Chapter 8 #3
"You hear that out there?" He jabs a thumb toward the tunnel.
"They are our people who decided, for the first time, that you were worth showing up for.
" His gaze sweeps the room, landing on each of us in turn.
"Now. You can play like you have all season, and you can send every single one of those people home thinking they made a mistake.
They'll be disappointed, and never return to see another game again. "
The room is dead silent.
"Or you can give them a reason to come back."
Margot, our chef, slips through with a tray of cut oranges, pressing one into my hand without a word. Darcy's in the doorway, tablet tucked under her arm, watching the whole thing with a nervous smile.
I bite into the orange. Sweet juice floods my tongue, sharp and bright, and I watch Coach's words land.
Finn's not chirping. Sawyer's got that thousand-yard goalie stare, but his eyes are set. Travis cracks his knuckles, slowly, nodding along. Max is practically vibrating in his stall. Spencer's stopped fixing his hair in the mirror.
And Corbin, the goddamn rookie who can't sit still through a single meeting, is suddenly dead silent.
The rumble outside swells louder.
"They're not here for the beach anymore," Coach finishes, voice dropping low. "They're here for you. Don't waste it."
Beck lets out a whoop, and just like that the room erupts with sticks pounding on the floor, guys roaring, the energy snapping through every one of us like a Stanley Cup final.
I pull my jersey over my head and catch my reflection in the polished walls of my stall.
Captain.
For the first time in a long time, the word doesn't feel like a weight.
It feels like a job I actually want to do.
Because nobody in this room knows what I know.
Nobody in this room knows the truth.
That when I was twelve I saw my father slip out of a car that wasn't ours. I stood there at a community rink, watching his wedding ring glint in the light while he was kissing a woman who wasn't my mother.
He came home to tell us he'd been working overtime. Mom bought his lies, even when I told her what I saw.
It wasn't the first time.
I learned that fast. And I'm sure as hell there have been many more since.
And aside from the one woman who should care the most, I've never told a soul.
Not Zoey. Not Mason. Definitely not Beck.
I just carried it.
I folded it down, and made a decision.
Hockey was my out. My brothers' out. A way to drag all of us far enough from that house that the rot couldn't follow.
Zoey saved herself. Good.
But these guys behind me? Beck's whoop, Mason's excitement?
They're mine now.
"Let's go, boys," I announce, slapping the helmets of my brothers. "We've got a game to win."
We file into the tunnel, single file, skates clacking against the rubber, and the noise from the arena gets louder with every step. The painted gold letters loom above us: THEY CAME FOR THE BEACH. WE STAYED FOR THE FIGHT.
I lead them out.
And the second I hit the ice, the world explodes.
Light and color and sound. A fucking wall of it, slamming into me all at once. The bowl is packed to the rafters, a sea of blue and gold, so many seats filled.
There are signs waving, foam fingers being thrust into the air by screaming kids. The jumbotron blazes overhead, and a recorded bear roar shakes the building so hard I feel the ice shake beneath my skates.
I look around, slow, taking it all in.
Holy fuck.
"WE HAVE FANS!" Beck screams as he tears past me, arms thrown wide like he's trying to embrace the entire arena. "DEC! WE HAVE FANS!"
"Just don't go making out with any of them when you score!" I shout after him.
He flips me off without slowing down, and I laugh, a proper one, ripped right out of my chest.
I do another slow lap, and I can't stop looking.
The color. The roar. The way the whole building feels like it's vibrating, alive, electric. There's a current running through the place, and somehow I'm plugged right into it, my blood pumping, my skin buzzing.
Is this it?
Is this what it's supposed to feel like?
All those years grinding, all those games in half-empty rinks, all that pressure and weight and responsibility… and somewhere in the middle of it I forgot.
I forgot the feeling. The reason any of us laced up in the first place.
I haven't felt it in years.
And now it's pouring back into me all at once.
The horn sounds. Warm-ups end. The teams skate to their benches.
I take my spot at center ice as the ref glides in, puck in hand, and the opposition center lines up across from me. The crowd's chant builds—BEARS, BEARS, BEARS—pounding through the arena like a heartbeat.
"A clean game!" The ref holds up the puck.
And just before it drops, my eyes flick up.
To the VIP box on the mezzanine.
Josie's standing at the very edge of it, both hands gripping the rail, screaming at the top of her lungs. Her honey-brown hair's down, her face is flushed, and she's wearing a Bears jersey that's just a little too big.
Standing here smiling, I'd put my entire salary on the bet that it's got MORRISON printed across the back.
For half a second, our eyes lock.
She grins.
And I know I would never do anything to betray that girl.
Because I'm not like my father. No. I protect those I love.
The puck drops.
I win the face-off clean, snapping it back to Mason, and the whole arena ROARS.