12
Nate
I know something is wrong the second my blades hit the ice for warmups.
It’s not my skates; I sharpened them myself. It’s not the stick; the tape job is a masterpiece of precision. It’s not even the fact that we’re playing Briarwick, a team that treats hockey like a sanctioned cage match and whose fans have spent the last hour creatively insulting my lineage.
It’s me. I’m the problem.
“You’re doing the thing,” Carter says, glidng up beside me. He sprays a fine mist of ice over my shins as he stops, his grin already in mid-season form.
I don’t look at him. I just keep my eyes on the puck I’m stick-handling. “What thing?”
“The pre-game murder stare. Usually, you’re focused. Tonight, you look like you’re mentally calculating how many years you’ll get for aggravated assault.”
“It’s a rivalry game, Carter. I’m supposed to be intense.”
“You’re supposed to be intense about the scoreboard, not whatever is happening in your head.” Carter leans in, his voice dropping below the roar of the crowd. “She’s here, isn't she?”
My grip on the stick tightens. “I don’t know.”
“Liar. You’ve scanned Section 12 four times since we stepped out here.”
“Section 10,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
Carter lets out a bark of laughter. “Section 10! Specific. I like it. Did she wear it? Tell me she wore the jersey.”
“I haven’t seen her yet,” I lie, though my heart is currently doing a drum solo against my ribs.
I take a hard lap, letting the wind bite at my face.
This was the plan. This was the strategy.
Hannah in the stands, wearing my name, acting as a living, breathing signal to Coach Rawlings and the scouts that Nate Wilder has finally traded his chaos for a cardigan—or at least a committed relationship.
It’s a business transaction. A clean play.
So why do I feel like I’m about to step onto thin ice without a helmet?
I round the net and risk one more glance toward the stands. And there she is.
Hannah Reed is sitting in the third row of Section 10, huddled between Ella and some guy who looks like he’s explaining the offside rule to a seat back.
She’s wearing the navy and pink jersey. My jersey.
It’s so big on her that it practically swallows her whole, the hem reaching her mid-thigh, the sleeves pushed up to reveal slender wrists.
She looks… incredible.
Not in the way girls usually look when they wear a player's jersey—all posed and performative. She looks like she’s trying to hide inside it, her blonde hair spilling over the ‘WILDER’ across her shoulders.
As if she feels me watching, her head turns. Our eyes lock through the plexiglass.
Hannah doesn’t do a big, dramatic wave. She just lifts a hand, her fingers peeking out of the oversized sleeve, and gives me a small, tentative smile. It’s a ‘we’re in this together’ smile. Or maybe a ‘please don’t die’ smile.
Either way, it hits me harder than a blindside hit.
“Wilder! Move your feet!” Coach’s voice bellows from the bench, snapping me back to reality.
I blink, shake my head, and bury a puck in the top corner of the net. I don’t look at Section 10 again. I can’t afford to.
By the time the first period starts, the arena is a powder keg. Briarwick plays dirty—it’s their brand—and they know exactly which buttons to push.
“Heard you got yourself a leash, Wilder,” Dax Mercer grunts as we line up for a faceoff.
Dax is Briarwick’s captain and a professional-grade prick.
He’s spent the last three years trying to get me to take a five-minute major, and tonight, he smells blood.
“Who’s the girl? The one wearing your laundry? She looks a little too class-act for a guy who spends his weekends on the back of a truck.”
I stare straight ahead at the referee’s hand. *Breathe. Keep your head. Do it for the scouts. Do it for Coach.*
“Nothing to say?” Dax sneers, bumping his shoulder into mine. “Maybe she’s the one who finally realized you’re just a highlight reel with no substance.”
The puck drops.
I win the draw, chipping it back to Carter and exploding toward the net. I’m playing with a cold, calculated fury that I haven’t felt in a long time. Every time Dax comes near me, I don't retaliate; I just play through him. I’m faster, I’m sharper, and I’m making him look like he’s skating in sand.
Midway through the second period, the score is tied at one. I’m bringing the puck up the boards when Dax catches me with an elbow to the ribs—unseen by the officials. The air leaves my lungs in a sharp wheeze, and I hit the ice hard.
The crowd erupts. Through the haze of pain, I look up and see Dax hovering over me, a smug grin on his face.
“Stay down, Wilder. Go back to your girlfriend. I’m sure she’s used to you being a disappointment by now.”
He glances toward Section 10, and my blood turns to literal fire.
He didn't just insult my game. He brought her into it.
I scramble to my feet, my gloves already starting to loosen. I want to take his head off. I want to show him exactly why people call me a liability. The red mist is descending, the roar of the crowd turning into a high-pitched ring in my ears.
Then, I see her.
Hannah is standing up, her hands pressed against the glass. She isn't shouting. She isn't cheering. She just looks… worried. Her eyes are wide, fixed on me, and she’s clutching the fabric of my jersey over her heart.
*Don’t make her one of your bad choices.* Coach’s voice echoes in my head, followed by Hannah’s quiet confession from the sidewalk: *I just want to be seen.*
If I swing now, I’m not just a liability. I’m proving Dax right. I’m proving that I can’t protect the thing that matters most because I’m too busy feeding my own ego.
I take a deep, shuddering breath and pull my gloves tight. I look Dax right in the eye, and instead of swinging, I laugh.
“That all you got, Mercer? My grandmother hits harder than that.”
Dax’s grin falters. He wanted the explosion. He wanted the penalty. He didn't get it.
I skate away, my ribs throbbing, but my head clearer than it’s been all night. I glance back at Section 10 one more time. Hannah is still watching, and when she sees me skate off, her shoulders drop in a visible exhale of relief.
The game ends 3-2. I score the game-winner with less than two minutes on the clock, a breakaway that leaves Dax face-down in the neutral zone.
When the final horn sounds, the arena goes wild. My teammates are swarming me, pounding on my helmet, shouting over the music. But as we head toward the tunnel, I stop.
I look at Section 10.
Hannah is still there, wearing my name, her face bright with a smile that belongs entirely to me. Not to the "Safe Choice." Not to the scouts. To me.
I lift my stick toward her—a small, silent salute.
I don't know if this is still a deal. I don't know if I’m still just "cleaning up my image." All I know is that as I walk into the locker room, I’m not thinking about my future in the NHL.
I’m thinking about how much I want to get out of this gear and find the girl in the oversized navy jersey.
Because for the first time in my life, being respectable didn't feel like a chore. It felt like winning.