11 - Aiden #2
The second period tightened up. Vancouver adjusted, stacking the blue line and forcing us to dump and chase. I tried to carry it in once and got stripped clean at the line, turning the puck over and giving them an odd-man rush the other way.
As I hustled back, Mason’s voice cut across the ice from his own backcheck. “Middle, Aiden.”
I cut toward the slot just in time to tie up their trailing forward. The shot came from the outside and our goalie steered it to the corner.
When we changed, Mason skated by me and gave a short nod. Acknowledgment that I’d recovered, nothing more.
“North-south,” Grayson muttered as he took a seat. “They’re waiting for you to get fancy.”
“I won’t,” I said, though part of me wanted to prove I could.
The game stayed close. We went up two to one on a power play goal from the first line. Mason parked himself at the top of the crease and redirected a point shot through traffic. He didn’t celebrate big. He circled once and tapped the passer’s stick.
When he came off, Coach grabbed his shoulder. “That’s how it’s done.”
Mason nodded and drank from his bottle, water running down his chin.
Late in the third, Vancouver tied it off a scramble in front. I was on the ice when it happened, stuck in a battle along the wall while the puck slid out front. By the time I turned, it was behind our goalie.
I skated to the bench with my jaw tight, replaying it.
“That’s not on you,” Grayson said as he stood. “Win the next one.”
The next one came with under five minutes left. Offensive zone draw. Tie game.
I bent low, focused on the puck in the ref’s hand instead of the noise around us. When it hit the ice, I snapped it back clean to Cash Money, and cut immediately toward the right circle. He faked a shot and slid it to me instead.
I had a lane, but their defenseman stepped up. Instead of forcing it, I feathered a pass through his skates to Landon as he crashed in from the back door.
He buried it. Goal.
The arena erupted. Landon turned and pointed his stick at me before getting mobbed.
As we reset for the final shift, Mason caught my eye for the first time all night. He didn’t smile, but he held my gaze long enough to register the assist.
“Good read,” he said when we lined up for the defensive draw.
It wasn’t an apology, but I was willing to take it for the respectful olive branch it was meant to be. We didn’t have to be best friends to be on the same team, playing toward the same goal. These guys were never my friends, so it was easy for me to take this as a win and move on.
We locked it down after that, clearing pucks instead of chasing them. Short shifts. Hard stops. When the horn sounded, I stayed on the ice a beat longer than usual, chest rising and falling, sweat running into my collar.
We’d won again, but it hadn’t come easy, and I felt every shift in my legs.
As we lined up to tap gloves with Vancouver, Mason skated ahead of me. He reached the end of the line and turned toward our bench.
On the way off the ice, Grayson nudged my shoulder with his. “Second line looks fine to me.”
I let out a tired laugh. “We’ll see what tomorrow says.”
“Tonight said plenty.” He gave me a look.
We stepped through the gate one by one, blades clacking against the rubber mats, and headed down the tunnel together.
The noise from the arena dulled behind us, replaced by the hollow echo of our steps and the scrape of sticks against concrete.
Guys were talking over each other about the last shift, about Grayson’s finish, about Hunter planting himself in front of their net like it was his address.
There was laughter in it, the easy kind that came when a win settled clean.
I walked in the middle of it and felt slightly off-tempo.
I’d been on the ice for the go-ahead goal. I’d made the pass. Coach had trusted me with that draw, and Grayson had my back. Landon had pointed at me before the pile swallowed him. Mason had said ‘good read’ without looking like it cost him anything.
It should’ve slotted into place inside me.
Instead, my head was already moving beyond this game, this night. Was it a one-game experiment that paid off, or the start of something I’d have to defend every shift from here on out? Second line center wasn’t a title you got comfortable in. It was something you justified again and again.
The guys in front of me were riding the high, replaying the moments that tipped the game our way. I caught pieces of it, but couldn’t stay there. My brain kept circling back to the shifts I’d fumbled, the turnover at the blue line, the defensive scramble where I’d been half a step late.
Wins, for me, didn’t close the book. They opened a new page with expectations written across the top.
As we moved deeper into the tunnel, the cold from the rink left my skin and sweat cooled under my gear. They were talking about where to go after this, and all I could think about was whether tonight was enough to get me back for the next game.
By the time we reached the locker room doors, I’d already decided I wasn’t staying.
The guys filtered in ahead of me, voices carrying, sticks knocking against the frames of their stalls. Someone shouted about a bar downtown that had drink specials for home wins. Laughter followed, loud enough to bounce off the tile.
I stepped inside, crossed straight to my stall, and dropped into my seat without looking up at the whiteboard where Coach would start his breakdown in a few minutes.
My gloves came off first, then my helmet.
I worked through the straps on my shoulder pads with quick, practiced movements, tugging them free and setting them on the bench beside me.
Sweat cooled across my back as I peeled off the pads and undershirt, stuffing both into my bag without bothering to separate clean from dirty.
Across the room, Grayson was recounting the final play, tracing the lane in the air with his tape-wrapped stick. Mason stood near his stall, listening with a small nod when someone mentioned the screen he’d set earlier. He caught my eye once, like he expected me to step into the conversation.
I didn’t.
I unlaced my skates and slid them off, pulling on my sweatpants while the room buzzed around me. The showers kicked on, steam already creeping toward the ceiling. Coach’s voice cut through the noise, calling us in for a quick word before anyone disappeared.
I zipped my bag.
No one stopped me. No one asked where I was going. I was just another body moving through the room.
Grayson glanced over as I slung the strap over my shoulder. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll catch you tomorrow.”
He studied me for a beat, then nodded and turned back toward Coach.
That was it.
I pushed through the locker room doors before the debrief started and walked down the hallway alone, the sounds of the team folding in behind me. My footsteps echoed against the concrete, steady, unhurried. I didn’t need to sneak out. Nobody was keeping count.
Outside, the night air hit cooler than I expected. I unlocked my truck and tossed my bag into the back seat, then climbed in and shut the door.
The engine turned over. I pulled out of the lot and joined the stream of cars leaving the arena.
My phone sat in the cup holder, but the screen stayed dark. The way it had been for the past few days. Since Sage left me in that storage unit, with no ride back to my truck.
At the first red light, I picked it up. No notifications. No missed calls. No message that explained why she’d walked out without giving me the chance to ask anything real.
I opened her contact anyway.
Her name filled the screen, and my thumb hovered over the call button.
I pictured her studio, the way she moved through it like she had a rhythm the rest of us couldn’t hear. I pictured the look on her face when she was in the process of inking, how the concentration etched along her brow, the slight tension in her jaw.
A horn sounded behind me, and I realized the light had turned green.
I dropped my phone back into the cup holder and pressed the gas, never having dialed or texted Sage after all. What would I even say to her?
The streets thinned out as I drove toward downtown. I didn’t need directions. I’d been there enough times now that the turns came automatically. Purple Rose sat on the corner with its front windows facing the street, the sign painted in looping letters across the glass.
Tonight, the lights inside were off.
I pulled to the curb and cut the engine, staring at the dark interior through the windshield.
The place looked smaller without the glow from inside, like it had folded in on itself.
I got out and crossed the sidewalk, sneakers scuffing against the concrete.
The door handle didn’t budge when I tried it.
Locked.
I stepped closer to the window and cupped my hands around my face, pressing my forehead lightly against the cool glass to block the reflection from the streetlights. The studio beyond was empty.
No music. No movement.
Just dark.
I stood there longer than I meant to, breath fogging the window in uneven patches before fading.
I’d come to find the thing that would make tonight’s win sit a little easier in my chest, but she wasn’t there.