Chapter 22 - Gage
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Gage
The tunnel breathed heat and noise, a living thing pressing in from both sides as we lined up.
The ceiling lights hummed overhead, reflected in the visors ahead of me.
Dawson stood in front, captain’s tape bright against his sleeve, posture set like he could hold the whole line together by force of will alone.
Boone was behind me, restless enough that his blades kept whispering against the floor.
He hadn’t stopped talking since the bus left the hotel. Jokes without punchlines. Observations that went nowhere. He shifted, bounced once, rolled his shoulders, then did it again. Big game nerves, sure. Tampa always made us earn every inch. Still, the edge of it crawled under my pads.
Mine wasn’t just the opponent. I felt off.
Like I’d left something back in Vegas on a weight bench that still smelled too much like Carissa.
Reads came a beat late in practice. My feet didn’t want to commit when a hit opened up.
In front of the net, my reactions dragged as if I were moving through sludge.
Not the headspace you want walking into Florida with a series on the line.
Boone jabbed the butt end of his stick into my ribs. “I don’t know what to do about her.”
I kept my eyes forward. Dawson’s shoulders tightened at his brother’s mention, a small tell that might as well have been a flare.
He was way more than just ‘into’ Carissa, but he’d be hard pressed to admit it.
My indulgence was underlined by curiosity that burned hotter than Dawson’s, full stop.
Now that I had skin in the game, so to speak.
“What are you talking about?”
Boone looked toward Dawson and tipped his chin, then pointed a finger at himself. “She’s clearly into us both.”
Dawson pivoted then, eyes like cold, hard steel. “Can we save the pillow talk for later? We’ve got a game to win.”
Boone ignored him, as Boone always did when he decided something mattered. “Usually I don’t overthink this stuff. This time I am. She’s smart, and she sees through all the bullshit. I can’t just flirt my way into it.”
“Boone,” Dawson warned.
But Boone barreled on. “I need more than my natural charm. I need a plan. A real plan.”
I kept my mouth shut and my face blank, clamping down on everything that wanted to spill.
It was no use telling them about what happened between Carissa and me when I was still processing.
Timing saved me. The arena swelled, chants rolling through the concrete, the signal that the ice was ready and so were they.
Dawson shook his head, and went back to his mark, leading the way as the line surged forward.
Focus snapped back into place, at least enough to step onto the ice. Whatever knots I was carrying stayed with me, tucked under my chest protector, waiting for the next whistle.
The opening minutes went sideways fast.
The first rush came at us hard, Tampa cutting through the neutral zone before we’d even found a rhythm.
I chased the play a step behind where I should’ve been, reaching instead of closing, my stick late to the lane.
Dawson peeled back to cover, skates biting into the ice as he tracked the puck carrier, Boone scrambling to recover his side.
I circled back, lungs already burning, irritation snapping at my heels. Another shift, another amateur scramble. I missed a lane change at the blue line and Tampa poured through again, forcing Dawson to take the body while I drifted into space that should’ve been sealed.
The whistle cut through the noise.
Dawson coasted straight at me. “Get it together. You’re floating like a fucking schoolboy.”
I started to answer, but thought better of it. There wasn’t a defense that wouldn’t sound like a lame excuse.
We lined up again, blades carving shallow arcs as we reset. I lifted my head without meaning to and found the stands.
Carissa sat a few rows up, Henry beside her, both of them on their feet. The kid had his arms raised, face lit up, yelling my name with a confidence I hadn’t earned yet. He bounced once, nearly losing his balance, then steadied himself with a fist in Carissa’s jacket.
The sight hit harder than any check could’ve.
I’d spent my whole life proving something to people who never bothered to look twice. And here I was, half a world away from that kid I used to be, skating like I’d forgotten why it mattered.
Dawson glided back into my space, clearly not done. “You want to keep gifting them entries, or—?”
“We’re screwing this up,” Boone cut in, stick tapping the ice once to pull us tight. “I overcommitted on that last rush, left the wall open. Dawson chased the puck instead of holding the middle. And you,” his gaze flicked to me, “aren’t finishing checks.”
We formed a loose huddle, three bodies close enough that our shoulders bumped as we argued about whose fault it was, breath and frustration tangling. Some guys skated past, amused, waiting for us to implode.
I lifted my glove and pointed to the stands. Henry caught the motion and waved like crazy.
Dawson followed my line of sight, tension draining from his posture as he took it in. He dragged a hand down his face and let out a long sigh that spoke of seasons and scars and responsibility he never shrugged off.
“Told you,” Boone said under his breath. “She’ll keep getting in our heads and messing with us until we decide—”
“We’re not deciding anything,” Dawson said, voice firm, final. “Right now, we’re thinking about winning this game. Everything else is on ice until that’s done.”
I nodded. Boone did too.
We slapped helmets, a familiar ritual that sparked something old and reliable. As we skated back into position, my legs felt lighter, timing snapping back into place.
Whatever I’d left in Vegas found its way back to me.
Game on.
The next stretch turned brutal.
Tampa stopped pretending they wanted a clean game and started hunting instead.
Every zone entry came with a shoulder. Every board battle ended with someone jammed hard enough to rattle teeth.
I welcomed it this time. I finished the first hit I’d passed up earlier, drove a winger off the puck in our end, and felt Boone latch onto the loose play immediately.
That was the switch.
We rolled lines with purpose after that.
I won a draw clean back to Dawson, peeled off, took the return pass through the middle, and carried it deep enough to force their defense to collapse.
Boone slipped behind coverage, stick down, eyes up.
I threaded it through traffic and he buried it far side before their goalie could reset.
Tie game.
The building got loud. Not hostile loud. Electric.
Tampa answered with speed, catching us on a change and sneaking one past our backup on a broken look. Dawson slammed his stick against the boards once, then pointed at me on the way back to center. I nodded. No words.
We answered with pressure instead of panic.
I drove the net on the next shift, drew both defensemen with me, then dropped the puck back into the slot without looking. Dawson stepped into it and ripped it through bodies, past pads, pure and clean. He didn’t celebrate. Just skated past our bench and tapped the glass once.
By the third, everyone was breathing fire.
I took a high hit along the wall and stayed upright, spun out of it, chipped the puck forward to Boone, and chased. He waited half a beat longer than Tampa expected, then kicked it back to me cutting hard between the circles. I snapped it home before the goalie could square.
We went up by one.
They tied it again five minutes later on a power play that had our bench barking and our coach pacing like he wanted to jump the boards himself. I sat there, helmet on, gloves clenched, watching Tampa celebrate like they’d already won.
They hadn’t.
Late in the period, Dawson blocked a shot that stung enough to make him limp for a stride, but he stayed out. I won the next faceoff straight back, Boone flew down the wing, and I followed as the late option. Boone drew coverage and sent it across ice, right onto my tape.
I didn’t hesitate.
The shot went high glove, clean, decisive.
4–3.
The final minutes blurred into muscle memory and instinct. Clearing attempts. Broken plays. Tampa threw everything they had at the net while we answered with bodies, sticks, and timing that felt welded together.
The horn finally cut through it all.
I bent at the waist, hands on my knees, sweat dripping off my nose, heart banging hard enough to drown out the noise. Boone crashed into me from one side, Dawson from the other, the three of us laughing and swearing and holding each other upright.
When I looked up into the stands, Henry was jumping like we’d just won the Cup, Carissa’s hands on his shoulders to keep him from toppling over.
I pointed at him this time.
He pointed back.
My heart felt like it was about to explode.
We came off the ice, ears still ringing, body hot with adrenaline.
I was halfway past the bench when I caught movement cutting across the human traffic. Henry first, hair going wild, then Carissa right behind him. She reached me before anyone else could, and flung her arms around my neck, momentum carrying us a step back.
“You did it,” she said into my jaw, kissed my cheek once, then again, then a third time. “That last goal was insane.”
Her weight was all front-loaded enthusiasm and I caught her automatically, hands at her waist, still trying to catch my breath. Over her shoulder, I saw Boone and Dawson slow to a stop a few feet away. Boone looked entertained. Dawson looked anything but.
A boulder sank in my gut. I’d known this moment was coming; I just hadn’t expected it to happen before I’d made sense of it.
The locker room was loud when we got back. Music thumped from someone’s speaker. Tape got ripped. Skates hit the floor. Guys shouted over each other while gear came off in pieces and piles.
I was loosening my shoulder pads when Boone slid into the empty space beside me, too close to be nothing, grin already locked in.
“So,” he said, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Is there something you want to tell us?”
I kept my face neutral and worked my pads up off. “About the game?”
Dawson didn’t laugh. He came over to flank me on the other side, arms folded. “They obviously fucked. It’s obvious.”
The room didn’t go quiet, but my little corner of it did.
I met his eyes. There was heat there, but it wasn’t jealousy exactly. It was calculation. Assessment. Like I’d just stepped into his lane without signaling.
And why wouldn’t he be pissed? I’d taken something personal and turned it into competition. That had been the fear all along. The reason I’d stayed clear of Carissa for months. The reason I’d tried to keep my hands to myself.
That plan hadn’t survived the weight bench.
Boone, on the other hand, looked delighted.
He leaned back against his locker and laughed. “Okay, correction— She’s into all three of us. So what, do we draw straws or something?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Dawson snapped. “Enjoy the win. Enjoy Florida.”
Boone wasn’t deterred. “I am enjoying the win. The real win would be if we all got to date her.”
I shoved his shoulder, harder than necessary. “You get hit in the head one too many times out there?”
He rocked back, still smiling. “I’m just saying. Where’s the harm if she likes it? And speaking for myself, she really liked it. How about you, big guy?”
The image came uninvited. Carissa spread wide beneath me. Her breath catching. How she came apart in my hands.
My jaw tightened before I could stop it. I gave Boone nothing else, but that single tell was enough.
He slapped my shoulder, laugh breaking free. “That’s my man.”
Then he turned to Dawson, same look, same question hanging in the air. “What do you say, bro? How’s it looking, all of us taking our shot?”
Dawson didn’t rise to it. The master of guarded neutrality.
He stripped off his gloves, dropped them onto the floor, and finally looked up. “I say you change the subject.”
Then he turned away and went back to undressing, conversation closed.
Boone backed off, humming to himself as he wandered toward the showers. I faced my locker again, hands busy but not really doing anything.
Because what he’d just said lodged somewhere inconvenient. It wasn’t the worst idea. If Carissa was into all three of us, then she’d be open to dating all three of us.
I scoffed and shook the thought from my head. Either I’d lost my mind, or Boone, God help me, was actually making sense.