11. Chapter 10
Declan
We won.
Not just won, but won in front of thousands of screaming people who came back from intermission with their voices already shredded and somehow found more energy for me to feed off.
Then right after the final horn blared, there was this moment where I looked up into the stands, and genuinely didn't believe what I was seeing.
Final score: Three to one.
Beck got the empty-netter, which means we'll be hearing about it for the rest of our natural lives. Finn got the game-winner and immediately tried to do an Irish jig on the ice and ate shit so spectacularly that the jumbotron replayed it four times.
And then Coach Pearson tried to give a speech in the locker room.
I say tried because about thirty seconds into the post-game debrief, the door to the locker room banged open and Mack Rogers stood in the doorway breathing like he'd sprinted from the boardwalk.
"Colin Holden just dropped a huge tab at Breakers," Mack announced to a room full of half-dressed athletes celebrating our first win in months.
"We've got an open bar, boys! For the whole team.
So I would appreciate it if you ladies finished doing your make-up and got your asses over there before he changes his mind! "
The room emptied in roughly eleven seconds.
Which is how I end up here.
Breakers is packed.
The old garage doors are flung wide open to the beach, the night air pouring in salty and warm, mixing with the smell of grilled burgers and spilled beer. String lights sway overhead like the whole place is breathing, and every single screen behind the bar is looping the game on repeat.
Mack's got the outdoor screen going too, and there are people spilling onto the sand with cold beers sweating in their hands, half of them in Bears jerseys, watching us win over and over again as ESPN dissects our game.
I keep catching glimpses of myself winning that face-off, of Beck flying down the wing, of Finn's tip-in detonating the building all over again.
But the part that gets me, the thing I can't stop staring at… is the people.
Half the town is here. And every other person is wearing Bears blue.
I've never seen anything like it.
I drop into a stool at the bar next to Mack, who's pouring like a man trying to bankrupt his own customer.
"Where," I ask him, taking the beer he slides me, "have all these people been?"
Mack grunts as he looks up.
"Beats me. Two years ago I had three regulars and a dog." He wipes down the counter with a rag that's seen better decades, then tosses it over his shoulder. "Now I gotta deal with this."
He gestures at the wall of bodies two-deep at his bar, the women in Bears jerseys doing shots, and the men trying to recreate Finn's goal in slow motion on the top of a table by the restrooms.
"No shit, kid." Mack squints at me, a rare moment of sincerity breaking through his permanent scowl. "This is the busiest night I've had since that hurricane evacuation in '19. And every single one of 'em is here 'cause of what you boys did tonight."
I don't know what to say to that. So I drink.
Coach Pearson appears at the bar on my other side, tie gone, top button open, looking like a man who survived a war. He surveys the bar, then looks at me with a small shake of his head.
"You see this, Morrison?" He gestures at the room with his beer. "We've had crowds my whole career that didn't feel like this."
"Where were they all season, Coach?"
"Waiting for a reason." He takes a long pull, eyes scanning the sea of blue and gold. "Hell of a thing. You score one goal in a full house and suddenly an entire town decides it loves you." He shakes his head slowly. "We have fans, son. Actual fans. When did that happen?"
"Couple weeks ago, apparently."
"Don't get used to it. They'll turn on you the second you stink it up." He slaps my arm and grins into his beer. "Good game tonight. Real good. You looked like you actually wanted to be out there."
I did. That's the odd thing.
After months of treating every Gameday like a chore, every pratice like another box to check, something had shifted tonight.
I'd actually felt that old fire, the one I thought I'd left somewhere along the way, along with the version of me who gave a damn.
Coach must read something in my face, because his grin fades into something more serious. He sets his beer down and turns on his stool, elbow propped up on the bar.
"You know what's at stake here, right?" he says, watching me.
"We don't make a good go of this season, this franchise is done.
Gone. The NHL pulls the plug, sells the assets, and every one of these boys is scattered to whatever team will take them.
" He nudges my leg under the bar with his foot.
"And that means splitting you up from your brothers too. "
A low, sharp ache steals my breath.
Because I have thought about it. Of course I have.
I remember the contract negotiations like they were yesterday.
They flew me right into Beachside, first class tickets all the way.
I was chauffeured to the arena, given a private tour before I sat across that table from them, the suits laying out the numbers, the perks, the mansion.
All of it shiny and so fucking tempting.
But then there was me, leaning back, arms crossed like I was some kind of superstar already.
I mean, it worked.
I was the only fucker with big enough balls to tell them flat out that none of it meant a damn thing without Beck and Mason on the roster.
I wanted those boys here. With me. Where I could see them, watch their backs, keep the three of us under one roof the way it'd always been.
It was a package deal, or there was no deal. Simple as that.
"I'm aware, Coach."
He narrows his eyes at me as he rubs a hand over his jaw, the gray stubble of a man who hasn't slept right in weeks.
Across the bar, Beck's balancing a beer bottle on his forehead while Finn counts loudly in a thick Irish accent. The bottle wobbles, tips, and finally crashes, soaking some poor girl who was cheering the whole thing on in her bikini.
Coach Pearson shakes his head, then nods toward the crowd.
"You wanna know why I made you captain?" he asks, not looking at me.
"Because Beck would've burned the building down by Christmas?"
He huffs a laugh, then sets his beer down on the bar.
"No. I made you captain because the first practice I ever ran, I watched you read a play three seconds before it happened.
You anticipated it like no one else did.
You owned it." He taps his temple. "That doesn't come from work, son.
You can't coach that. You either got it or you don't. And you… You've got it."
I don't move, just listen.
Funny thing is, I've heard this before.
A coach in some freezing rink back in Seattle said the same thing when I was just showing signs of real promise. My dad even nodded along, told me I had a gift. Then he disappeared that same night to 'work late', rendering any praise he gave me useless.
Because I was old enough by then to know what working late really meant.
And I fucking hated him for it.
"Problem is," Coach continues, gentler now, "you've been treating it like a fishing license. Something to frame on a wall." He picks his beer back up and sips the rim. "Tonight you actually used it. You were leading those boys out there. And that… That's a rare quality."
I stare down into my glass, watching the foam slowly collapse against the liquid, the bubbles thinning out like they're trying to disappear before I can find an answer in them.
"So tell me, kid. What changed?" he asks.
I think for a second, not really knowing the answer.
But then, God help me, the answer ignites.
I know the reason.
But the last time I saw that reason, she had a phone held to her ear, and a look way too dark for such a pretty face.
I thought I was imagining it from down on the ice, like seeing her like that was some trick of the lights, or the adrenaline, or the haze of a whole fucking arena losing their goddamn minds.
Josie wasn't celebrating that goal.
When I looked up, expecting her smile and excitement, all I saw was her face crumpling like something had just broken inside her.
Surely she wasn't standing there looking like the sky had just fallen on her head. Surely I'd misread the slump of her shoulders, the white-knuckle grip on that phone.
"I dunno, Coach. Maybe just got a reason to fight," I shrug, looking away from the pointed gaze he's burning into the side of my head.
Coach grunts, and across the bar, Beck has commandeered the entire pool table area and is apparently now demanding the attention of the entire bar.
He's climbed onto a chair, an actual chair, and is holding his beer over his head like a championship trophy. It's enough to distract Coach from his deep dive into my sudden form, which to be honest, I'm thankful for.
"AND THEN," Beck bellows to a crowd of at least fifteen people who absolutely did not ask, "I look up, right? And the lane is open. And I think to myself, Beck, my man, this is your moment. So I thread the needle—tape to tape—right onto Finn's stick. That tip-in? That goal that won us the game?"
"You touched it for half a second," Mason says from a stool, calm as ever. "And we also scored two more after that."
"That goal," Beck continues, undeterred, "was eighty percent assist, twenty percent Finn not screwing it up."
Finn, sitting two stools down, raises his pint without turning around. "Ya thieving prick."
"You're welcome, Finn."
I shake my head, but I'm grinning into my beer as Beck continues his dramatic re-telling of his heroics like we're in the back yard of our house all over again.
Then, just as he's wrapping up his speech to an almighty applause, my eyes drift to the corner near the dartboard, and I nearly choke.
Because Corbin Cole is standing about three feet from Brooke Kessler, holding a glass of what is very clearly soda water, sweating like he's facing a penalty shot in overtime.
"You good, rookie?" I call across.