Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Silas
The locker room buzzes with pre-game energy. We're playing Colorado tonight. Playoff implications, national broadcast, the whole deal. Coach Cross stands at the whiteboard, marker in hand, running through the game plan one more time.
"Silas, you're shadowing their first line all night. I don't care if Rzeznik takes a shit, you're in the stall next to him. Got it?"
"Got it."
Hunter grins from across the room. "Defense Daddy's gonna shut them down."
"Shut up," I mutter, but there's no heat in it. The guys have been calling me that since some TikTok went viral last month. I hate it. Scout thinks it's hilarious.
My phone buzzes. I check it even though I shouldn't.
Scout
Good luck tonight, baby. Sable and I will be in our usual seats, wearing your jersey, cheering on the most amazing d-man in the league. Go be intimidating.
Me
You're wearing my jersey, huh?
Scout
#12. With your name on the back. Everyone's going to know I'm yours.
Heat flares through my chest. Three months ago, Scout wouldn't have been caught dead advertising that we're together. Now she's sitting in the family section wearing my number like she's proud of it.
Me
You're perfect. Love you.
Scout
Love you too. Now go win this game.
I pocket my phone and finish taping my stick. The ritual settles me. Heel to toe, no gaps, perfect spiral. My shoulder's been feeling good lately. Scout's mobility work is actually helping, though I'd never admit it to her smug face.
"Five minutes!" someone shouts.
We huddle up. Beck leads us in some ridiculous chant that Thorne started last season. Something about blood and ice and brotherhood. It's corny as hell but it works. By the time we break, we're ready to run through walls.
The tunnel smells like rubber and sweat and possibility. The crowd roar builds as we approach the ice. When my name gets called, the sound is deafening.
"Anchoring the blue line for your Seattle Havoc, six-foot-eight of pure shutdown power. Give it up for number twelve, Silas 'Ice Man' Huxley!"
I skate out and scan the crowd. There. Section 108, row 5. Scout in my jersey, curls piled on top of her head, grinning like she's never been happier. Sable and Juliet are beside her, and the rest of the Coven too. My girl brought her whole squad to watch my team play.
Something in my chest goes tight and warm.
The puck drops.
Colorado comes out flying. Their first line is fast, skilled, and dangerous. Rzeznik's got hands like silk and a shot that could punch through steel. Normally, trying to shut him down for sixty minutes would make me nervous.
Tonight I feel locked in.
First shift, Rzeznik tries to blow past me on the outside. I angle him to the boards, pin him there with my body, and steal the puck clean. Hunter picks it up and we transition the other way. No goal, but we controlled the play.
Second shift, I break up a passing play in the neutral zone. Simple stick lift, nothing fancy. Beck gets the puck and carries it deep. Still no goal, but we're dictating pace.
Third shift, Rzeznik finally gets a step on me. He's flying down the wing, Beck chasing after him but too far from the crease, my goalie Jett exposed. I dig deep and somehow catch Rzeznik at the hash marks. Poke check, perfectly timed, and the puck squirts past the goal, missing the net.
That was close.
Coach Cross nods at me when I hit the bench. That's high praise from him.
The game settles into a rhythm. Colorado's good, really good, but we're better tonight.
Thorne scores first, a ridiculous tip that Jett would've had no chance on if it came from the other team.
Hunter gets the second, crashing the net and jamming home a rebound.
Beck adds a third period goal that makes the building shake.
And me? I play the best defensive game of my career.
Every gap sealed. Every passing lane covered. Each time Rzeznik thinks he's got space, I'm there. I’m not playing dirty, not aggressive. But I have smart positioning and an active stick.
With five minutes left, Colorado pulls their goalie. It’s not the unusual this late in the game if they know they’re not going to win. Instead, they put in another enforcer. Six attackers against our five.
This is how games get lost, where one mistake costs you everything.
Coach Cross looks down the bench. "Silas. You're out there until the horn."
I nod and hop the boards.
The next four minutes are pure melee. Colorado throws everything at us. Shots from everywhere. Scrambles in the crease. Jett makes two incredible saves that have the crowd on their feet.
Then Rzeznik gets the puck at the point.
He winds up for a one-timer, the kind of shot that beats goalie more often than not.
I read it coming and step into the lane.
The puck hits my shin pad, deflects wide, and I'm already moving.
I scoop it up, spot Thorne breaking free, and hit him with a perfect pass.
Thorne goes in alone on the empty net. He scores and the building erupts.
We win 4-1.
The celebration on the ice is controlled insanity. Gloves fly, helmets come off, everyone's screaming and piling on Jett. I hang back, not big on the group hug thing, but Hunter finds me anyway and nearly tackles me into the boards.
"Defense Daddy!" he yells. "That's my fucking brother!"
Jett skates over, grinning ear to ear. "Dude. You were unreal. Rzeznik had like two inches of ice all night."
I can’t repress a smile. "I was just doing my job."
"Bullshit." Beck joins us. "That was a shutdown clinic. You should teach a master class."
The reporters swarm after we get off the ice. Microphones and cameras and questions coming from every direction.
"Silas, incredible performance tonight. What was working for you out there?"
I think about Scout in the stands, therapy with Dr. Max, and finally feeling like I have a life outside of hockey.
"I got my priorities straight," I say. "I found something more important than hockey. It’s helped me relax and just play the game."
"Can you elaborate on that?"
I have to try not to roll my eye. "Not really. But it's made all the difference, as you can see."
I shower quick and change fast. The media obligations can wait. I need to see Scout.
She's waiting outside the family room, still wearing my jersey, bouncing on her toes with barely contained energy. The second she sees me, she launches herself into my arms.
"That was amazing!" She kisses me hard, not caring that we're in public with cameras probably pointed in our direction. "You were incredible, Si. I've never seen you play like that."
"You inspired me."
"I was just sitting there eating nachos."
"You were wearing my jersey." I pull her closer. "Everyone in that building knew you were mine."
Her eyes soften. "I am yours. Completely."
"Good." I kiss her again, slower this time. "Because I'm not letting you go."
"Silas! Scout!" Reporters are approaching. "Can we get a quote about your relationship?"
Scout looks at me, questioning. This is it. The moment we go fully public. No more hiding. No more protecting her from speculation or criticism.
I take her hand and turn to face the cameras.
"Scout Nash is my girlfriend," I say clearly. "She's also the best thing that's ever happened to me. Anyone who has a problem with that can take it up with me directly."
The questions explode. How long have we been together? Does the team know? Is there a conflict of interest?
“Guys,” Juliet cuts in. “You know the rules. Be respectful of the players. Do you really think they would be dumb enough to announce their relationship if they didn’t have all the paperwork cleared? Like I would ever let that happen on my watch.”
“It’s true.” Scout takes it from Juliet like a pro. "We disclosed our relationship to HR months ago. The team's been supportive. And if you want to know more about my work with the Havoc, you should come to a Mobility Monday session. I'd love to show you what we're building."
She turns the conversation from gossip to her program without missing a beat. Pride surges through me. She's not hiding behind me or shrinking herself down. She's standing tall and claiming space and reminding everyone that she's more than just my girlfriend.
Later, after the media obligations are done and we're finally alone in my truck, Scout leans over and kisses my cheek.
"Thank you," she says.
"For what?"
"For not making me your dirty secret. You stood up there and told everyone I'm yours." Her voice gets quiet. "Enzo never did that. He always kept me separate from his career. I was something that he was ashamed of."
"I could never be ashamed of you." I thread my fingers through hers. "You're the best thing in my life, Scout. Everyone should know it."
We drive home with her hand in mine, both of us grinning like idiots. The radio plays highlights from the game. The announcers are calling it a statement win, proof that the Havoc are legitimate playoff contenders.
But all I can think about is Scout in my jersey, smiling at me from the stands like I hung the moon.
My shoulder holds up better than expected. The PT work, the icing, the careful management pays off.
"You might have more years than you thought," the doctor said last week.
More years means more hockey. More Scout. More of this life that stretches beyond just the game. I could live with that.
Hockey's still important. It probably always will be. But it's not everything anymore.
Scout is.