Chapter 24
twenty-four
ROOK
The silence on the ice feels like wearing someone else's jockstrap. Technically it works, but everything sits wrong and makes you walk funny.
As my hand grips the stopwatch, I wonder if this is what Morgan feels like all the time, this hyper-aware state where every second has weight and every movement needs a reason. It's far harder work than letting chaos reign as we half-ass our way through another practice.
"Since when does Rook know which end of that thing is up?"
Nash's mutter carries across the ice with perfect clarity because nobody's laughing and nobody's joking. The usual soundtrack of my practices—the constant chatter, the chirping—has been replaced by the metallic scrape of skates and confused silence.
Javier Martinez just shrugs at Nash's question, his eyes occasionally darting sideways at me, waiting for the punchline. The whole team has that look, like I've been body-snatched or as if this is all one big prank that's going to end at any moment.
And they're not the only ones struggling with it.
The urge to crack a joke crawls up my throat—familiar, desperate, necessary.
Maybe about how I finally learned to count past ten, or how the stopwatch came with instructions in crayon just for me.
Anything to shatter the suffocating quiet of everyone holding their breath waiting for someone else to break first.
But then Morgan's voice during our last study session cuts through my brain: "Chaos is the enemy of progress, James."
In other words, if I want my team to start performing like they're capable of, I need to rein in some of the carnage and instill some hard work.
So far, the guys are doing it, but they're clearly not sure why or how long it's going to last. Neither am I, if I'm being honest, but I'm trying my hardest.
"Zone exit drill, same groups as before," I call out. "Clean breakouts, support the puck, and hit the neutral zone with speed."
It's the exact drill I watched Morgan run three days ago, when I'd snuck up to the upper deck again. Her team had executed it with precision, each player moving in synchronization. There'd been no wasted motion, no hero plays, no gags—just brutal efficiency that turned chaos into structure.
Meanwhile, my team looks like a blooper reel for Disney On Ice.
Nash wins the face-off cleanly, the puck sliding back to Erik Schmidt on defense.
Schmidt makes the smart play, a crisp pass along the boards to Cooper, who's already in motion.
So far, perfect. Then Cooper feeds it to Kellerman at the blueline, and I can see the exact moment everything goes to shit.
Kellerman's whole body language changes—shoulders squaring, chin lifting, that eager-puppy energy that usually makes me want to ruffle his sandy curls and tell him he's a good boy. He sees the stretch pass, that tantalizing thread up the middle where Martinez is breaking free.
It's a classic hero puck. The kind of play that makes highlight reels when it works and makes you look like you learned hockey from your drunk uncle Steve when it doesn't. And it's the exact sort of thing that we've been doing every game so far this season, and more often than not getting our ass handed to us.
And this time?
The pass never makes it past center ice. The defending forward reads it like a children's book and intercepts easily. The puck goes the other way, and if this were a real game, we'd be scrambling back on defense, probably giving up an odd-man rush.
A month ago, I would have laughed it off, making some joke about Kellerman trying to thread a needle with a pool noodle. The failure would have dissolved into shared amusement and a little embarrassment for Kellerman, because hey, we're all friends here, right?
But this time, the sharp blast of the whistle cuts through the air.
I skate directly to Kellerman as the team holds its collective breath, probably expecting me to make a gag.
Instead, I pull Kellerman aside, close enough that our conversation won't become locker room entertainment.
The kid's face cycles through emotions faster than his ex used to change her relationship status.
"What did you see there?" My voice stays calm, channeling every patient correction Morgan has given me during our study sessions.
Kellerman's jaw works, clearly still surprised I didn't make a gag or call him out. "Martinez was breaking, and I thought I had him."
"You thought you could win the whole session on one pass." I tap my stick on the ice, a quiet rhythm. "That's on me, not you."
His head snaps up so fast I worry about whiplash.
"I let you think that way," I continue. "I made you believe that the flashy play was more valuable than the smart one. I've been teaching you to be YouTube highlights instead of championship players, but we're not playing that sort of hockey anymore, OK?"
God, admitting failure out loud feels about as comfortable as a prostate exam from someone with cold hands and a grudge.
But Morgan does it all the time in our sessions—acknowledges when her teaching method isn't working, adjusts without an ego-driven meltdown—and she clearly does the same with her team.
And, damn it, I've seen how effective it is on me and her team.
They do say imitation is the best form of flattery, right?
"Look," I say, dropping my voice. "You're trying to be the hero because that's what I've modeled… jokes… trick saves… but you know what I learned?"
He shakes his head.
"Heroes make the news," I finally say. "Systems win championships, like it did for Mike and the rest of us last year, and like it will this year for Morgan's team…"
"OK," Kellerman says and nods slowly, something shifting in his expression.
"Just get the puck out clean," I tell him. "Trust that Cooper or Schmidt will make the next play. The system will work if you trust it."
We reset, and I see the same face-off, the same initial movements. The puck flows backward, around the boards, textbook perfect. But when it reaches Kellerman this time, I see his body coil for that stretch pass. Martinez is there again, that same tantalizing window opening up.
For a heart-stopping second, Kellerman's stick angles toward center ice.
Then his weight shifts. He makes the simple, smart play, a chip pass along the boards to Nash, who's in perfect support position. Nash carries it over the blueline with speed, no resistance, and we're out of our zone two full seconds faster than the previous attempt.
It's not sexy.
It won't make anyone's highlight reel.
But it's clean, efficient, and exactly what wins hockey games.
"There it is!" The approval explodes out of me. "That's hockey, boys!"
We run the drill six more times, each rep getting cleaner, faster, and more automatic. The guys stop hunting for glory and scratch-under-the-chin praise and start trusting the machine. Schmidt and Cooper work the defensive pairs in perfect synchronization. Even Nash is fully engaged.
The strange, focused quiet persists, but it's different now.
Not confused or uncomfortable, but purposeful.
"That's enough," I call out after the last rep. "Stretch, then hit the showers."
As the team starts their cooldown, movement in my peripheral catches my attention. Coach Pearson pushes off from where he's been leaning against the boards, his expression unreadable. He's been watching the entire session from the bench, silent as my parents during their worst fights.
Normally, he's the one trying to bring order to my chaos, but this season, the guys have struggled to buy in. But this session, he's let me take the rope, and when he stops beside me and puts his hand on my shoulder pad, it feels meaningful.
"That's the best we've looked this season, Captain," he says.
Not "good job, Rook" or "nice practice, kid."
He called me Captain like it actually means something.
Like I've earned it.
He skates away before I can respond, which is probably good because my throat has gone tight. And only then do I turn my attention back to the others, players filing off in small groups, their voices a low murmur. I find myself alone, leaning against the goalpost I've defended for four years.
And this time, the silence doesn't feel wrong anymore.
Morgan's influence is all over what just happened—her methodical approach, her patience with mistakes, and her faith in systems over flash.
Two months ago, the thought of channeling her would have terrified me.
But standing here, feeling the weight of actual leadership settling into my bones, I realize something:
I'm not becoming Morgan.
I'm becoming my version.
Someone who can joke and kid when the time is right.
But who can handle his shit the rest of the time.
The thought of her—probably in the gym right now, making her players run suicides while looking gorgeous and terrifying—sends warmth spreading through my chest. Not the desperate, needy heat of wanting someone who thinks you're barely house-trained, but something deeper.
Partnership.
She doesn't know it yet—and likely never will—but I'm all in on her.
My phone buzzes from the bench. So, with a sigh and glad I can remove the facade of seriousness I don't wear so well, I skate over and park my ass on the timber. Digging through my bag, I pull out my phone, and when I see Morgan's name on the screen, my heart rate spikes.
Good practice today.
I frown down at the message. It makes no sense, because—
I glance up toward the upper level of the arena, scanning the empty seats.
The nosebleeds are shrouded in shadows, but I know exactly where to look.
The third section from the left, back row, partially hidden behind a support beam.
It's the same spot I've been secretly watching her team practice from for weeks.
There.
A flash of red hair as she shifts, just visible in the dim emergency lighting.
She's been watching.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard while my brain short-circuits. She saw everything—the way I pulled Kellerman aside, the patient corrections, the complete absence of deflection or comedy—and she watched me channel everything she's been teaching me, whether she knows it or not.
I reply:
Learning from the best. I could have gotten you seats closer, though. I know a guy…
Three dots appear immediately, then her reply comes:
I like the view from up here…
I smirk, then punch out my reply:
Funny, that's exactly what I tell myself when I watch your practices. Or any time I see you, really.
The dots dance longer this time. Stop. Then start again.
It's a visual illustration of the indecision I hope my flirting message has caused, because we've been at it for weeks, little sideways glances and loaded comments.
And I can practically see her fighting a smile from up there, that little twitch at the corner of her mouth she tries so hard to suppress.
Because if she's taught me how to learn, teach, and be serious at least some of the time, I think I've managed to teach her that smiling at least once per cycle of the moon is critical to keep undertakers from thinking she's dead, and for keeping unsightly wrinkles from infecting her face a decade too early.
Then, finally, the reply:
Thursday. Library. 10:00 p.m. Your paper still needs work.
The subject change is so classically Morgan that I laugh out loud, then reply:
I'll bring coffee. The good stuff from that place you pretend you don't like.
She fires back:
It's overpriced and pretentious.
I smirk, then reply:
You literally moaned when you tasted their cinnamon latte last week.
A long pause. Then:
I didn't moan…
I hesitate, then decide to go for broke:
I know your moans…
And there it is, my attempt to cross that line to direct flirtation that we've both hesitated to do for weeks now. The dots appear and disappear three times. I watch the shadows in the nosebleeds shift—she's definitely squirming up there—and then raise my hand in a small wave.
But it's clear no reply is coming, so I send one last message:
Enjoy the rest of your day thinking about me…
Even from this distance, I swear I can feel her eyes roll.
I grin, pocket my phone, and stand up from the bench. And, as I head towards the locker room, I glance up at the championship banner above me and feel worthy of it for the first time, not like a total imposter. Because for the first time in my life, I led.
I took the hard path, not the easy one.
I taught without deflecting and held my team to a standard that was about excellence, not entertainment. It felt like being the captain I'm supposed to be, the one who might be worthy of the woman who sees through all his noise to the man desperately trying to emerge from underneath.
And the thought of it—of her—makes my smile go wider.