Chapter 32
thirty-two
. . .
Aidan
The roar of the crowd should be enough to keep my head in the game.
Normally, it is.
Most days, the second my skates touch the ice, everything else disappears. The noise, the pressure, the distractions—they all fade until there’s nothing left except the puck, my teammates, and the next shift.
Tonight, though, my focus is shot.
The Cowboys aren’t helping.
They’re fast, physical, and relentless, and every inch of ice feels contested. We’re tied 2–2 late in the second period, and neither team has managed to gain much of an advantage. Every shift feels like it matters, and every mistake feels bigger than it should.
Which makes this the worst possible night for my brain to keep wandering.
Larsson picks up the puck along the boards and glances toward the middle. I’ve played with him long enough to know what’s coming before he even moves his stick, so I’m already cutting through the neutral zone as the pass leaves his blade.
It lands perfectly on my tape.
I’ve got space—not a ton, but enough I should be thinking of my impending shot. The defense backs off a smidgen, opening a lane I’d normally take without hesitation.
Instead, Ceci flashes through my head.
Not even a full memory. Just her standing in our kitchen before she left, stealing a sip of my coffee and insisting hers tastes better, like it’s some kind of scientific fact.
It throws me off just enough.
My shot misses the net and slams hard into the end boards.
“Damn it.”
The puck takes a bad bounce, and Edmonton is gone the other way before I can fully process what I’ve done.
I turn and sprint back hard, digging into the ice as their forward, Carr, jumps on the loose puck and accelerates through the neutral zone.
I played with him in juniors. He’s fast when he gets going, the kind of quick that turns a small mistake into a real problem, and within seconds he’s crossing our blue line with speed.
Sinclair steps up to challenge him, Ryan sliding across to take away the passing lane, but Carr threads a pass through traffic anyway, and suddenly the play is unfolding too fast to slow down.
A shot comes off before I can fully get back.
Henry gets a piece of it, stretching across the crease to make a save that looks almost impossible in real time, and the rebound kicks out into the corner.
I’m the first one there, and I take it out on the nearest Cowboy, driving him hard into the glass. The hit echoes through the rink. It’s not pretty, but at least it’s something I don’t screw up.
The whistle sounds a few seconds later.
Sinclair is already skating toward me as I loop back.
“What the hell is going on with you?”
I pull my mouthguard out and shake my head like that answers anything.
“Nothing.”
He doesn’t buy it.
“You missed a wide-open lane, and then you were halfway out of the zone while Carr came flying through like we weren’t even there.”
I let out a slow breath. “That obvious?”
“To everyone.”
Great.
I know what it looks like. I know what it feels like, too, and neither version is good.
I head back to the bench and try to reset, but Coach is already leaning forward as I sit.
“MacGregor.”
Just my name. Nothing else.
“Yeah?”
“Wake up.”
That’s it. No shouting. No lecture. Just three words that land heavier than anything else he could’ve said.
A few guys on the bench glance over. I keep my eyes forward and take a drink of water like I’m not unraveling in real time.
Because I know exactly what the problem is.
I miss Ceci.
It shouldn’t hit this hard. We’ve only been apart for a few days. Not long. Not enough to mess with me like this.
Being on the road is a fact of life, but it usually doesn’t upset my equilibrium as much as it is. Routines steady me. I like knowing what to expect, and away games have a steady sort of unpredictability that, in itself, is predictable.
But this—this is different. I don’t like it. I’m off-kilter, unbalanced, in everything I do.
And apparently, that’s enough to throw me off my game.
The third period starts the same way the second ended—fast, heavy, relentless. Montreal pushes early, and we answer shift for shift, no one giving an inch.
Easton takes a massive hit behind their net but still kicks the puck loose. Larsson jumps on it, works it back to the point, and Ryan fires a shot through traffic that forces another save and another scramble in front.
Bodies pile up. Chances come and go. Nothing breaks.
Sinclair blocks a shot that stings even from where I’m standing, yet he still manages to limp back into position like it didn’t matter.
Everyone is fighting for every inch.
Everyone except me, at least until I force it.
The clock bleeds below five minutes, and the building feels it. The energy changes. Everyone knows what’s coming—one goal, one mistake, one bounce deciding the whole thing.
Ryan rims the puck around the boards. Easton wins the battle and nudges it into space. Larsson gets there first.
I’m already over the boards as the puck comes free.
“Go,” someone yells; I don’t even know who.
Larsson sees me and sends it forward.
The pass hits my stick in stride.
Suddenly, I’ve got open ice.
The crowd rises as I cross the blue line. One defenseman chases from behind, while another angles in from the middle, trying to close me down before I can get inside.
The goalie sets early.
Everything tightens. Everything slows.
And for the first time all night, my head is clear.
Not because I’ve stopped thinking about Ceci, but because I’m not fighting it anymore.
She’s not a distraction. She’s just there. A constant. Something steady in the middle of everything else.
I hear her voice in my head like she’s right behind the glass, calm and certain the way she always is when I’m overthinking.
Stop thinking. Just shoot.
I almost smile.
I pull the puck to my backhand, get the defenseman to commit, then shift it back to my forehand as the goalie opens just enough.
That’s all I need.
I shoot.
The puck snaps off my stick and buries itself inside the far post. The horn explodes through the arena a beat later.
And just like that, everything else disappears.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Ryan yells as he tackles me in a celebratory hug.
“Nice one, Cap,” Sinclair shouts.
I head to the bench to fist-bump the rest of my teammates, then clamber over and chug some water.
Glancing up at Coach, I’m relieved to see his earlier disappointment absent, a satisfied gleam in his eyes.
“Now do it again,” he gruffs.
I huff a breath of laughter but don’t fight it.
Unfortunately, I don’t manage another goal, but it’s not for lack of trying. Easton squeezes one past the goaltender, bringing the score to 4–2.
And when the clock runs out, it’s with pride blooming in my chest that I lead the team back to the dressing room.
“You were on fire out there,” Ryan comments as we stand at our cubbies, stripping off our gear.
“Took a while to get going.”
“Yeah, but once you did…” He nudges me with his sweaty elbow pads. “Think she was watching?”
I don’t pretend like I don’t know who he’s talking about.
“Already know she was.” I grab my phone off the shelf, unlocking it to show him a whole page of notifications. She likes to live-text me her reactions as she’s watching.
“You miss her, don’t you?”
“I really do.”
“You’ve been different the last few weeks. It seems like she is good for you.”
“So good. She was the missing piece of the puzzle.”
His face falls, concern on his features. “You know she doesn’t magically make you whole, right? You are a complete person on your own.”
“That’s not it. She’s been such a big part of my life for so long. We had very strict boundaries. And then they fizzled away, and it’s escalated quickly. Being with her… it’s the first time I’ve wanted to be with anyone. First time I’ve wanted to try.”
We have a five-hour plane ride back home, but it might as well be fifty for how long it will feel. I want to be with her now. To pull her into my arms and hold her tight.
Ryan rolls his eyes. “Go home and get her.”
“It’ll be too late. By the time we land…”
“Didn’t you say she’s a night owl? Call her. Tell her to pack a bag, take her home, and stop fucking whining, you big baby.”
Ignoring his taunts, I purse my lips. Or how about I surprise her? He’s right; she probably will be awake.
Okay. My mind made up, I finish stripping off my gear and walk across the dressing room in my towel. Ryan settles into the stall across from mine, but we don’t make eye contact while we’re showering. I turn my back so I don’t have to see the week-old, fading bruises on his shoulders.
It’s one thing to know my baby sister is having sex. It’s another thing entirely to see the aftereffects on her partner. Gross, gross, gross.
Though if Ceci were the one marking me…
Okay, I might come around on that one.