.
And through it all, I sit there with that same feeling I always get in moments like this; like I’m floating above it. Watching my own life from a distance.
I’m part of this team. I’ve earned my place.
And yet, some part of me still doesn’t quite feel it.
When I leave the pub, the air outside is cold and sharp. It cuts through the haze of beer and fried food and brings me back to myself. Murphy falls into step beside me, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. “You walking home?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
We move in silence for a while, the only sound the scuff of our boots on the pavement and the distant hum of traffic. The streets are quiet at this hour. Most of the town’s tucked in and sleeping. We’re not.
“Been thinking about Mia,” I say after a while.
Murphy glances over. “Yeah?”
“She gets it.”
“She’s good people. Scary. But good.”
I laugh. “Yeah. She’s got this wall up. But she’s still real. Doesn’t bullshit me.”
Murphy nods slowly. “You like her.”
It’s not a question. He doesn’t ask. He knows.
I don’t answer and Murphy doesn’t press me on it.
When we reach my place, Murphy claps me on the back. “Get some sleep, Diesel.”
“You too.”
I watch him walk away, his shoulders hunched against the cold. Then I head inside, strip off the jacket, and sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.
I think about the team. The game. The fear that never quite fades. And I think about her. The way Mia looks at me like she sees all of it and doesn’t turn away.
The truth is, I’ve made it to the top of my game. And some nights, that feels lonelier than being on the outside looking in.