Chapter 7
ELIJAH
The second we hit the locker room, it's chaos—in the good way.
Someone whoops loud enough it echoes off the concrete walls, and that sets everyone off again. Gloves get tossed. Helmets get tapped like congratulations instead of protection now—quick knocks to the head, shoulder bumps, elbows digging into ribs as guys pass each other. Nothing aggressive. Just that post-win energy that's too big to sit still.
"Hell of a way to open the season," Kentaro says as he pulls his mask off, hair plastered to his forehead, sweat dripping down his neck. He looks wrecked and smug at the same time.
"Understatement," Zach fires back, smacking him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "You were a brick wall out there."
Kentaro grins, starting to say something, but I cut in first. I hook an arm around his shoulders and give him a rough pull.
"That's our goalie," I say. "Best damn insurance policy we've got."
"Facts!"
"Brick wall!" Zach says it again, playfully punching our goalie in the chest over his gear.
"Absolute menace!" Liam says.
Kentaro ducks his head, laughing, but he doesn't shake me off.
I let myself feel the pride for half a second. When Kentaro's in net, everything feels easier. He's one of the best goalies in D1, and everyone knows it. His reflexes are stupid fast. Pucks don't get past him unless they're placed perfectly—and even then, it's not a guarantee.
It's not impossible to score on him. It's just rare. Most nights, teams don't score on him at all.
The twins tap his helmet. Another guy pounds the bench, and the noise swells again.
Some of the guys drop onto the benches in front of their lockers, heads tipped back, chests heaving as they start stripping gear. Others are still standing, tugging jerseys over their heads, shoulder pads clattering to the floor.
Coach Hopper steps in, clapping his hands once. The room slowly settles, guys still fidgeting with tape and laces but listening.
"Alright," he says, voice steady, proud but controlled. "That's how you start a season."
A few guys nod—and then the whole room chimes in at once.
"Damn right."
"Yeah!"
"Let's go!"
Someone bangs a stick against the floor. A couple helmets get knocked together again, noise bouncing off the walls.
Coach Hopper waits it out, then continues. "You played fast. You trusted each other like you were supposed to." His gaze sweeps the room. "Yeah, things got a little heated in the second."
His eyes stop on Cody.
Cody lifts both hands in surrender, grinning like he's proud and guilty at the same time.
"I get it," Hopper says. "It's hockey. Stuff happens. But we don't need to be sitting in the box gifting momentum away. Every penalty is a missed chance to score, and I don't want to see that become a habit."
"Worth it," Liam mutters loudly.
Hopper doesn't even miss a beat. "Liam, if I wanted your opinion, I'd ask for it."
The room cracks up.
"But you pushed through," Hopper adds, tone softening just enough. "You stayed locked in. You finished strong. And I'm damn proud of the way you opened this season."
"But listen," Hopper continues, tone shifting just enough to remind us who he is. "One win doesn't mean a thing if you don't back it up. This"—he gestures around the room—"this should make you want the next one more. Because teams are going to watch that tape. They're going to come for you. So, be ready."
"Always, Coach!" We all say in unison.
Coach gives a final clap. "Enjoy it. Recover smart. We go again."
As he leaves, the noise ramps right back up.
I drop onto the bench in front of my locker and peel my jersey off, the fabric heavy and soaked, clinging all the way up. My shoulder pads follow, then my elbows, everything thudding to the floor in a loose pile.
My shoulders ache deep, the kind that settles into the joint. My legs are screaming now that the adrenaline's wearing off.
I roll my right arm slowly, shoulder tight. Left hand comes up to steady it, fingers digging in as I work it in a slow circle, trying to loosen whatever is knocked out of place.
Behind me, I hear Zach suck in a breath.
"Oof," he mutters. "That was a bad hit, huh?"
I turn just enough to look at him.
He's sitting at the locker next to mine, towel draped around his neck, staring at my side with a grimace. His eyes drop to my ribs.
I glance down.
The bruise is already blooming, dark and ugly along my side.
"Yeah," I say. "Carmichael really went at me tonight."
He's Lakeview State's captain. Last minute of the third, we're up by one. He had a chance to tie it and drag the game into overtime, and I got in his way. Took the lane, killed the play before he could get the shot off.
He didn't take it well. Obviously.
Because next thing I knew, he was slamming me into the glass, then taking me down like he forgot we were playing hockey and not wrestling. I hit the ice hard, ribs first, the air getting knocked clean out of me.
It all happened fast, but I knew right away it was going to leave a mark.
Looks like I wasn't wrong.
Zach shakes his head. "That's not like him. Dude usually keeps it clean."
"He was under pressure, I bet." I say, flexing my side once, testing it. "They needed that goal."
Zach exhales. "Still. That hit was nasty."
"Yeah. But I get it."
Being a captain means everything lands on you. Wins, losses, momentum swings, the way the room feels when things start slipping. You're the one expected to drag the team forward when legs are heavy and the clock's working against you. When nothing's going your way, you're still supposed to make something happen.
Carmichael's in his last year. Last shot at it. Lakeview State hasn't touched the Frozen Four in almost a decade, and everyone knows it. That kind of drought sits on a captain's shoulders whether he wants it to or not. You feel it every shift. Every missed chance. Every second ticking down when the score's not in your favor.
Every captain wants that run. That trophy. It's the kind of thing that sticks to your name long after the season's over, long after the jersey comes off. You don't forget it—and neither does anyone else.
So when I shut him down in that last minute, I know exactly what snapped. It wasn't about me. It was about the moment getting away from him.
I'll be sore for a few days because of it, no doubt. But I also know he's probably sitting somewhere right now replaying it in his head, wishing he'd kept it together. Because losing your temper like that? That's the kind of thing captains hate themselves for.
So, yeah. I get it.
Zach taps me lightly on the back as he heads for the showers, already halfway out of his gear.
My duffel buzzes a second later.
I reach in and grab my phone, thumb swiping the screen awake. Notifications stack the second I unlock it—congrats texts, group chats blowing up, a few numbers I don't recognize at all.
Great game tonight.
You were insane out there.
Celebrate with me?
Come over.
I don't even open most of them. Just scroll past, ignore. It's the same thing every game. Puck bunnies I don't remember giving my number to sending me invitations to hookup. I don't bother responding.
But hey, if I was in the mood to bury my cock in someone tonight, I didn't need to reply.
I'm pretty sure there'll be a lineup of bunnies outside the locker room exit—faces full of hope and expectation.
And if someone actually catches my eye, maybe I'll let her take me home. Or I'll take her back to the Pond.
Not that I've been getting any lately.
I almost laugh at the thought.
No thanks to my best friend's five-foot sister, who's been cockblocking me since the second she set foot on campus. Ever since she showed up, it's like she's developed some kind of sixth sense— because she's always there.
Like an uninvited conscience with a sunny smile, popping up just in time to make things awkward for me.
I honestly can't remember the last time I hooked up with someone without her orbiting the situation like a damn satellite. It's annoying as hell.
And like clockwork—her name pops up on my screen.
Speaking of the little devil.
A couple of messages sit there, unread. I don't open them. Don't preview them. I slide the thread straight into archive like I always do. Reading even one feels like encouragement, or false hope and I'm not giving her any of that.
Not a read receipt. Nothing.
It doesn't stop her. Not even a little. She still texts every day. Still manages to be wherever I am.
It's exhausting.
I blow out a slow breath and scroll again.
My mom's texts sit there, stacked one after the other.
MOM
Did you boys win tonight??
MOM
I'm so sorry I missed your opening game tonight. I completely blanked on the date
MOM
I promise I'll make it up to you next month. I'll be there, okay?
Yeah. Right.
It's the same promise she recycles all the time. Every game. Every year. Always paired with a new excuse—her husband wasn't feeling well, a last-minute business trip she couldn't reschedule, something important coming up that somehow always lands on game day. The list never ends. Just keeps evolving.
My grip tightens around my phone, that familiar ache settling in my chest. Disappointment, mostly. Directed at her—at both of them, really.
Because if my mom sends excuses, my dad doesn't even bother with that.
Nothing. No texts. No apologies. No fake reasons.
When it comes to hockey, I already know better than to expect him. Ever since his injury ended his pro career, he's treated the sport like it's poison. Like it took something from him and infected everything it touched. Hockey might as well be a disease as far as he's concerned.
Not that he ever showed up much even when it wasn't about hockey.
Whatever good I was feeling from the win a few minutes ago is gone. That hollow weight creeps back in, familiar and bitter, dragging the resentment I've bottled up toward my absentee parents right along with it.
They checked out as my parents a long time ago.
Even more once they both built new, shiny versions of their lives—new families, new priorities. I've made peace with that. Or at least I tell myself I have.
Still doesn't stop it from hitting every time I see my teammates' families in the stands. Parents cheering like they're just as proud as the guys on the ice.
I barely remember what that feels like.
Walking out after a game and seeing your family there—waiting to congratulate you, to hug you, to actually be there. I haven't had that in a long time. Someone who showed up for me without conditions. Without excuses.
Someone who was just... consistent.
What's been consistent in my life instead is the envy. The feeling of being on your own, like a dog that keeps looking for an owner who isn't coming back.
It's an old wound. One I've tried to stitch shut more times than I can count. But it never stays closed. Every time I think it's healed, something small tears it open again.
I swallow hard, like there's a fucking lump stuck in my throat, and lock my phone, shoving it back into my duffel harder than necessary. The bag hits the bench with a dull thud, and I slam my locker shut, the sound sharp and final.
Whatever.
I don't need them.
That's what I tell myself as I grab my towel and head for the showers. Steam rolls out, the noise of the locker room fading behind me. I let the hot water do its job—wash off the sweat, the dirt, the ache in my ribs.
And maybe, if I stand there long enough, I can wash away that thin thread of hope I keep forgetting to cut.
Because hoping is the part that fucks you up. It's what makes you care. And caring is what keeps turning into disappointment.
I don't need that in my life.
We step out of the locker room cleaned up and changed, hair still damp, skin warm from the showers. The concrete hallway opens into the wider corridor outside the locker rooms, cooler air drifting in every time the doors down the line swing open.
Out front, the space is already crowded.
Families cluster near the doors, jackets thrown over arms, phones still out from recording the end of the game. Parents pull guys into hugs. Moms cup faces. Dads clap backs a little too hard. Younger siblings bounce on their toes, grinning like they just won something too.
I keep my expression neutral. Offer a few nods as we pass. A polite smile here and there. Like I'm not really seeing any of it.
Inside, something twists anyway.
I roll my shoulder, adjust the strap of my duffel, and keep walking.
"Angel!"
I hear Zach blurts out beside me.
I follow his line of sight—and there she is.
Sam.
She's trying to push her way through the crowd, which would be easier if she weren't five feet tall and built like she might get knocked over by a stiff breeze. She slips between bodies, ducks under an elbow, squeezes past a couple parents twice her size like she's navigating an obstacle course meant for someone else.
And somehow, despite all that, she's smiling.
That same sugary, too-bright smile she always has. Like it's glued to her face. Like nothing ever actually weighs on her. Even while she's getting jostled around, there's still that spark in her eyes, like the whole world is a good place and she's never had a reason to doubt it.
I let out a slow exasperated breath.
Of course. As if my mood wasn't already shot.
Zach's grin stretches wider as she finally breaks free from the crowd. "Did you come cheer for me, Angel?" he calls. He spreads his arms wide. "C'mon. Give your big brother a hug."
I roll my eyes.
Zach's the kind of guy who never looks rattled, on or off the ice. He has a presence that tends to intimidate people, and he leans into it—acts tough, invincible, untouchable with everyone else.
But put his sister in front of him and all of that disappears.
Suddenly he's softer. Attentive. Affectionate in a way he never is with anyone else. Like nothing else exists except making sure she's okay, making sure she's happy. It's jarring every time I see it—how easily she pulls that version out of him.
"Eli!" she squeals and breaks into a run.
Instead of heading for Zach—who's still standing there with his arms wide open—she veers straight toward me. Doesn't even look his way.
Before I can process it, she's already there, colliding with my space and wrapping her arms around my waist, tight and unhesitating. Her face presses into my chest like it's the most natural thing in the world, like this is where she's supposed to be.
My body locks up for a second.
I don't move. I don't pull away.
My arms stay where they are—hanging uselessly at my sides—caught between instinct and surprise. She doesn't seem to notice. Or doesn't care.
"You were so amazing out there, Eli," she says into my shirt, voice muffled but bright. "Did you see me earlier? Did you hear how loud I was? I swear I was yelling the whole night."
She pulls back just enough to look up at me, eyes shining, cheeks flushed from the cold and the sprint and whatever rush she's riding. That's when I notice the paint on her skin—#78 on one cheek, ED on the other.
"I'm so proud of you," she adds, arms tightening around me like she wants to make sure I feel it.
Something shifts in my chest.
It's not just the usual irritation I brace for when she's around. There's something else tangled in with it—unexpected, warm, pressing in from the inside. My throat tightens, and I have to swallow hard to keep it from showing.
My best friend clears his throat loudly.
"I'm really trying not to get offended here, Angel," he grumbles. His lips pull into that ridiculous pout.
Sam just giggles, like she hasn't completely ignored him in favor of clinging to me.
That's enough to snap me out of it.
Whatever that strange, split-second warmth was—whatever almost-nameable thing crept in when she latched onto me—I shut it down hard. Clamp it off before it gets any ideas about sticking around.
I reach back, grab both of her wrists where they're still hooked around my back, and gently but firmly peel them away. I step forward, putting space between us as I clear my throat, trying to cover the fact that she caught me off guard.
"How many times do I have to tell you to keep your distance?"
My voice comes out flat and cold. There's no room for her to misread it.
She blinks, then flashes that familiar guilty grin.
"Oh—sorry," she says lightly. "I just got caught in the moment."
I let out a short breath through my nose.
"Yeah?" I say. "Next time you get caught in the moment, keep your hands away from where they don't belong."
That's exactly why I keep my guard up around this little devil.
Sam doesn't push boundaries carefully. She plows straight through them, assumes closeness where there isn't any, and fills in the gaps with whatever version of the story suits her best.
If I give her an opening, she won't just take it—she'll sprint with it. She'll convince herself it means I'm letting her close because I want her there. Because I'm starting to feel something back.
That thought sends a sharp shiver up my spine.
Because it isn't true.
It won't ever be true.
For a split second, I think I see something flicker across her face—hurt, maybe—but it's gone just as fast, buried under that same bright, cheeky smile she always wears.
So, I tell myself I imagined it.
I glance at Zach and give him a tight nod. "I'm heading out first," I say. "I'll wait in the truck."
"Yeah, man. Sure," Zach replies easily. "I'll see you in a bit."
I sling my duffel higher on my shoulder and turn away before either of them can say anything else. I don't look back. I don't need to.
I know she's still watching me.
I keep walking.
Because standing there any longer would only give her ideas—and those ideas only ever turn into false hope.
That's not a line I'm willing to let her cross.