11. Jaymie
Jaymie
One Week Later...
The roar of the home crowd hit me like a shot of adrenaline straight to the bloodstream.
I stepped onto the ice, lungs tight with nerves, legs humming with anticipation.
Everything felt heightened—the sharp scent of fresh-cut ice, the low thrum of the music through the boards, the crackle of energy between players.
The Saturday night lights above us blazed down like spotlights on a stage, and this time, I wasn’t just watching from the wings.
I was back.
“Ladies and gentlemen, returning to the lineup tonight—number ninety-three, Jaymie Prescott!”
The announcer’s voice echoed through the rafters, and the crowd surged.
My name.
My team.
My home.
Skating out for warmups, I felt the familiar rhythm settle into my body like it had been waiting for this exact moment. Logan caught up to me near the blue line, bumping his shoulder against mine.
“Look who decided to grace us with his presence,” he said, smirking.
“I heard you missed me,” I replied, rolling my shoulders.
“I missed having someone slower than me in drills,” he said. “Also, your dumb jokes.”
I laughed and took a quick wrist shot toward the net, the puck sailing clean into the top right corner. It felt good. Damn good.
Coach gave me the nod from the bench, and the team gathered around the circle for a last huddle before heading back to the locker room. As I was peeling off my helmet and reaching for a towel, a familiar voice cut through the buzz .
“Prescott.”
I turned and found Mallory standing just outside the bench area, arms crossed, lips tugging into a faint smile.
“Well, look who couldn’t stay away,” I said, toweling off.
She cocked a brow. “Just checking your brace, making sure it’s still tight.”
“You sure that’s all you’re checking?”
Her smile deepened. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
I stepped a little closer, voice dropping. “You nervous for me?”
She looked me dead in the eye. “Terrified. But only because if you tear that hamstring again, I’ll have to deal with your whining all over again.”
“Can’t wait,” I said, and for a split second, our eyes held.
The smile she gave me then wasn’t teasing. It was soft. Real. Then she turned and disappeared down the tunnel, her ponytail bouncing with each step.
Logan appeared beside me like a damn ghost. “So... our girl’s here.”
I groaned. “She’s not our girl.”
He grinned. “That’s what makes it so cute.”
“Shut up.”
He just clapped me on the shoulder. “Let’s go light it up, Romeo.”
Puck drop came fast .
The Carolina Cats were scrappy, fast, and chippy as hell—but we were faster. Stronger. Sharper. First period, Logan sniped one past their goalie five minutes in and skated by our bench like he was on fire.
“That one was for Mallory,” he chirped as he coasted past.
I flipped him off with my glove and jumped over the boards for my shift.
And God, it felt like magic.
The puck connected with my stick like an extension of my body. Every stride was a victory. I dug hard into the corners, fed perfect passes to the wings, and kept my zone clean like I’d never missed a second.
The second period started with a faceoff at center ice. I was lined up beside Darren—our second-year firecracker who had more energy than sense most nights—and across from him was Carolina’s goon of the evening, a forward with more mouth than game.
Darren turned toward Connor, who’d just skated into position on defense, and called, “Hey Cap, think I can score if I close my eyes and pray?”
Connor didn’t even glance back. “Try it. Maybe God’s the only one who’ll pass to you.”
The bench howled. Darren just shook his head and grinned. “That’s cold, man. Real cold.”
The puck dropped, and Darren exploded into motion, charging down the ice like he had rockets in his skates. He took a sloppy wrist shot that rebounded hard off the pads and came flying toward Connor.
Connor collected it smoothly, then barked, “You call that a shot or were you just trying to warm the goalie up?”
“Shut up and pass it back, old man!”
Connor flicked the puck toward the blue line, clean and quick. “I’ll pass when your aim doesn’t suck.”
They kept it up the entire shift, trash-talking, chirping, driving the Cats nuts. And it worked.
One of their forwards got sloppy, took a dumb penalty, and we went on the power play.
Back on the bench, Darren plopped down beside me, breathing hard. “If Connor chirps me one more time, I’m telling his fiancée he cried during Marley & Me.”
I snorted. “He did cry during Marley & Me. That’s documented.”
“Still got the game tape,” Connor added from down the bench, totally unfazed. “And I looked damn good doing it.”
Darren just grinned. “Fair.”
The scoreboard ticked up: 3-0. Then 4. Then 5.
By the end of the game, the Hellblades had annihilated the Cats. Final score: 5-0. And I’d been out there for three of those goals.
As the horn sounded, the bench emptied in a tidal wave of elation. Logan tackled me into the boards, helmets clashing, both of us grinning like idiots .
“Dude, you crushed it out there,” he said.
I caught my breath, high on the win and the noise and everything in between. “You weren’t so bad yourself, hat trick hero.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, already grabbing the game puck from the ref. “But tonight wasn’t about me.”
I raised a brow. “No?”
He shoved the puck into my chest. “Welcome back, Prescott.”
For a second, I couldn’t say anything. I just stared at the puck in my hand and the way Logan was grinning like I’d just scored the game-winner in Game Seven.
“Thanks, man,” I said finally, voice rough.
We skated off the ice to the thunder of the crowd and the smell of victory. But somewhere between the locker room showers and the rush of celebration, all I could think about was the way Mallory had looked at me before the game.
And how badly I wanted to see that look again.