Chapter 25 Silas
Chapter twenty-five
Silas
I lace my skates over, under, through. Pull tight.
"You good, cap?" Matthews, our starting goalie, asks from across the room.
"Perfect," I lie, yanking my laces harder than necessary.
The room buzzes with pre-game energy. Guys taping sticks, adjusting pads, going through their weird superstitions.
Brennan's eating exactly six orange slices.
Vasquez is listening to the same pump-up playlist he's apparently used since high school.
Normal. Routine. Everything I need to ground myself.
Except Felix is too quiet, and Liam's hands shake slightly as he tapes his stick for the third time.
Two years. Two years since she walked out. And here we are, about to play hockey regardless.
"Silas." Coach appears in the doorway. "You ready to lead this team to victory tonight? Brookfield's tough."
"One hundred percent," I say firmly. No room for doubt in my voice, even if my chest is full of it.
He studies me for a beat, then nods. "Good. The whole town's counting on this win to kick off the winter festival right. Don't let them down."
He's right, and I'm not planning on failing them.
Felix appears beside me, already half-dressed in his gear. "You see her out there?"
"Haven't looked."
"Liar."
Fine. I looked. Scanned the gathering crowd during warm-ups. Didn't see her. Doesn't mean anything though. Not yet.
"Doesn't matter if she's here," I say, trying to convince myself as much as him.
"Right." Felix sighs, then pulls on his jersey. Number 19.
Liam joins us, fully dressed, stick in hand. "Five minutes to ice."
I stand, roll my shoulders. The C on my jersey feels heavier tonight.
"Listen up!" I call out, almost an alpha bark, and the room quiets. I've got the captain voice going even though I feel like I'm fragmenting inside. Fake it till you make it.
"First—" I pause, making eye contact with Matthews, Vasquez, Brennan. "I owe you all an apology. The drama this week, the uncertainty about whether we'd even play tonight... that's on us." I gesture to Felix and Liam. "On me. You deserved better from your captain."
A few guys shift uncomfortably. I don't think they're not used to apologies in locker rooms.
"But that ends now." I grab my stick, lean on it. "Brookfield's coming in here thinking we're distracted because we can't wait to enjoy the festival. They're probably placing bets on how much they'll beat us by."
"Fuck that," Matthews mutters.
"Exactly." I look at each player. "Brennan, their left winger telegraphs his shots when he's tired. Third period, you're gonna read him like a book from the crease. Vasquez, number 18 can't handle pressure on his backhand, crowd him when he's in your zone."
Vasquez grins, predatory.
"Felix, their center's been nursing a shoulder injury. He's hiding it well, but watch how he protects his right side in the corners. Use that when you're battling for the puck." I continue down the line, reminding each player of their strengths, their advantages.
Not about the date. Not about her. About the ice. About the game.
"They think we're just some small-town team playing grab-ass for tourists." My voice drops lower, harder. "But we're the team that went undefeated at home last season. We're the team that owns this ice."
"Damn right!" someone calls out.
I catch Felix's eye. He's standing straighter now. Liam's beside him, calm settling over his features.
"Liam, you've been working on that wraparound for weeks. Tonight you use it." I point my stick at him.
The energy in the room builds. This is what we all need.
"They think they know us." I set my stick down, hands on my hips. They've got tape on us, stats on us. But they don't know the team standing in this room right now."
Felix bumps Liam's shoulder, a small smile finally breaking through.
"Brookfield's goalie goes glove-side when he's rattled," I continue. "So let's rattle him. First shift, we pepper him with shots. Make him think. Make him doubt."
"Make him cry," Brennan adds with a grin.
"That too." I grab my helmet. "Gentlemen, we've got a town out there expecting a show. We've got kids who've been waiting all year to see us play. We've got—"
Maybe Naomi. Maybe not. Doesn't matter right now.
"—everything to play for. So we go out there, and we remind everyone why this is our ice."
"Hell yeah!" The room erupts.
"Hands in," I say.
The team crowds around, hands stacked in the center. I look across the circle at Felix and Liam. They nod. We're ready. As ready as we can be.
"Puckers on three," I call. "One, two—"
"PUCKERS!"
The roar echoes off the walls.
We file out toward the tunnel. The sound of the crowd builds with each step. Cheers, music, the buzz of excitement. The whole town is here.
"Silas," Liam says quietly beside me. "Whatever happens—"
"I know." He doesn't need to finish his sentence.
"Let's play hockey, guys," Felix says, bouncing on his skates behind us, and I can hear the excitement in his voice.
Damn right. I take a breath that goes all the way to my skates.
The announcer's voice booms: "Ladies and gentlemen, your Lakeview Puckers!"
We explode onto the ice to deafening cheers. The cold hits my face, familiar and sharp. My skates cut into the surface, sending up sprays of ice.
Muscle memory takes over. Stick on ice. Eyes up. Circle the net. Tap the posts. Routine. Normal.
I circle back toward the bench and scan the crowd. No sign of her, even in the VIP section, where I can see Mia.
My heart stops for a second, but I take back control. Not a problem. This is for us, for Lakeview.
The ref blows his whistle. Time to face off.
I skate to center ice, Brookfield's captain across from me. The crowd noise fades to white static...
And the puck drops.
* * *
I win the face-off clean, snapping the puck back to Brennan waiting near our offensive zone. He scans the ice, finds Felix open along the left side. The pass is crisp. Felix shields the puck from his defender, buying me time to cut toward the net.
That's what I'm talking about.
Liam crashes in from the right, plants himself in front of their goalie. His body is the perfect screen. Felix sees me, sends it across. I don't need to aim, just redirect it, changing the angle with my stick.
Their goalie drops, stretches out his pad, but he's a fraction late. The puck slides under his arm.
Red light. Goal horn. The arena erupts.
1-0, thirty-seven seconds in.
"That's it!" Felix slams into me, grinning through his mouth guard. "That's fucking it!"
We reset. Brookfield looks rattled. Their coach is barking adjustments, but his players' eyes have that look… the one that says they weren't ready for us.
I win the next face-off too. We keep the puck in their end, passing it around, making them chase.
Vasquez fakes a big wind-up shot from the perimeter.
Their guys bite, swarming toward him. He doesn't shoot though, he just slides it to Brennan, who fires it low.
Their goalie kicks it away, but Felix is already there, waiting for exactly that.
He doesn't hesitate. He snaps his wrists, the puck rises, and finds the tiny gap between the crossbar and the post. Their goalie doesn't even have time to react.
2-0.
The bench erupts. Coach nods, and I see the satisfaction in his eyes. This is the system working. This is what we practiced.
Brookfield tries to respond. They cycle the puck in our zone, keeping possession, wearing us down.
But Brennan reads where they're going before they get there.
He steps into the passing lane, intercepts, and fires it up the ice.
Liam's already sprinting up the right side.
Felix mirrors him on the left. I trail behind them through the center.
It's now the three of us against two of their defenders.
We play it perfectly. Liam draws his man wide, opens up space in the middle. I drive hard toward the net, pulling the other defender with me… while Felix slips behind everyone. Liam threads the pass through them, right onto Felix's stick.
The net is empty and, and he buries the puck in.
Wait. Whistle. The ref's arm is up. Offside.
"Are you fucking kidding?" Felix protests, but the replay shows it. He crossed into their zone a split second too early. His skate was an inch over the line before the puck.
Doesn't matter. We're dominating. Every pass connects. Every read is correct. Vasquez strips one of their guys along the boards, and spots me breaking away. He launches it the length of the ice and the puck lands soft on my stick. It's just me and their goalie now.
He comes out to challenge, cutting down my angle. I fake right, pull it left. He goes down. I lift the puck over his pad—
But the puck hits the crossbar, the ping echoing through the arena.
"Next one," Liam says, skating by. Calm. Certain.
The period continues like this. Wave after wave. We're all over them—shots bouncing off posts, their goalie making desperate saves. We're outshooting them fifteen to four. Their goalie the only reason it's still 2-0.
Matthews barely has to work at our end. When Brookfield does get the puck into our zone, we collapse around them, sticks blocking every lane, bodies in front of every shot. They can't get anything clean.
The buzzer sounds. First intermission. We file off to cheers and cowbells, the crowd electric.
"That's hockey, boys," Coach says in the locker room. "Keep that pressure. They're gonna adjust, but you stick to the system."
We nod, drink water, catch our breath. Everything feels right.
* * *
The second period starts wrong from the first shift.
Number 52 steps onto the ice for Brookfield. I've never seen him before. Neither has anyone else, judging by the confused looks on our bench. He lines up across from me, and there's something about the way he carries himself that sets off alarms in my head.
The ref drops the puck. I move to control it.
He's faster. Way faster. The puck is gone before I finish my motion, already on a teammate's stick.
They come at us with a speed we haven't seen all night.
52 takes a return pass and flies through the middle of the ice.
Brennan angles toward him, tries to force him wide.
52 doesn't slow down. He bounces the puck off the boards, sidesteps Brennan like he's not even there, and collects it on the other side.
Vasquez is our last hope. He squares up, takes away the direct path to the net… but it doesn't matter. 52 picks a corner from a sharp angle, the puck rising over Vasquez's outstretched stick. Matthews gets a piece of it… but not enough.
Bar down. Goal.
2-1.
"Who is that?" Brennan asks, skating by.
I don't know. None of us know. Two more unfamiliar faces join 52 on the next shift. Number 67 and 28. Fresh legs. Fresh problems.
Felix picks up the puck behind our net, tries his signature move along the left boards, the curl and drag that's worked all season.
67 reads it like he's seen it a hundred times and lifts Felix's stick at the exact right moment, stealing the puck.
Felix lunges to recover, but he's already off balance.
67 is gone and fires it ahead to 52, who's streaking up the middle with nobody in front of him.
Brennan and Vasquez backpedal, trying to set up.
I'm chasing hard but 52's got three steps on me.
Liam angles back, but 52 doesn't attack the way players at this level usually do.
He slows down. Waits. Lets his teammates catch up until it's three of them against two of us. They're moving while we're scrambling.
They pass. And pass. And pass. Every time we shift to cover one guy, the puck's already somewhere else. Brennan and Vasquez are spinning, trying to stay with them. The puck moves faster than we can react.
Finally 52 walks into the prime scoring area. Matthews drops low, ready. I dive to block.
He doesn't shoot though. Instead, he slides it to 28, who's snuck in behind everyone, the net wide open.
2-2.
The crowd noise changes. Uncertain now. Murmurs instead of cheers.
"Simple plays!" I yell before the game resumes. "Stay in position. Don't chase. We gotta get back and help on defense."
But simple doesn't work when they're this much faster. Brennan tries to clear the puck along the boards, which is a safe, standard play. Except 67 is already there, keeping it in our zone, firing it back. More pressure. More scrambling.
Vasquez loses track of his man for half a second and that's all it takes. The pass finds 28 alone in front of the net. Matthews makes the first save but can't hold on to it. The rebound bounces loose. Three Brookfield sticks hacking at it.
The puck squirts across the goal line.
3-2, Brookfield.
We're unraveling.
I win the next face-off, get it back to Brennan.
He looks for someone to pass to, but 52's line is all over us, pressuring like wolves against their prey.
Brennan tries to carry it himself, but 52 appears from his blind side, and pokes the puck away so cleanly that Brennan doesn't realize it's gone until he's skating with nothing on his stick.
They turn and attack. 52 launches a pass up the ice to 67 on the right side. Two of them, one of Brennan. Vasquez got caught too far forward on the last play.
Brennan does what he can, he takes away the pass, forces the shot… which Matthews kicks out.
But unfortunately, the puck goes right to 28's stick, who's crashed the net for the rebound.
He doesn't miss.
4-2.
Coach is screaming. I can see his mouth moving but can't process the words. Everything feels underwater. Slow. Disconnected.
We can't complete a pass. Felix sends one into Liam's skates. Liam banks one off the boards to nobody. I try to carry it through the middle myself, get stripped at their blue line. They turn and go the other way.
Another goal. 5-2. I don't even see who scored. I'm still skating back, legs burning, lungs on fire.
The buzzer finally sounds. Second intermission. We stumble off the ice.
"Who the fuck are those guys?" Felix hisses beside me as we get to the locker room.
"Who the fuck knows." Matthews rips off his mask, stares at the opposing bench. "They're not on the roster. I memorized their roster."
"Ringers," Vasquez spits. "They brought in ringers. Players who aren't supposed to be on their team."
"That's not—" Coach starts, then stops. Because technically, it is legal. Teams can make roster changes up until game time. It's dirty, it's underhanded, but it's legal.
I stare at the floor. Sweat drips off my nose, making small dark spots on the rubber mat. My hands shake as I pull off my gloves.
"Silas," Liam says quietly.
I look up. The whole team is watching me, waiting for answers I don't have.