29. Kai
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
KAI
OSKAR: We just got to Condors Arena. I’d say good luck in tonight’s game, but…
KAI: Yeah. Same.
The puck is back in our zone. The players are a goddamn hornet’s nest of teal and blue, making the game almost impossible to track. I see only shapes and patterns as the men swarm around each other, their strategies constantly changing. I’m operating on pure instinct.
Every pass connects, and every fake is dangerous enough to make us bite. My thighs are burning from the last butterfly slide. Sweat soaks the padding of my mask, sticking to my skin and making each breath a cloud in the cold air.
Down the ice, Oskar is impossible to miss in his blue and white uniform. Whenever I catch a glimpse of him, he’s like he was at our first game in October. Technically perfect, watching quietly, moving only when he has to. He’s the reason this game is tied.
A Fury player shoots, and I don’t move because it’s going wide.
Thwank! It rings off the post to my left, and I feel the vibration through the ice under my skates. McKay, one of our defensemen, clears the rebound and sends it up the boards.
Big mistake. A Fury winger is on it in a heartbeat, charging back into our zone. I’m out of my crease in an instant, challenging him and cutting down the angle. He fakes left. When our guys bite, he slams a shot toward me.
Thwack! My glove hand snatches the puck out of midair an instant before it crosses the goal line. As the crowd erupts, the players in front of me move barely enough for me to see Oskar. Slowly, he raises his glove and taps the side of his mask, a message between netminders.
Nice save. Now let’s see you do it again.
It’s not taunting; it’s recognition. What goalies do when we know each other.
I steal a glance at the jumbotron. Twelve minutes left in the game, plenty of time for magic. And also for tragedy.
The Condors and the Fury: two immovable objects. I hope we can win this one. It’s not even halfway through the season, and though we’re holding on to first place in the division, the Fury are gaining on us.
Another faceoff. I brush the snow from my pads and try to ignore my aching joints. My chest may be on fire, but my focus is razor-sharp. At the other end of the ice, Oskar is as determined as I am. Neither of us is about to break.
Two minutes later, the score is still tied when there’s a TV timeout. Heaving a sigh of relief, I head for our bench.
Theo holds out his fist for a bump. “Good man, Kai. Keep their shots out of the net long enough, and we’ll get lucky.”
“We have to get into their zone first,” Noah says, backhanding Theo’s arm. “We’re fucking up every time we let them in front of our goal.”
Coach Holmer taps Theo and Noah on the shoulders. “Easy, boys. Rest for a minute.”
His Swedish accent is slight, but it reminds me of Oskar.
Not far away, Oskar is standing in front of the Fury’s bench. For a second, I hope he’ll turn his head, but he doesn’t.
Jace, loud as always, pipes up. “Send me in, Coach. I’ll get us a fucking goal.”
Holmer says nothing, but he must think it’s worth a try. He sends out the second line—Jace at center with Paquette on his left and Patterson on the right. Lindholm and Thompson are backing them up on D.
Back in my crease, I rub the left post with my glove and kiss the one on the right. Then I glance at Oskar, who’s already looking at me. I raise my stick, and when he does the same, my knees wobble a little.
When the puck drops, something has changed. The Fury are a little slower, their passes less sharp. It isn’t long before the Condors grab the puck and swarm into the Fury’s zone.
Jace sends a low pass to Paquette in the corner. Paquette fires a quick wrister that Oskar deflects with his blocker. When Lindholm smacks the rebound, Oskar shifts left. Easiest kind of save, letting the puck bounce off your pads.
The crowd roars, then breaks into our fight song. Our boys don’t let up. Thompson blasts a shot from the blue line that hits a skate, then a stick, before finding Jace’s blade. Jace fires low, and Oskar lets it rebound off his stick.
The Condors reset quickly. Another shot, another save by Oskar. He’s standing on his head, twisting his body in ways that don’t seem possible, but the Fury still can’t clear the zone.
Paquette gets the puck again and winds up. The slapshot rockets toward the top corner of the net, over Oskar’s glove.
Then things shift into slow motion. Jace, skating hard toward the net, loses an edge and careens into the crease. There’s a sickening thud as he crashes into Oskar, and a sharp metallic clang as the goal comes off its moorings and slides away. The ref’s whistle sounds sharper than usual.
I expect Oskar to get right up. Goalies do this all the time.
But he doesn’t.
In the chaos, men start shoving and yelling. The scrum swallows half the crease, and I hope nobody steps on Ozzy. As the refs struggle to pull the angry players apart, Ozzy remains still. A full-body shiver rocks me on my skates.
Fuck the fight. My focus is on the man who isn’t moving. His glove is by his feet, his stick is underneath him, and his blocker is over by the boards.
What the hell?
He still doesn’t move.
Don’t lose it. Ozzy’s okay. Just wants to be sure he doesn’t get up the wrong way and fall in the middle of the scrum.
Goalies do this. I’ve done this.
Get up!
My stomach twists into a knot.
About the time I’m ready to puke, his glove hand twitches. One leg kicks. He’s moving.
Which means he’s conscious.
Right?
The scrum’s breaking up, and players are moving out of the way.
Get up, Ozzy!
Okay. I imagine his hand on my back and try to control my breathing. I’ve been a goalie all my life, and we’re a tough breed. We resist injuries.
Get the fuck up!
I’m buzzing all over. It feels like a high-voltage version of the shock you get from a wall outlet.
I’m not panicking yet.
Not panicking.
But the calm I had is gone.
My heart sinks when the Fury’s trainer hurries across the ice toward Ozzy. When he kneels beside him, I say a prayer.
I haven’t prayed since I was a kid.
The crowd has gone quiet, leaving a ringing silence that makes it all feel worse. I’m still in my crease, eyes locked on Oskar. The trainer is blocking most of my view, but I can see his hands moving around Ozzy’s neck.
Why the hell won’t Oskar sit up? He keeps lying there, like something’s wrong.
God. Is something wrong?
Please get up, Ozzy.
I skate to our bench, where my teammates are talking softly. One by one, most of them look at me. Theo tries to smile. Nico looks grim. Noah nods but says nothing.
My eyes go back to Ozzy’s crease. He’s still down, but he’s talking to the trainer now.
The replays hit in my head on an endless loop.
Ozzy in his net, his head on a swivel.
Packy winds up. Packy shoots.
I knew it would go in. Hell, I was excited we were taking the lead.
Then… fuck me.
Jace is out of control, digging his stick into the ice trying to slow down. Losing his footing. Crashing into Oskar.
The thud. The screech.
Oskar doesn’t move.
Oh God. Please, Ozzy, be okay.
I want to rush down there and hold him. That would certainly set the arena on fire.
But what have we been doing for months now? Why shouldn’t I go?
“Kai, look!”
Theo’s voice cuts through the static in my head. He’s pointing toward the Fury’s crease.
Ozzy’s getting up on his own.
The trainer accompanies him back to the bench, where his teammates are tapping their sticks. My eyes sting, and everything blurs.
No. Not here.
Abso-fuckin-lutely not.
All at once, the world snaps back into focus. Officials are huddling off to the side. Ozzy’s talking to his coach. My teammates are looking at me.
A ref goes to center ice, and his voice echoes across the arena. “After video review, the call on the ice is no goal due to goaltender interference. New York number 34, Jace Castillo, has also been assessed a minor penalty for goaltender interference.”
My teammates start grumbling, but I ignore them. Before Ozzy went down, I’d have been cursing the refs too. Not now.
I go back to my crease, and as I settle between the posts, Oskar is skating back to his goal. I can’t keep a grin off my face when he settles in and looks at me.
Goddamn him for scaring me so much.
Thank God he’s okay.
I raise my stick and nod. He returns the salute, and even though we’re a rink apart and he has on his mask, I could swear he’s smiling.
The penalty gives them a one-man advantage, but our penalty kill is vicious. The Fury skate like they’re trying to get out of our way, but Ozzy’s as sharp as always. Stops two shots, a wrister and its rebound.
With ten seconds left on the power play, Noah feeds the puck to Nico. Instead of shooting, Nico fakes left, pulling a Fury D-man toward him. Then, almost without moving his stick, he slides a perfect pass to Theo.
Theo one-times it—a laser just inside the far post. Oskar gets a piece of it with his glove, but the puck is moving too fast. The goal horn sets off a fan explosion.
We’re in the lead, 3–2.
The boys have a big celly and skate by our bench. The crowd cheers even louder, but I stay quiet in my crease. I haven’t stopped watching Ozzy since the goal. He didn’t slam his stick or shout. There was only a slight shake of his head before he drank some water and turned back around.
But I see it—he’s hurting. I can’t salute him because everyone in the arena would think I was being an asshole, rubbing it in. I wish he could hear my thoughts.
Our lead holds through the end of the game, but my mind is chaotic as the guys come onto the ice to bump helmets with me. I’m happy we won but too shaken to celebrate.
I hear the whooping before I make it to our dressing room. The noise dies down when I clomp in, but that’s probably only me and my hyper-focus. In front of my stall, the first thing I do is take my phone from the top shelf and message Ozzy.
KAI: Are you okay?
KAI: I hope so.
KAI: Can I come over?
The phone buzzes before I can lock it.
OZZY: I am fine. They wouldn’t have let me play if there was any doubt. Congratulations on the win. We’ll get you next time. Some of the guys are going out to drown their sorrows, but I don’t feel like it. Come to my place for sure.
I fight back the sting in my eyes.
KAI: What a relief. I’ll be there as soon as I get out of here.
When I put my phone back on the shelf and look around, everyone has their eyes on me.
“You played like a champ tonight,” Nico says. “We owe you.”
I nod. “Just doing my job.”
Theo thumps me on the chest. “Grade-A goaltending.” The chirp that always follows one of his compliments doesn’t come.
“Thank you.”
Conversation resumes as I strip off my jersey, but I haven’t even started on my pads when McKay calls out. “You’re gonna have to show that other goalie how to take a hit and stay on his feet, Kai.”
Silence. My heart aches with it. But I can’t yell at McKay because no one would understand.
While I’m processing this, Theo calls him out for me. “Shut up, you idiot! Don’t you realize Olofsson could’ve been hurt. I don’t know where you learned to play hockey, but we don’t make light of that here.”
McKay has lost the color in his face by the time Theo finishes. “I-I didn’t mean that. Nobody wants to see him hurt. I only meant that Kai’s the greatest. He knows how to win. He—”
Nico puts a hand on McKay’s elbow. “We know you didn’t mean anything by it, but a little sensitivity goes a long way. All right?”
“Yeah.” McKay’s voice is shaking so much he hardly gets the word out.
Nico gives me a long look before calling out, “It was a good win, boys, and I know we’re all glad Olofsson’s okay. I’m buying drinks at O’Connor’s. Who’s coming?”
After my shower, I’m the first player to leave. I text Nico from the cab.
KAI: Thanks for your support. It was good to win. Have fun with the boys.
Ozzy opens the door as soon as I knock. His smile melts the knot I’ve had in my stomach since he hit the ice. He’s wearing sweats and a soft T-shirt, and I finally let myself believe he wasn’t hurt.
The door hardly closes behind me before we’re in each other’s arms. His skin is warm, and he smells like arena soap and Ozzy. The reassuring beat of his heart against my chest quiets the noise in my head.
“You scared the fuck out of me,” I say.
His arms tighten around me. “I know.”
For a long time, neither of us moves. Then I pull back enough to look at him.
He watches me, no doubt seeing more than I want him to.
I grab the back of his neck and kiss him. He goes still, then kisses me back as if he might never have another chance.
When we pull apart, I keep my forehead pressed to his. My breaths are coming in short bursts. “Never do that again,” I whisper.
Ozzy huffs a soft laugh. “I will do my best not to get run over by your teammates.”
I should laugh. Instead, I hold on tighter.
“Kai,” he whispers.
My throat burns so much I have to swallow before I can say, “You were just lying there. And I didn’t…”
Ozzy’s expression is so soft it almost hurts to look at. He kisses the corner of my mouth. “Baby, I’m okay.”
I nod, but I don’t let him go.