Chapter 33 Head Games
Head Games
brOOKS
Hockey rinks have a smell that’s impossible to describe to someone who’s never spent half their life in one—ice and sweat and rubber and hope, all mingled together in a scent that hits me like a physical force as I step into The Boise Arena.
Home. The word floats through my mind, and I try to shove it back down where it belongs.
Is this home? I’m not even sure now, with my shoulder held together by prayers and medical tape.
But the crowd doesn’t know that. To them, I’m still The King, the prodigal son coming back to save the Trout’s up and down season.
If only they knew how close I am to shattering into a million pieces, right here on the freshly Zamboni’d ice.
The locker room buzzes with pre-game energy—guys taping sticks, adjusting pads, engaging in the rituals that separate winners from losers. At least, that’s what we tell ourselves. The truth is messier, more complicated.
“Kingston!” Coach Barrymore slaps my good shoulder, his face a mixture of hope and concern. “How’re you feeling?”
“Great,” I lie, the word so automatic it might as well be printed on my hockey card. Great. Fine. Ready to go. The mantras of a professional athlete, repeated until they become a form of self-hypnosis.
“Remember the plan.” He lowers his voice so the others can’t hear. “Easy minutes. No heroics. We’re just getting you back into the flow.”
I nod, but we both know it’s bullshit. There are no “easy minutes” against the Denver Blizzards. Especially not with Jonah Holt on their roster—my best friend, the guy who gave me his blessing to pursue his sister, even in my situation, now my opponent on the ice.
“How’s Maisie doing?” Coach’s eyes soften.
“Better than ever,” I say, which is true. Now that all’s forgiven and she has her health, she’s also loving community service. They gave her the “job” of playing cards with those at the retirement home.
Please. She’s lucky she’s so charming.
Coach nods, satisfied. “Good. Team needs you, King.”
Right now, the nickname sends a pang through my chest. A title I’ve worn since college, earned through blood and bruises and countless hours of practice. A title that might not be mine much longer if my shoulder gives out again. Or my health.
I finish suiting up, each piece of equipment sliding into place with practiced ease.
The routine steadies me, pushes back the doubts.
Shoulder pads. Elbow pads. Jersey—the blue and gray of the Trout, number 9, KINGSTON emblazoned across my back.
The weight of it feels both familiar and foreign, like returning to my childhood home, the one down the hill from Meema, that’s now occupied by strangers.
“Thirty seconds, gentlemen!” the assistant coach calls out.
My stomach knots as I grab my stick, the custom-weighted Bauer that’s an extension of my arm after all these years. Around me, my teammates form our traditional tunnel, sticks raised to create an archway leading to the ice.
McDavid catches my eye. “Good to have you back, Kingston.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
And then we’re moving, the tunnel of sticks giving way to the open expanse of the arena.
The roar hits me like a physical force—thousands of voices merged into one deafening wall of sound.
Blue and gray fills my vision, fans on their feet, banners waving.
A sea of humanity united in their hope that we—that I—won’t let them down.
“And returning to the ice after a nine-week absence,” the announcer’s voice booms, “Boise’s own number nine, brOOKS ‘THE KING’ KINGSTON!”
The crowd erupts, the noise cranking up another impossible notch. Signs wave in the stands—”LONG LIVE THE KING” and “WELCOME BACK KINGSTON.” My throat tightens. These people believe in me, in the myth of me. The indestructible hockey star who always comes through in the clutch.
I raise my stick in acknowledgment. The weight of their expectations presses down on me, heavier than it ever has.
We circle the ice in warm-up, and I test my shoulder, taking soft shots, making easy passes.
It holds. For now. The Denver players eye me from their half of the rink, assessing, calculating.
They know I’m the weak link. The wounded animal.
Hockey players can smell blood in the water better than sharks.
That’s when I see her.
At first, I think I’m hallucinating—some desperate projection of my subconscious.
But no, it’s really her. Sydney Holt, standing rinkside with a KBSN microphone, her blond hair swept back in that professional look she always wears on camera.
My heart stutters mid-stride, nearly sending me sprawling onto the ice.
What the actual fuck?
Jonah made it sound like Sydney was turning down the offer from KSLA and staying at KBVR. I thought she was more than happy to be home where she belongs. But here she is, in Boise, looking like everything I’ve been trying not to dream about since our world imploded.
Our eyes meet across the ice, and for a moment, time stops.
The crowd fades to a distant hum, the arena shrinks to just the space between us.
Her professional mask slips for just a second—surprise, maybe even pain, flickering across her features before she rebuilds the wall.
She gives me a small, tight nod. Professional.
Distant. Like we’re acquaintances, not two people who’ve seen each other naked in more ways than one.
My brain short-circuits, scenarios rapid-firing: she took a job in Boise?
“Earth to Kingston,” McDavid snaps, skating past me. “Game time, lover boy. Eye on the puck, not the press.”
Right. The game. The reason I’m here, risking what’s left of my shoulder and my career. I tear my eyes away from Sydney, forcing my focus back to the ice, to the warm-up drills, to the impending face-off. But her presence is like a magnet, constantly pulling me back in.
The warm-up ends, and we gather at the bench. Coach Barrymore goes through the usual pre-game speech, emphasizing defensive positioning, clean zone entries, staying out of the penalty box. I hear maybe every third word, my mind still reeling from seeing her.
“Kingston.” Coach’s voice cuts through my fog. “Ten minutes max per period. No penalty kill. If it starts to hurt, you’re done. No arguments.”
I nod mechanically. Ten minutes. A third of my normal ice time. Babysitting minutes.
“Let’s go, boys!” McDavid shouts, and we tap our sticks on the ice in unison.
The starting lineup takes the ice. I’m not among them—another concession to my recovery. I sit on the bench, eyes fixed on the face-off circle, trying not to let my gaze drift to where Sydney stands with her cameraperson.
The puck drops.
Hockey at this level is violence and grace in equal measure, chaos and strategy locked in constant battle.
The Blizzards come out flying, their forwards pressing deep into our zone.
Our defense bends but doesn’t break. The crowd surges and ebbs with each rush, a living, breathing entity feeding off the action.
Five minutes in, Coach taps my shoulder. “Third line, next shift.”
My heart rate doubles as I stand, moving to the gate, waiting for the whistle.
When it comes, I hop over the boards, my skates hitting the ice with a familiar crunch.
Time slows. My vision narrows to the play developing in front of me.
For all my doubts, for all my fears, my body remembers what to do.
I settle into the flow of the game, making simple plays, smart passes. My first few shifts are uneventful—exactly what the doctor ordered, exactly what Coach wants. But it’s not what the crowd paid to see. It’s not what I need to prove to myself.
The Blizzards’ top line comes onto the ice, and with them, Jonah. We haven’t faced each other professionally since last year, long before my injury. But some rivalries are eternal, friendship be damned.
He catches my eye as we line up for the face-off, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. “Taking it easy, King?” he taunts, just loud enough for me to hear.
“Saving my energy to make you look bad.” The familiar banter settles something in me.
The puck drops. Jonah wins the draw, pushing it back to his defenseman. They cycle it around, probing for weaknesses. I stay in position, conserving energy, playing the system. This is the smart approach. The safe approach.
But hockey isn’t about being safe.
Jonah gets the puck at the half-boards, dangles past our defenseman, and speeds toward the net. The move is pure Jonah—explosive, confident, a bit flashy. Before I can close the gap, he fires a wrist shot that pings off the post and in.
1-0 Denver.
The arena falls silent for a beat, then erupts in groans and frustrated shouts. I slam my stick against the ice, cursing under my breath. Across the rink, Jonah celebrates with his teammates, deliberately not looking my way. He knows scoring on my watch is a special kind of torture.
As I skate back to the bench, I catch Sydney’s expression—professional neutrality masking what I know is disappointment. She’s an Idaho girl at heart. And her brother just scored against her hometown boys.
“Not your fault,” Coach says as I slump onto the bench. “Defense lost containment.”
But it feels like my fault. Everything does lately.
The first period ends with us down 2-0. The locker room is quiet during intermission, guys staring at the floor, the walls, anywhere but at each other.
Coach gives his adjustments, his voice measured but urgent.
We’re better than this. We need to dig deeper.
All the usual clichés that somehow work because they tap into that primal hockey player instinct—to battle, to prove yourself, to be worthy of the jersey.
As we head back to the ice for the second period, my resolve hardens. Playing it safe isn’t working. It isn’t helping the team, and it sure as hell isn’t answering the question burning in my gut: Do I still belong here?