Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Silas
Superstition is a funny thing. I don’t believe in demons. I’ve never been religious. But I believe that somehow my fate will change if I don’t practice certain rituals before every game. I’m cold and logical to a fault, but I have to follow these stupid rules I’ve made for myself because…
What if they are the difference between me killing it on the ice and a shutout loss?
I lace my left skate, then the right, then redo the left because the knot sits wrong. God forbid that I tie my laces wrong or tape my stick differently. I’m too superstitious for my own good.
Sitting in the locker room, I try to soothe myself. Game day rituals matter. The order is a big deal. The process needs to be done in a certain way. If I do everything right, in the right order, we win. That's not superstition; that's fact proven over hundreds of games.
Though I try to tune it out, noise builds around me in layers. Beck raps his stick on the floor in a steady beat, his own pre-game rhythm that drives me crazy. But I'd never tell him to stop. What if he needs it to play his best?
Jett flips a puck into the palm of his glove, over and over. Hunter paces with his headphones on, shoulders loose, eyes already focused. He's listening to something aggressive, probably death metal, getting his head where it needs to be.
My left shoulder aches under the compressive sleeve.
It always aches before we play the North Carolina Hurricanes.
They're dirty players, every last one of them. They run traffic through the crease like it belongs to them. They crowd the goalie and count on the refs to swallow the whistle because they play every game like it’s playoff-style hockey.
I stretch my shoulder joint until it pops. The pop doesn’t bring any relief, though. My shoulder throbs, but I've played through worse.
Coach Cross steps into the middle of the room, using two fingers to whistle. The locker room falls silent. His voice stays flat, controlled, the way it gets when he's expecting a war.
"Here’s what I want to see. Start on time. Pucks deep. Own the net front." He pauses, eyes scanning the room. "They'll try to bully the crease. We don't get pushed around in our barn."
His gaze finds me, holds a second longer than everyone else. He knows my shoulder's bothering me. He also knows I'll play through it. That's what I do.
Coach Ryan follows him, tapping the doorframe twice. "Let's go to work."
I stand, grab my helmet, and bump knuckles with Jett. He shoves my shoulder like a brother, not a goalie. His shove is harder than usual, making sure I know he's counting on me.
"Keep my porch clear," he says.
"Keep your rebounds playable."
He grins. “Done and done.”
We hit the tunnel and the air thins out. The crowd on the other side sounds like a thunderhead about to break. We step into the light and the whole building jumps to its feet. Seventeen thousand people screaming for blood. Our blood or theirs. It doesn't matter as long as someone bleeds.
Warmups are muscle memory. Edge checks along the boards, hip turns to loosen up. Short passes at the blue line to get our hands warm. The ache in my shoulder throbs with the vibration of every pass. I ignore it, push through.
We skate out for the announcer introductions followed by the national anthem.
Then the puck drops and the Seattle Havoc fly.
The crowd roars so loud it feels like the air shakes.
I take a hit along the boards, absorb it, and reset.
We hold off their first surge, then the next.
Hunter forces a turnover, Reed fires low, and their goalie kicks it wide.
The rebound rolls to the corner, and I race back to kill a two-on-one. I drop to one knee, knock the pass aside, and Jett covers the loose puck. Whistle.
I stay focused on my job. Block shots. Clear bodies. Protect Jett.
There’s someone new on the opposing team. #18, Evan Malinsky. He’s replacing their usual right winger, a guy who’s been on and off the injured list for two years. Malinsky is young, spry, and aggressive. He makes it clear from the jump that he’s ready to toss gloves and brawl.
Hunter whistles at me, using two fingers to gesture to Malinsky. We’ve had all of our lives to develop a wordless code, so I know that I should watch Malinsky so that the rest of the team can operate more efficiently. Fuck yes, I can help with that. I love a mission.
I make my entire job to check, block, and frustrate #18.
And it works. Every shift I’m on the ice, I follow him around, acting like I was put on this earth to be in his fucking way.
Malinsky tells me to fuck off more times than I can count, his face getting redder and redder every time I check him into the boards.
He doesn’t even handle the puck much because I ride him so hard. None of his teammates will pass to him. By the second period, Malinsky’s hits grow heavier. I’m playing this one-man game of keepaway.
My shoulder throbs after he slams me into the boards, but I push through it. Pain is part of the job. I call out coverage when I can, keeping my stick low, closing lanes.
Then everything slows down. A deflected shot lands in the slot, and Jett sprawls to smother it.
The puck slips free and rolls toward the post. Malinsky cuts across the crease at full speed, stick down, eyes locked on the rebound.
Jett’s still prone, glove out of position.
He’s wide open. I don’t think, I just lunge.
I push off hard, crossing the paint and getting between Malinsky and Jett.
Malinsky can’t stop and doesn’t bother to try to blunt his trajectory.
He barrels right into me and his impact hits me like a runaway train.
My right shoulder is pulled down into my chest. My helmet toward my collarbone.
And then, without warning, there’s the screaming red goalpost.
Something cracks as I hit the metal. Pain floods down my right arm, white-hot and blinding. My fingers go numb. I stay upright long enough to shove Malinsky off Jett, using the last of my energy, then I drop to the ice.
The whistle screams. The crowd roars. Hunter slams Malinsky into the boards before the refs can get there. Beck grabs another player by the collar. The officials pull everyone apart.
Fuck, I’m in pain. I try to get up, only to have Jett’s hand and in the center of my chest.
“Stay down,” he growls.
I roll my eyes back to see him hovering above me, his eyes flashing.
He’s fucking pissed. The Havoc trainers hit the ice.
I wince. There’s something wrong with my right arm.
I close my eyes and someone presses a gloveless hand to my chest. Someone else steadies my arm, moving it very slightly.
I can’t help the yelp that escapes me. The world narrows to lights and noise.
I hear my name, a voice saying not to move.
I can’t breathe past the fire under my ribs.
Fuck, I’m in pain.
They strap me down, keep my shoulder still, and wheel me through the tunnel. The crowd noise fades behind me. As soon as we’re in the tunnel, the medics give me something that spreads through my veins like a slow-burning fire and steals my consciousness.
When I stir, I feel the pain first, flickering to life before I even open my eyes. Fuck, it hurts.
White. Ceiling tiles. Curtains. A sheet rough against my legs. I blink until shapes form. My left arm’s trapped in a sling, heavy and useless. The air smells like disinfectant.
Scout sits closest to the bed, her blonde hair thrown up in a wild bun, her head propped on her hand. Why is she here? Maybe to keep Juliet company.
Hunter leans against the window, his wife Juliet in a seat beside him, their fingers entwined. Jett sits on the couch, ice on his ribs, eyes red. Coach Cross fills the doorway. Coach Ryan stands behind him, his lips pursed, his phone pressed against his ear.
“Okay,” I say, or try to. My throat burns and I clear it. “Okay.”
Scout startles, showing she had been falling asleep. Relief breaks across her face as she pushes her chair closer until her knees touch the bed. “You’re awake.”
She leans toward me in my bed, very nearly grabbing my hand. I feel like I’m on acid. Everything has a surreal quality to it. This woman that usually doesn’t give me the time of day is looking at me like I just broke her heart.
Huh. I must be on the good drugs.
“Yeah.” My voice sounds rough. “What’s the damage?”
Ryan answers. “Fracture on the distal clavicle. Torn labrum. You’ll need surgery. Rehab’ll take months, not weeks.”
I take that in and nod once. “Jett?”
“I’m fine,” Jett says. He pulls the ice pack away. “Took a knee to the ribs, that’s all. You saved me.” His voice cracks and he looks away.
Cross steps forward. “You’re on the disabled list, effective immediately. We’ll fill your spot. You focus on surgery and rehab.” He looks straight at me. “You had a choice. You chose to break yourself.”
“He was unprotected.”
“You could’ve waited a second and buried him clean.” His jaw tightens. “Now I have to replace you. Somehow… I don't know how to do it.”
Ryan steps in. “That’s enough for tonight.” He turns to me. “We’ll talk about the next steps after imaging. Rest.”
Cross leaves without another word. The room exhales. I try to sit up and immediately regret it. Pain slams through my chest. The world tilts. I grab for the rail and miss.
The pain spreads fast, bright and merciless. I squeeze my eyes shut until it fades. Sweat beads along my hairline. I feel exposed and stupid in a paper gown.
Scout catches me. “Stop. Don’t move.” She presses me back against the bed, voice trembling. “Stay down, please.”
Why is she here again? Touching me, smelling like eucalyptus, tempting me. My head throbs and my shoulder is a bright white point of pain.
“Did, uh…” I scrabble to pull my thoughts together. “Did we win?”
“Yeah we won, asshole,” Hunter grunts. “Can you believe this kid?”
“Be nice,” Juliet chides. “He’s your baby brother.”
“We know,” Jett says with a sigh. “Our very stupid baby brother.”
I ignore them, glancing at Scout. “You didn’t have to come.”
“Are you kidding?” Scout asks softly. “You scared us.”
She fusses with the blanket, smoothing it flat, tucking the corner by my hip. I feel disconnected from my body. Her hands hover above my skin like she wants to fix what she can’t.
Juliet and Hunter look at each other but stay quiet. Jett stares at the floor. I push weakly at Scout’s wrist. “I need sleep.” My voice is low and final.
“Oh.” She nods and takes a step back. “Okay. Whatever you want, Silas.”
“Whatever… I want…” I echo her words. They bounce around inside my skull. “I wish you would say that to me… some… other time.”
Scout’s cheeks turn pink. “What?”
“He’s high,” Hunter mutters. “I’ll get the nurse, Silas.”
Eventually a nurse swans in with an IV bag, checks the line, and adjusts the drip. “This’ll help with the pain,” she says. She leaves and the room goes quiet again.
The pain meds hit hard. The room softens at the edges. The ache dulls to a low hum. Scout says something I can’t make out. I stop trying to listen. The dark comes fast and I let it take me.