Chapter 24
twenty-four
ROWAN
Coach doesn’t yell, and that makes it worse.
He just stands at the front of the room with his arms crossed and his jaw working, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low, flat, and measured. It means there’s nothing to push back against. If he yelled, we could burn through it, bitch among ourselves, rally, and heal.
But this is torture.
“Forecheck collapsed in the second, and nobody adjusted,” he says. “Nobody called it, nobody shortened up, nobody changed a single thing until I changed it for you from the bench.”
His eyes move over each player, one by one.
Then he sighs. “We pride ourselves on our toughness and our defense. But the defensive breakdowns out there made us look like some other team, in a rivalry game at home.”
He pauses, scans the room, and his eyes lock on me.
“And I don’t even need to mention the lack of discipline.”
He doesn’t say my name. He doesn’t have to. His eyes are on me, and every other set of eyes decides not to look at me, which is its own punishment. It’s the first time at Halden I’ve experienced this, and it’s well deserved.
Then he’s done.
He picks up his clipboard and walks out, and nobody moves for about five seconds.
Then Theo shifts his weight on the bench, and his skate guard slides off the shelf and hits the floor. The sound it makes in that room is so loud that every head turns, and Theo freezes with his hands half-raised like a man caught robbing a church.
It doesn’t draw a single laugh.
I’m standing near the whiteboard, still in full gear. My legs are heavy, my ribs ache, and my right hand still throbs from how hard I finished the hit on the St. Adrian’s defenseman. I should sit down and take my gloves off, but instead I clear my throat.
“Six a.m. skate tomorrow.” My voice sounds like my voice but it doesn’t feel like mine. “And I mean on the ice at six, not in the building at six.”
I’m looking at Mason when I say it, and I make no effort to hide it, because I’m exhausted and he’s sitting in his stall with an uninterested smirk. It’s exactly how he looked when he batted my hand away, like none of this has anything to do with him.
At practice, I swallowed it. But that was practice, and tonight five thousand people watched him disrespect me, and if I swallow that too, there’s no captaincy left to protect. So I let him have it, even if confronting him risks unearthing something dangerous.
“And one more thing, Mason: commitment to this team means playing within the system, not treating a rivalry game like your personal audition,” I say. “Theo took a hit out there that should’ve put him in the training room, and he finished the shift. Seb blocked, what, four shots?”
“Six,” Luca mutters.
There’s silence. Then Mason lifts his head. “At least I was creating chances out there, which is better than getting two minutes for a hit that handed them a power play.”
The room goes still, because he just talked back to his captain.
But the worst part is he’s right.
“Yeah, I got frustrated for one moment,” I say. “But you skated past three open guys on the same shift, Mason. That’s not creating chances. It’s showboating. And in the second period, when I came over on the stoppage and put my hand out — what was that?”
His eyes come up to mine. I think he’s going to fire back, or say something personal about Sloane, or Sloane and him, but then his mouth sets into a smirk and he looks away, and that’s almost worse.
“Enough,” Niko says, from the far side of the room. His voice is flat and tired. “Both of you, that’s enough.”
I don’t argue. I’ve said my piece and done what I can to regain the room, and any further back-and-forth risks the truth about Sloane and Mason coming out. And that’s a truth I still don’t want to hear.
The guys start moving. Gear comes off, showers turn on, and the normal postgame sounds fill the room. But it’s different. Nobody’s talking about where to eat or whose place to go to, and even Luca, who can fill any silence, just… doesn’t.
Theo gives me a fist bump on the way to the showers, Luca puts a hand on the back of my neck as he heads for the door, and Seb catches my eye and gives me a nod. And it’s not just them; it’s everyone.
They clear out fast. One by one, then in twos, they go with bags over shoulders. Nobody says good night. Nobody makes plans for later. It’s a lot of downcast heads and tired eyes, everyone wanting to be anywhere but here.
Only Seb doesn’t leave. He’s at his stall, moving slowly, taking longer than he needs to. He’s the last one dressed. He sits there after he’s ready, bag on his lap, staring at the floor, and I’m not looking at him but I know he’s there.
Then he stands, walks past my stall, and stops. He nods once. “Not all on you, Cap.”
And then he’s gone, and it’s just me sitting at my locker, with Mason still in the shower. He’s been in there a while, and I’ve been waiting for it to stop, because I’m tired of him being a problem I can’t solve.
The water cuts off, and Mason comes around the corner.
“Tough loss.” He doesn’t look at me as he heads to his stall, towel around his waist.
I don’t answer, but my hands turn into fists.
“But that speech.” He mimics a chef’s kiss. “Inspiring stuff. Real Mighty Ducks energy.”
“Don’t,” I say, my voice quiet.
He feigns innocence. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t do this right now.”
“Do what?” He’s pulling on boxer briefs now. “I’m just talking.”
I don’t respond, because I’m hoping he’ll shut the fuck up now.
“You know what your problem is, Hale?”
“Mason.”
“You think the C makes you right.” He’s at the mirror now, doing his hair. “It doesn’t. It just means you were picked.”
“Mason.”
“So don’t take your shit out on me, okay?” He scoffs. “You took the penalty. You lost the game. You’re the one with the C. That’s the gig.”
I stand up, and the words come out of my mouth before I think about them. “Mason, shut the fuck up.”
Mason turns from the mirror. He’s smiling, but it’s different now, predatory and cold. “There he is. The guy under the polish.”
I want to hit him.
I have never, in three years, wanted to hit a guy on my own team, but I’m feeling it now, and my hands are already balled into fists. Worse, I’m feeling the same way they did when I leveled that defenseman and cost my team the game.
But the thought passes, and I open my hand.
He sees it — of course he sees it — and he scoffs and looks away.
I’m about to leave, but Mason’s at his locker, looking at the photo of his father again. He does it when he thinks no one’s watching, and I know the ghost in it as well as I know my own: a father who set a bar and stood back to watch you chase it.
For half a second, standing here, it almost moves me.
But then he opens his mouth.
“Here’s the thing, Rowan.” He keeps his eyes on the photo, his back to me. “You embarrassed me in front of the room tonight, so now it’s my turn.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means what it means.” He steps into his jeans, pulls them up, and tugs the zipper. “I wanted the C, but you got it. And the girl?”
My stomach drops. “What about her?”
He shrugs, grabs his bag from the shelf, and slings it over one shoulder. When he looks back at me, he’s almost pleasant now. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that one.”
I already know what he’s talking about. I’ve known since they went into the kitchen and since the birthmark comment at practice. I just didn’t want to ask Sloane or Mason, because I didn’t want the answers to that question.
What happened in the kitchen?
I pushed him tonight, in front of the room, and I have no idea what I just set in motion. And as the guilt overwhelms me, my thoughts drift back to Sloane, her hand against the glass over mine twenty minutes ago, turning away on the verge of tears.
I was trying to be the good boyfriend, the patient one, the one who promised I wouldn’t try to fix everything for her all the time. When the whole time, it felt like she was pulling away from me and back toward the guy who treated her like shit.
And it feels like the hand against the glass and the tears were a goodbye.
Or an admission.
Or maybe I’m doing it again — taking the worst thing I can imagine and deciding it’s true, because at least the worst thing would explain the week — so I pick up my phone and I type a message.
Rowan: I miss you. Come over tonight?
I send it before I can think about it, because if I think about it, I’ll rewrite it four times and send something careful instead, and I am so fucking tired of careful. I want to resolve this, even if the fix involves detonating my whole life and my whole team.
The three dots appear. Then disappear. Then come back.
The reply arrives.
Sloane: Tough game. I’m proud of you. But I’m exhausted and have an early class.
It’s kind. It’s polite. And it’s exactly the confirmation I was dreading.
I needed her to say yes, I’m coming over, leave the door unlocked or I’m worried about you or something is wrong and I need to tell you what it is. I need her to be the girl who used to send four texts in the time it took me to read one, but I don’t know how to ask for that.
And I don’t want her to perform if I’m not the guy she wants.
I lace my hands behind my neck and close my eyes and breathe. I should leave — go home, eat something, sleep — but instead, I sit here, trying not to think, which has never been something I’m good at.
And when I open my eyes, I catch my reflection in one of the mirrors.
It’s a guy still in full gear, the C on his chest.
I look at him for a long time, but I don’t recognize him.