47 - Haven
HAVEN
The storm had been loud.
This was louder.
The arena hit me like a wall the second we stepped inside — sound, light, motion. Skates carving ice somewhere beyond the tunnel, sticks cracking, the low roar of a crowd that hadn’t even begun to peak yet.
It felt alive.
It felt normal.
It felt… different.
I walked a few steps, taking it all in. The smell of the rink — cold air, rubber, sweat — wrapping around me like something familiar I didn’t realize I’d missed.
“You love this shit, don’t you?” Sebastian murmured over his shoulder. His smile was warm. It made me tingle.
“Sure as fuck do.”
His hand drifted backward, his fingers briefly touching mine. The move was quick. Daring. Electric.
Especially considering where we were.
“Welcome back, twenty-one.”
Twenty-one. My jersey number. The words brought back a deluge of memories, bad and good.
We drifted apart as we hit the tunnel. Mercer was there, hands on his hips, already in full command mode.
“Alright,” he barked. “I don’t care what you did during the storm, I don’t care how much you think you’re ready — Barrage is coming to tear our throats out.”
Mercer paused, dramatically. He was never dramatic.
“We take their throat first.”
A cheer went up, and I found myself joining in. Sticks cracked against the cement floor.
“Play fast, play smart, and for the love of God, stop making stupid mistakes in our own zone.”
His eyes cut to Grayson before anyone could answer.
“Captain.”
Grayson didn’t even blink.
“We’re good.”
There was confidence in the way he said it. It was hard. Sharp. Ready.
Mercer held his gaze for half a second longer, then nodded.
“Alright. Prove it.”
They didn’t.
Not at first.
The Barrage came out fast, aggressive, clean. The Reavers?
Rusty.
Passes missed. Breakouts fumbled. A step behind on everything that mattered.
I stood behind the glass, arms folded tightly across my chest, watching it unravel.
The first goal came quick. Too quick. A bad turnover. A clean shot, back of the net.
0-1.
The crowd noise dipped, just a little.
The second one hurt more.
Sloppy coverage, late reaction.
0-2.
“Come on…” I muttered.
On the ice, Ares slammed his stick once against the boards. Sebastian leaned forward in the crease, his eyes fixed on something only he could see. The whole team felt off balance.
Except Grayson.
He wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t frustrated. He looked…
Relentless.
Like something had locked into place behind his eyes.
Next shift, he chased down a puck he had no business getting to. Narrowly avoided a check hard enough to rattle the glass. Stayed on it like he wasn’t allowed to lose it.
“He’s not playing to win,” I whispered to myself.
He was playing more like he had something to erase.
The first goal wasn’t pretty. Scramble in front of the net. Bodies everywhere, rebound bouncing loose.
Grayson dove — actually dove — and shoved it across the line.
1-2.
There was no celebration. He was already skating away. Lining up to deliver the next one, which came soon afterward.
The second one was cleaner. Controlled entry, quick release, zero hesitation.
2-2.
The energy changed. You could feel it ripple through the arena. See it in the way Mercer shifted from his back foot to his front.
It flowed through the crowd. Through the bench.
Through him.
And then — the third.
I don’t even know how he emerged with the breakaway, but he did. Everything slowed down. The crowd rose. The sound swelled.
Grayson skated like a man possessed, pulled the puck across his body—
—and buried it in the back of the net, just over the goalie’s shoulder.
3-2.
Hats hit the ice. People screamed. His teammates mobbed him.
He didn’t even crack a smile.
By the final minutes the Barrage were desperate. Pressing hard. Throwing everything they had at the net, which included pulling the goalie.
Sebastian held.
The defense tightened.
And when the horn finally sounded — they’d done it.
Barely. But it counted.
The locker room was an explosion. Noise. Heat. Unspent adrenaline.
“NEVER A DOUBT!” Zack yelled gleefully, like there had been nothing but doubt.
Ares clapped Grayson on the shoulder hard enough to knock a lesser man over.
“About time,” he said.
Sebastian just shook his head, grinning.
I stayed back for a second, watching Grayson. Everyone else was celebrating, but he wasn’t. He just sat there, unlacing his skates, like it was just another night. Like putting three pucks in the net virtually unassisted hadn’t meant anything.
Like he hadn’t just tried to rewrite history with the blade of his hockey stick.
Staring at him, I could feel the weight of his guilt. But he’d channeled that guilt into something positive.
And that was something.
I slipped back down the hallway, before the showers got going. Outside, the arena was emptying fast.
I opened my tablet. Entered a few more notes, while my memory of the game was still fresh.
About fifteen minutes later, I saw him:
The man in the suit.
Same one. Same stillness. Same sharp, controlled presence that didn’t belong in a place like this.
He wasn’t celebrating, like the stragglers. Wasn’t smiling.
He was watching the result.
Like it had somehow disappointed him.
“Hey…”
Somewhere behind me, Sebastian’s hand touched my hip. Rather than turn around, I pointed without pointing.
“Who’s that?” I nodded upward.
He squinted.
“Suit? Left side?”
“Yeah.”
“…yeah, I see him.”
Ares joined us a second later, still riding high from the win.
“What are we looking at?”
“That guy,” I said.
Grayson came up behind us. I didn’t take my eyes off the man, though.
“You know him?”
Grayson went still. Just for a second. Then—
“No,” he admitted. “But I know the type.”
On the other side of the arena, the man folded and unfolded his arms restlessly. He said something to the person beside him. Someone in staff gear.
Then, like he felt it—
He looked up.
Right at us.
My stomach dropped.
There was something in his expression now. Not surprise, not curiosity. Recognition, possibly.
And something colder. Like he wasn’t worried.
Like this hadn’t gone the way he wanted—
—but it hadn’t changed anything, either.
Together we watched as he turned and walked away. Just like that.
Gone.
I stared after him, my stomach still recovering from its weird drop.
“He didn’t seem happy,” I said quietly.
“No,” Grayson agreed, his voice low. “He wasn’t.”
For a long moment no one said anything. We just stared at the place the man had been.
Whoever he was, I got the distinct feeling he wasn’t done.
Not even close.