Chapter 8
EIGHT
Friday classes had finally ended, and I was already mentally on the ice. Tonight’s game against Northern Montana University was exactly what I needed—a chance to dominate and remind everyone why I was one of the best defensemen in the conference.
And maybe more importantly, a few hours where I didn’t have to think about being stuck with Harper Tinsley as my psychology project partner for the next nine weeks. That clusterfuck was Monday’s problem.
I got to the arena early. The rink was quiet except for the Zamboni making its final pass, and I stood there for a minute just breathing it in. I loved the sharp, frigid air and the smooth, pristine ice.
This was my sanctuary. This was where everything made sense.
Growing up, hockey had started as a bonding activity between my dad and me, but I’d quickly become obsessed with the sport.
I’d even considered trying to go to a college that had an NCAA team, but I loved being in Montana more than anything else.
I didn’t want to be that far away from home.
And I knew hockey could be a part of my life forever, even if I never played professionally.
Knowing I’ve contributed to the return of CFU’s hockey program is enough.
“You’re here early,” Foster said, appearing beside me with a grin. Our hockey captain was always early. “A little birdy told me you got paired with Harper for your psych project. Should be interesting watching you try not to kill each other for nine weeks.”
“Fuck off.” But yeah, it probably would be interesting for everyone. I didn’t know how I was going to survive it. The girl had been under my skin all week, and I didn’t know what to do about it except hit people on the ice.
By the time warm-ups started, the arena was already filling up. NMU always traveled well, and their student section was packed with assholes in navy and gold who’d been talking shit on social media all week about how we were going to get embarrassed on our home ice.
When the buzzer sounded to clear the ice, I felt that familiar buzz starting in my chest. This was it. This was what I lived for.
Coach Maxwell was already at the whiteboard when we got to the locker room, and he laid out the plan for the first period.
“Alright then.” Coach clapped his hands. “Let’s show these guys why Clark Fork owns this rivalry. Lumberjacks on three!”
“One, two, three, Lumberjacks!”
The roar that hit us when we skated back out made the hair on my arms stand up. This was the best fucking feeling in the world—right before the puck dropped, when anything was possible.
The anthem played and I stood there with my hand over my heart, mentally running through positioning, coverage, all the things I needed to do to make sure we won this game.
Then the ref was at center ice and everything else disappeared.
Foster lined up against their center—some guy named Kowalski who’d been running his mouth on socials about exposing our “overrated defense.”
We’d see about that.
The puck dropped and Foster lost the draw, which almost never happened. NMU’s wingers came charging into our zone with speed and I locked onto their left wing, reading his approach. He tried to chip the puck past me along the boards, but I’d seen that play coming from a mile away.
I timed my stick lift perfectly and knocked the puck free. Liam scooped it up and we were heading the other way.
“There we go, Monty!” Coach called.
The first few shifts were exactly what Coach had warned us about—NMU came out hitting everything that moved. Their third liner caught one of our freshmen with a huge hit that sent the kid sprawling. Legal, but brutal.
Then Barnes jumped over the boards for his first shift.
He was NMU’s top winger and their biggest trash-talker.
I’d caught him with a clean hip check last season that put him on his ass, and he’d been bitching about it on social media.
Posted at least five videos of himself with captions about revenge and payback. The guy couldn’t let anything go.
Our eyes met across the ice and he smirked, mouthing something I couldn’t hear but could definitely guess. My pulse kicked up a notch. He could run his mouth all he wanted—I’d make him eat it on the ice.
Two minutes later, I got my chance. Barnes carried the puck into our zone with his head down—rookie fucking mistake—and I stepped up at the blue line and absolutely destroyed him. It was a clean hit with perfect timing, just physics doing what physics does.
Barnes went down hard and the puck slid free. Our winger took off on a breakaway and the crowd lost their minds.
I skated past Barnes as he was getting up, his face twisted with rage. “Still want that revenge?”
He shoved me—not hard enough for a penalty, just enough to show he was pissed. The ref warned him and I skated away, grinning like an idiot.
God, I loved this game.
NMU scored first on some bullshit redirect that Gordy had no chance on. We answered back four minutes later when Foster won a face-off directly to me and I blasted a slap shot from the point that their goalie never saw through the screen.
“Good pace out there,” Coach said during intermission. “They’re getting frustrated. Stay disciplined and they’ll start taking penalties.”
He was right. NMU came out for the second period even more aggressive and more desperate. Their fourth liner took a stupid hooking penalty three minutes in and we went to the power play.
I watched from the bench as Foster’s line set up in their zone. They moved the puck beautifully until Liam wound up from the point and beat their goalie clean.
2-1, Lumberjacks.
The arena erupted and I was on my feet with everyone else, banging my stick on the boards. Liam skated past our bench with a huge grin on his face, and I reached over to tap his helmet.
“Fucking beauty!” I yelled.
My next shift came about eight minutes into the period. NMU was pressing hard, trying to tie it, and they caught us on a bad rotation. Their winger had a clean look from the slot and I watched him wind up for the shot.
I didn’t think. Just dove.
The puck hit my shin pad so hard I saw stars for a second, but it deflected into the corner.
“Fuck yeah, Monty!” Liam was there, hauling me up. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
My shin was already throbbing—that was definitely going to leave a nasty bruise—but I didn’t care. We’d kept the lead and that was all that mattered.
We held them off through the rest of the second, but NMU tied it early in the third on a goal that was partly my fault. Their forward got behind our defense because Liam and I both thought the other had him covered.
2-2.
Fuck.
“Next shift, we come out flying,” Foster said during a time-out, his eyes scanning all of us.
I nodded, already planning. I was pissed at myself for that defensive breakdown, and I needed to fix it.
When my shift started, NMU had the puck in their own zone. Their defenseman tried to make a pass across the blue line to his partner—but it was a lazy pass and I read it the second the puck left his stick.
I jumped it.
Suddenly, I had nothing but open ice and their goalie staring me down. The crowd was on their feet, and I could hear Coach yelling something, but everything narrowed to just me and the net.
Their goalie was playing the angle well, cutting down my space. I faked the shot to freeze him, then roofed it over his glove.
Top shelf. Bar down.
The celebration hit me like a freight train. Liam got to me first and nearly knocked me over, then Foster, then half the bench was pouring onto the ice. The roar from the crowd was so loud I couldn’t hear anything else.
“That’s how we fucking do it!” Liam yelled in my ear.
When we finally skated back for the face-off, I was riding the kind of high that made everything else in my life seem small and stupid. This was it. This was who I was supposed to be.
Fucking crushing it on the ice.
The final ten minutes felt like hours. NMU pulled their goalie with two minutes left and threw everything they had at us. I blocked three shots in the final minute—shin, shoulder, and one that caught me square in the ass and hurt way more than I’d ever admit to anyone.
When the final buzzer sounded, the relief and joy hit me all at once.
We’d won, 3-2. Even better was that I’d scored the game-winner and we were now on a five-game winning streak.
The locker room afterward was pure chaos. Music blasting, guys dancing around half naked, everyone riding that post-win high.
“That goal was fucking sick,” Foster said, dropping onto the bench next to me.
“Thanks, man.” The praise felt good, and settled something in my chest that had been restless all week. “Just got lucky.”
“That wasn’t luck,” Gordy called from across the room. “That was you playing out of your goddamn mind.”
My phone buzzed and I pulled it out to see a text from Ava.
Ava
That goal was SICK. You’re buying dinner tomorrow to celebrate.
I grinned and typed back.
Me
Pretty sure the person who scored the goal shouldn’t have to buy dinner but whatever.
Ava came to every home game to cheer me on. As much as we drove each other crazy like siblings were supposed to, she was also my biggest supporter.
More texts started rolling in congratulating me. It all felt good, but nothing compared to being here with my team, all of us riding the same high.
I leaned back in my stall, still in most of my gear, just soaking it all in. This feeling—this was everything. The win, the goal, my teammates celebrating around me.
Hockey was the one place where I never had to question who I was or what I was doing.