Chapter 1 #2
Then the moment shatters.
The winger slams into him from the side.
The hit drives Blake hard into the boards with a hollow crack that echoes across the arena. The puck shoots loose, skidding across the ice as players converge on the collision.
Someone shouts.
Sticks tangle.
A shove turns into another shove, and suddenly gloves are dropping.
The crowd explodes to its feet around me.
Two players square up near the boards, jerseys twisted in each other’s fists as the first punch swings wide. The referee tries to wedge between them, but the second hit lands and the noise in the building doubles.
I barely notice.
My eyes are fixed on Blake.
He’s pushing himself upright against the boards, shaking his head once like he’s clearing the impact from it before skating back into the chaos. There’s anger in the way he moves now, the controlled aggression of someone who refuses to be rattled.
The fight breaks apart under the referees’ whistles, and both players get sent to the penalty box, the crowd still roaring approval at the spectacle.
Play eventually resumes.
But the team never really recovers.
The Giants press hard for the final minutes, throwing everything forward in a last, frantic attempt to close the gap.
A Giants player is back from the penalty box.
He’s blond and stocky and seems to want another fight.
I read his name from his jersey - Beckett.
But the drama seems to be over. Russo drives the play with quiet determination and Chen holds the net steady at the other end.
Blake keeps attacking every inch of open ice like sheer force of will might bend the score back in their favor.
It’s not even close to enough.
The final buzzer cuts through the arena with brutal finality.
Four–one.
We’ve lost again.
The crowd begins to thin almost immediately, people pulling on coats and filing toward the exits with that resigned quiet that losing fans have.
I stay where I am.
Down on the ice the Giants drift slowly toward their bench, shoulders heavy with the kind of frustration after a game they know they should have controlled.
They’re not a bad team.
They have everything they need.
Russo’s leadership is obvious. Chen is solid in goal. And Blake - reckless as he can be - has the kind of speed and instinct you can’t teach.
They just don’t trust the structure yet.
They don’t trust each other.
My gaze drifts once more to the bench where Coach Calloway stands talking quietly to Russo, already dissecting the loss.
Five years ago, my father built a team here that moved like a single organism, every shift connected to the next.
Watching the Giants tonight, I can see the shape of something similar trying to form beneath the mistakes.
Potential.
Especially in him.
As if he feels it, Blake glances up toward the stands again while skating off the ice.
For a moment his dark eyes sweep across the rows of seats.
And I have the feeling he’s looking for the voice that warned him.
ZANE
The locker room after a loss always feels smaller.
It’s the same room we walked into earlier this evening laughing and shoving each other toward our stalls, the same metal benches and gear bags spilling open everywhere, but now the atmosphere is heavy and too quiet.
No music or jokes. Just the dull clatter of equipment hitting the floor and the hiss of tape being ripped off shin pads.
I sit on the bench in front of my stall and pull my helmet off, running a hand through sweat-damp hair while the game keeps replaying itself in my head like a highlight reel.
The missed shots play over and over.
Across the room Russo drops onto the bench beside his locker, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees while he unties his skates. He looks calm, but I’ve played with him long enough to know that calm means he’s gutted.
Chen is still in half his goalie gear, mask sitting on the floor beside him while he rolls his shoulders like they’ve turned to stone.
No one talks about the score.
I start peeling tape off my wrists when the memory of that moment hits me again - the split second before the collision. That voice.
Behind you.
It cuts through my thoughts as strongly as it did on the ice.
Someone in the stands saw that play coming before I did.
Fans shout things all the time during games. It’s mostly all useless noise - people reacting to what’s already happening.
But that voice hadn’t sounded like that.
That wasn’t a fan. That was someone who understood the game. She had sounded certain.
I glance toward Russo.
“You hear someone yelling before that hit in the third?” I ask.
He looks up briefly.
“What hit?”
“The one near the boards.”
Russo shrugs.
“Half the arena was yelling by then.”
He’s right.
Still.
I lean back against the locker and stare at the floor, trying to place the moment again in my head.
I’d looked up because of the voice and for a second, I’d seen her.
Not clearly. Just a quick impression in the stands - someone standing up, eyes locked on the play like she was actually reading it instead of reacting to it.
Blonde hair and a focused expression.
Weird thing to stick with me after a loss.
But it does.