14
Nate
Winning against Briarwick always feels a little like surviving a fistfight in church clothes.
It’s messy, loud, and personal in ways no one wants to admit once the adrenaline wears off.
The second the final buzzer splits through the arena, the entire place comes unglued.
The student section loses its mind behind the glass, a wall of navy and pink bouncing under the lights.
Somewhere near the crease, Carter is screaming like we just won a national championship instead of a regular-season rivalry game in October.
I skate toward the bench with my lungs burning and sweat cooling under my pads.
NORTHWOOD 2. brIARWICK 0.
A shutout. A goal and an assist for me. And most importantly: zero penalties.
Dax Mercer spent sixty minutes trying to get me to lose my head, and I didn’t. I didn't swing when he hit me late, and I didn't bite when he brought up Hannah like he had any right to put her name in his mouth. I put the puck in the net instead.
That feels better than hitting him. Not as immediately satisfying, maybe, but better.
Carter slams into my side so hard my skates skid. "That’s a win, baby!"
I shove him off, grinning despite the exhaustion. "Get off me."
"You love me. Admit it."
"I tolerate you because prison would hurt my draft stock."
I glance toward the stands. I find her immediately.
It’s a magnetic pull I’m not quite ready to analyze.
Hannah is standing near the glass, clapping, my jersey hanging too big over her shoulders.
When she realizes I’m looking, she doesn’t give me the performative "hockey girlfriend" wave.
She just smiles—a small, real smile that belongs to her, not the crowd.
Something knocks once inside my chest. Adrenaline, probably. Just the win.
The locker room is a riot of damp gear and victory shouts. Coach Rawlings walks in five minutes later, and the noise drops by half. He stands near the whiteboard, arms crossed, looking at us with that narrow-eyed stare that suggests he’s deciding if being satisfied will make him weak.
"Good win," he says. The room erupts. He lifts a hand for silence. "Not a perfect win, but a disciplined one. You stayed focused. You didn't hand them free power plays because they tried to hurt your feelings."
His gaze lands on me. I nod once.
"Wilder," he calls out as he turns to leave. "Good game."
From Coach, that might as well be a trophy.
"Responsible Nate!" Mason shouts the second the door clicks shut. "He scored, he assisted, and he didn't commit a felony! We need to quarantine him before it spreads."
"I'm evolving," I say, pulling off my shoulder pads.
"You're terrifying," Carter adds, dropping onto the bench beside me. "So, Miller’s field? The girls are already heading that way."
Miller’s field is a classic Northwood tradition: dirt, fire, and bad decisions with scenic lighting. A massive bonfire burns at the center of the field, sparks lifting into the dark sky like miniature stars. Trucks are scattered in crooked rows, tailgates down, music thumping from open windows.
I pull my truck into a spot near the edge of the light. Hannah is sitting in the passenger seat, her hands wrapped around her phone. She looks overwhelmed, the oversized jersey making her look even smaller against the leather interior.
"You okay?" I ask, cutting the engine.
She exhales, looking out at the crowd. "Yeah. It’s just... a lot of people."
"Rules for the field," I say, turning toward her. "One: don't take a drink unless you watched it open. Two: if you want to leave, we leave. No questions. Three: if Carter suggests anything involving fire, the answer is no."
Her mouth twitches. "That last one feels personal."
"It's a life-saving measure."
We get out, and the cold hits immediately. The party notices us fast. Someone yells my name, and a few guys from the team cheer. Mason, standing in the bed of his truck, shouts, "There he is! And Mrs. Wilder!"
Hannah stops dead. I glare at Mason. "Say that again and I'll throw you in the fire."
"Responsible Nate!" Carter yells back.
Hannah makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. "He called me Mrs. Wilder."
"He's an idiot. Ignore him."
We walk toward the bonfire, and the plan enters its second phase. People are looking. I can feel the weight of their curiosity. I sit on the edge of my truck bed, and Hannah sits beside me, close enough for the crowd to see, but not so close I crowd her.
"Believable?" she whispers, glancing at the group of volleyball players whispering nearby.
"Very. Carter’s already heard from three people who want to know when we started 'officially' dating."
"Oh." She looks down at her drink. "That’s good. For the image."
"Yeah. For the image."
The night settles into an easy rhythm. The heat of the fire is a wall against the October chill. Hannah loosens up, laughing at Ella’s terrible explanation of what a "hat trick" is. She looks different out here—less hidden behind her notebooks, more... present.
Across the fire, I spot Dax Mercer. He’s with a couple of Briarwick guys, his face bruised from a hit he took in the third. He sees me and raises his cup in a mock toast.
"Hell of a game, Wilder," he shouts, his voice carrying over the music. "Guess the girlfriend really is a good luck charm. Hope she knows you're just using her to look like a human being again."
The air around our truck goes cold. Hannah freezes.
My hands curl into fists. I start to stand, the old instinct—the ugly, familiar need to hit something until it stops talking—flaring up in my gut.
Hannah’s hand brushes my sleeve. Just a light touch. "Nate," she says quietly.
I look down at her. She isn't pleading; she's reminding me. Of the deal. Of the "Responsible Nate" who just played sixty minutes of clean hockey.
I take a breath and sit back down. I look Dax right in the eye and don't give him a single word. He grins, but he looks disappointed. He wanted the explosion. He didn't get it.
"He's a jerk," Hannah says after he walks away.
"He's a specialist," I correct. "He wanted to ruin my night. He failed."
I look at her. The firelight catches in her hair, turning it to spun gold. She looks at me with something that isn't part of the act—a genuine kind of respect that I'm not used to receiving from people who actually know me.
"Thanks," I mutter.
"For what?"
"For being the reason I didn't just get suspended."
She smiles, and this time it reaches her eyes. "Anytime, Nate Wilder."
The plan is working. The story is spreading. I'm the reformed bad boy, and she's the girl who did it. Everything is going exactly as I hoped.
But as the fire burns down and the music slows, I realize the most dangerous part of the night wasn't Dax Mercer's mouth. It was the way Hannah’s hand felt on my arm, and the realization that I'm starting to like being the guy she thinks I am.