Chapter 10 - Hunter
Hunter
The air inside the arena was thick enough to chew. Boards rattled as the Anaheim Ducks slammed another shot on goal and I barely got my glove up in time to deflect it. The puck ricocheted off the post, whistling past Theo’s stick and sliding into the corner.
“Clear it!” I barked, my voice hoarse.
Theo swept it out of the crease, but even his stick work felt sluggish tonight. Or maybe it was just me, feeling the weight of every second tick off the clock.
Grayson wasn’t on the ice. Not on the bench. Not skating back to drop his shoulder into some poor bastard. His absence was like a phantom limb. You didn’t realize how much you relied on it until it was gone.
And with him gone, that left me. The useless right hand of a pro Southpaw. Barely holding my own in the posts, let alone showing up as stand-in captain for our squad.
I crouched low, vision darting between the Ducks’ offensive line as they regrouped. Without Grayson calling plays, everyone looked half a beat off. Even me. Especially me.
The Ducks won the faceoff in neutral ice. Shit. I grew bigger like I always did, guarding my posts. But my pads felt heavier with each stride they took toward me.
“You good?” Theo muttered as he swung back to cover my left side. His breath puffed through the bars of his helmet, sharp and fast.
“Peachy,” I snapped. My voice cracked in my own ears.
He gave me a look, eyes dark through the cage. “You’re overcommitting. Stay square.”
“You’re a square.”
Overcommitting. As if I didn’t know the Ducks smelled blood in the water every time I shifted a fraction too far.
From the corner of my eye, I caught a flash up in the stands.
The place was packed, so there was no reason for me to pick her out so easily.
Holly. Sitting just behind the glass, hair pulled back, pen scratching across her notebook between shifts.
Probably drafting my post-game mea culpa for the press.
“Callahan accepts responsibility for Surge’s implosion.”
Another shot screamed off an Anaheim stick. I kicked my leg out, catching it with my skate blade and shoving it to the boards. My heart thudded so hard it felt like it would tear through the padding of my chest protector.
“Head in the game, head in the game,” I chanted under my breath.
Which, under the circumstances, was harder than any other time I’d been out here. Everything kept railroading my thoughts. Leading without sucking. Controlling the narrative. Holly with her shirt untucked, white socks whispering on the hotel room carpet.
We chased the puck out of the zone, but Anaheim clawed it back in. Everything was chaos. No system. No Grayson. And me, supposed backbone of the team, cracking under the noise of my own thoughts.
“Settle in, Callahan,” Theo hissed as he slid past me, stick dragging a Duck off balance. “Quit playing like your mask’s on fire.”
“Swap places and see how you do,” I shot back. My throat was sandpaper.
Another rush. My knees burned as I dropped into butterfly. Shot blocked, rebound cleared by the mighty Theo. Again.
I heard the crowd roar above the play, a mix of excitement and frustration. Surge fans wanted a hero, but they were stuck with me.
Every whistle felt like an indictment. Every glance from the bench burned through me. The guys weren’t talking to me like they talked to Grayson. No subtle nods, no quick chirps of trust. Just silence, like they were waiting for me to fuck it all up.
Ducks set up in our zone again. Their winger feinted, passed cross-ice, and I lunged… too far. Thankfully, the slapshot clanged off the far post and sailed out of play.
“What did I just tell you?” Theo barked, skating back to tap my pad. “Stay home!”
I swallowed hard. My glove hand twitched. “I’ve got it,” I muttered, but I didn’t sound like me at all.
Up in the stands, Holly was still scribbling.
Her eyes flicked up to me just once, a flash of contact through the glass.
Not exactly pity. She wouldn’t waste pity on me.
But maybe frustration. Disappointment. Or the cool detachment of someone already writing the press release about how their client blew it.
Always composed, that one. Professional. Always just doing her job.
We dropped for another faceoff. I crouched lower, forcing myself to breathe slow. The Ducks’ center won it clean, and their winger drove straight down the slot.
“Cut him off!” I yelled. Theo’s blade clattered against ice, driving him wide. Tucker tried to compensate, but the puck came across, low and nasty.
I snapped my stick down and batted it out. For a second — just a second — the crowd roared approval. But the rebound came back like a boomerang.
I sprawled, glove out, catching it inches from the goal line. My body slammed to the ice. The whistle blew.
I stayed down, forehead pressed to the cold sweat inside my mask.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This was supposed to be my chance to prove I could co-captain this team the way they deserved. Instead of a hotshot goalie, all they were getting was a hot mess in pads.
“Nice snag,” Shawn muttered, clapping my helmet as he skated by. “Keep it up.”
“We’ve got this,” I rasped, not believing we had anything.
The ref dropped the puck again. Time bled off the clock, but it felt like an eternity.
The Ducks’ pressure was relentless. They circled like sharks, and every time I glanced up, Holly was there. Watching. Writing. What, I couldn’t guess. It would’ve been easier if she just sat there and yelled like the rest of them.
My lungs ached. Sweat trickled down under my collar.
They fired again. I caught it, threw it out, scrambled back to my feet. The sound of the crowd rose and fell like a storm. The burn blazed in my veins, making null whatever tiredness I was feeling. No time for that.
Theo crashed into their forward, and cleared the crease. “Callahan, you’re overthinking,” he said as he pivoted back. “Stop playing like you’re someone else. Play like you. Just… play.”
I wanted to snap back, but the words jammed in my throat.
Because he was right. I was playing like someone else. Like the guy everyone wanted me to be. Like Grayson’s unflappable co-captain. The future of the Surge.
Except, I wasn’t exactly that guy either.
Another rush in attack. My vision tunneled. The Ducks’ winger wound up for a shot, and I lunged nothing close to pretty or technical, but my glove snapped shut around the puck.
The horn blew for the period.
“Chin up, Buttercup!”
Mason’s voice cut through the grumbling on the bench, and I looked up from my water bottle. Third period, score tied. The Ducks were buzzing like hornets, and I was one mental misstep away from giving it all away.
He crouched in front of me, helmet off, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.
“You’re not here,” he said, low enough that only I could hear. “You’re thinking about everything but this ice. Stop it.”
I blinked at him. “I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.” Mason’s eyes burned like a matchhead. “You’re too in your head. I need you to forget everything. This is your net. These are your guys. You didn’t get here on luck. You earned it. So act like it.”
He shoved my shoulder pad, not hard, but enough to jolt me. “Stop trying to be Grayson. Be Hunter. Just play your game, man.”
Before I could answer, the buzzer blared. Time to take the ice. Mason yanked his helmet back on, gave me a look that said fix it, and vaulted over the boards.
I stood, chest heaving, and skated back to my crease. The crowd was a living thing now, pulsing with noise. The Ducks lined up at center ice like they already owned the next twenty minutes.
Be Hunter. Mason’s words thudded in my head.
Last season, I was the one talking him down and through a killer series. How the tables have turned. But if he thinks I deserve to be here, then...
I crouched lower, flexed my glove, and let the chatter of the arena fade. No Holly scribbling. No teammates doubting. No management. Just me. Just the ice.
The puck dropped.
The Ducks’ center snapped it back, their winger flying down the boards like a missile. Theo cut him off, stick-on-stick, and I tracked the puck as it slid behind the net.
“Watch the slot!” I yelled, my voice stronger now. My own voice, not the guy I thought I had to be. It felt fucking good coursing through me, reminding me, and the stiffness in my body dissolved.
The puck popped out. I slid square, glove flashing. Whap! Snatched it midair. The crowd ate it up, their chants sliding under my skin like a drug.
“Now we’re talking,” Theo laughed as he pivoted back.
I tossed the puck out to our D-man, who pushed it up ice. Surge fans rose from their seats, desperate for a breakaway. Mason caught it, spun off a defender, and fired it deep.
I stayed crouched, locked in. My breath slowed. The noise became a dull droning in my ears.
Another Ducks rush. I kicked out the first shot, blocked the second with my chest, and sprawled to sweep the rebound with my stick. My glove hand stung, but I had it.
The crowd erupted. I didn’t pump my fist. I didn’t even smile. I just stood, handed the puck to the ref, and reset.
Shift after shift, we clawed. Anaheim was relentless, but I was in the groove now, sliding post-to-post, cutting angles, glove and pad flashing. For a few minutes, it felt like the world narrowed to the size of my crease.
“Nice read,” Theo chirped after I stoned their winger on a one-timer.
“Nice block,” I shot back.
Mason’s words echoed every time I dropped to butterfly: Be Hunter.
Midway through the third, Anaheim drew a penalty. We went on the power play. Mason banged one off the crossbar, but it stayed out.
My heart hammered, but my head was clear.
Then, with three minutes left, it happened.
A turnover at our blue line. Two Ducks broke free, shorthanded. Theo dove but missed. They snapped a pass cross-ice. I lunged, glove out.
The puck hit the post, kissed my skate blade, and trickled over the line.
Goal.
The horn blared like a siren in my skull.
The crowd groaned, a low, sick sound that cut straight to my gut.
I stayed on my knees, staring at the puck in the net. I’d been perfect all period, and still it wasn’t enough.
Theo skated over, tapped my pad. “It’s okay. We’ll pull it back.”
We didn’t pull it back.
The final buzzer sounded with the scoreboard reading Ducks 3, Surge 2.
I stood, helmet heavy, sweat dripping into my eyes. Around me, sticks clattered against the ice in frustration. Mason ripped his helmet off, jaw tight.
We lined up for the handshake, going through the motions. My hands felt numb inside my gloves.
From the corner of my eye, I caught Holly in the stands. Her notebook was closed now, but she was still watching me, expression unreadable. Not smug. Not disappointed. Just… there.
I skated off with the guys, head down, and followed them into the tunnel. The noise of the arena faded behind us, replaced by the hiss of skates on concrete and the low mutter of curses.
I ripped my helmet off, wiping sweat from my face with my sleeve.
“Callahan!” one of the trainers called. “Press room in ten.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, pulling off my gloves. My arms ached. My chest felt hollow.
The hallway outside the press room smelled like stale coffee and linoleum.
I trudged toward it, running over in my head what I’d say.
We fought hard. We’ll regroup. We’ll do better next time.
I needed to check with Holly what my official line was about Grayson’s absence and me stepping in to co-captain.
I rounded the corner and, as if my thoughts materialized, she was there. Leaning against the wall with her arms crossed over her chest. No notebook in sight. Just her, cool and collected. Her hair was loose now, but it didn’t do much to soften the stern look on her face.
“Go home,” she said, her tone colder than the arena. “You’re done for the night.”
I frowned. “What?”
“I already gave your statement to the relevant outlets. You don’t need to say anything more.”
“You what?”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “I handled it. Go home.”
Something in me snapped, not anger so much as exhaustion cracking open. “I can speak for myself. Especially after tonight. I was captain. How’s it gonna look if I–?”
“It’s going to look how I want it to look,” she replied simply.
I stared at her, sweat still drying on my neck, helmet dangling from my hand. The hallway was empty except for us. The hum of vending machines filled the silence.
Holly didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
I imagined brushing past her, just walking into that press room and saying whatever I damn well pleased. Then I imagined her face if I did that. The fallout.
So I just stood there, jaw tight, while she held the line.
“Go home, Hunter,” she said again, and pushed off the wall, her heels clicking down the hallway.
I watched her go, the noise of the arena still echoing in my ears, the sting of the loss and her cool dismissal tangled in my chest.