Chapter 7
Cillian
It's the last game of the regular season.
Puck drop is in ninety minutes against Vegas on our home ice, and with our playoff spot already clinched, tonight is supposed to be a celebration.
I can feel the building starting to vibrate somewhere in the concrete above us.
Whether the Vegas team got the memo about the party is another question.
Every man in this dressing room is buried in his own pre-game ritual.
I'm at my stall, hood pulled low and AirPods in, working tape around my blade.
Tom has his music cranked so loud I can hear the bass leaking out of his headphones, and Betts is halfway through a slow breathing routine he picked up from a girlfriend a year ago and never let go of.
A few stalls away, Jonesy is buried in whatever podcast has hijacked his personality this week.
He cycles through obsessions in phases, and the lads track them like weather patterns.
Last month was all Roman history. This month it's true crime, which currently has him double-bolting his hotel door on the road and lecturing anyone who'll listen about the importance of situational awareness.
I keep my focus on the tape. I've done it this exact way since my first year of juniors, when one of the lads swore Sid Crosby taped his stick like this. Almost certainly a lie, but hockey players are superstitious bastards, and I'm not about to test the universe the week the playoffs open.
I've always thrived on the noise and the weight of it.
Whenever people asked if the nerves ever got to me before a puck drop, the very idea felt foreign.
This rink is where I've always felt most steady, most in control, with no room in my head for anything else.
But lately, the pressure has started to find the cracks.
The upcoming playoffs have to go well.
I glance across the room at our goalie, Sam, who has been flat on his back staring at the ceiling for the last twenty minutes like he's communing with a higher power.
To be fair, we're facing Vegas tonight, and with the standings locked, odds are we draw them again in round one next week.
Whatever happens tonight, they'll be looking to send a message.
My phone buzzes on the bench and I glance down at the screen. It's a message from Carol, my main point of contact at Solstice Estates.
Carol: You might not see this before the game, but I just wanted to wish you the best of luck! We're all here in our seats cheering you on and couldn't be more excited to be part of this partnership with you. Cheers.
There's a photo attached of the whole crew. Carol, her wife Elaine, a few marketing faces I recognize from the launch, and Margot.
My heart does a stupid kick against my ribs at the sight of her.
I knew the Solstice crew was planning an appearance tonight, especially since the first billboards with my face on them went up this morning to decent reviews. It's a standard PR move, showing support for the brand ambassador on the big screen.
I'd spent the last hour half-expecting Margot to find a convenient excuse not to show, but she’s actually here. It's a bit of a shock, honestly, and a welcome one. Instead of getting in my head, knowing she's out there in the crowd is acting like a fucking anchor.
A shadow falls over my stall, and I look up to find Jonesy looming behind me, blond hair a mess, reading my screen with zero shame.
"That your girlfriend?" he grins.
"No." I roll my eyes. "And you need a hobby that isn't reading my private messages."
"I consider being nosy a primary love language." He drops onto the bench next to mine.
"What in God's name is a love language?"
He stares at me, mouth hanging open. "The depth of your cultural ignorance is unbelievable sometimes. You spend half your life on dates. How has this concept completely escaped you?"
I snort at the offense in his voice. "Well, my dates, if you want to call them that, usually involve significantly more physical exertion and considerably less talking."
"My god, you're a proper son of a bitch." He rolls his eyes. "And I'd wager anything your love language is physical touch. Women hate that on a guy, by the way, because it's usually just code for wanting to get laid."
I shake my head. "I haven't a clue what you're on about."
"Whatever you say, star boy." He nudges my shoulder. "But I'm guessing she's the reason for that lovesick look you've been sporting lately. Did I really see you—the man who usually chases anything with a heartbeat—shut down not one, but two girls at the mixer last night?"
I narrow my eyes at him. "Your level of surveillance is getting a touch unsettling, Jonesy."
"I have to be a private investigator just to get a word out of you. It's that Irish stoicism—all buttoned-up and secret. You play the charming extrovert for the cameras, but there's a vault under there with a triple-lock." He jabs a blunt finger toward my sternum.
I can't help but grin. "That's a remarkably lazy stereotype you're leaning on, don't you think?"
"Look me in the eyes and swear there isn't a grain of truth in it." He arches a skeptical eyebrow.
"No comment," I chuckle, giving my head a slow shake.
"I rest my case. So you did, then? Sent them both packing?"
I shrug and go back to my laces. "I don't need the distraction right now, alright? Playoffs start Wednesday. You want me focused, don't you?"
"Personally, I think you'd be a hell of a lot more focused if you actually dealt with this instead of wallowing in some romantic purgatory."
I shoot him a look. "Shouldn't you be finishing that podcast?"
He shrugs. "I timed it wrong and it wrapped up ten minutes ago, so now you're the main attraction. Plus, my lucky rituals are sorted. I'm feeling untouchable tonight."
"Oh? Even the weirdness with the left sock?"
"Especially the sock." He snorts. "So, come on. Spill. I've never seen you this twisted over a girl. Are you actually thinking of giving up the bachelor life and pursuing a real relationship? You do know those usually last longer than a week, right?"
"I am aware," I say dryly. "And it doesn't matter anyway. She doesn't like me, I don't want to be the kind of asshole who can't take a hint, and she has a flat-out rule against dating athletes. So it's a non-starter."
Jonesy nods, thoughtful. "Why the no-athletes thing? Bad history?"
"Some pathetic excuse for a husband who treated her like absolute shit," I say, a fresh wave of rage hitting my gut.
I've played the field, sure, but I've never been a cheat. There's nothing more cowardly. If you want someone else, just walk. And what kind of loser thinks he can do better than Margot?
"Shit. That's a steep hill to climb," Jonesy says, sounding actually sympathetic. "Think you can break the streak?"
"Hey!" Betts bellows from across the aisle. "You two finished with the therapy session? Get some fucking music on!"
"Yeah, fuck off, Betts." Jonesy tosses a towel at his head.
Betts snags it mid-air with a dramatic flourish that gets the lads hooting, takes a bow for the room, and hooks his phone up to the speaker. Enya comes blasting out, which seems like a strange choice unless you know Betts. Several of the guys start groaning loudly in protest.
Jonesy shakes his head, then looks back at me. "Well, you'll just have to lock in tonight. It's better for the squad, and maybe the performance will win her over."
"Can we please move on to a different topic? I'm begging you," I mutter, keeping my attention fixed on my laces.
"Alright, fine." Jonesy lets out a short laugh and tilts his chin toward the lineup card pinned above my stall. "Anderson's dressing for them tonight, by the way. Even with the state of his shoulder."
"Of course he is," I say, continuing to work the tape around my blade. "The man's a fucking martyr; he'd crawl out of a hospital bed if it meant a playoff game."
"He's going to come for you, Cillian. You've got to be ready for that."
"Obviously."
"I'm not just being an ass. Just... don't lose your head out there."
I look at him deadpan. "Aye, cheers for the advice. Why haven't I thought of that?"
Jonesy snorts. "Relax, you're still a better talent than half the guys in this league on your worst day. You've just been acting aggressively reckless since you returned to the ice. You need to lock in. Find your center."
I chuckle. "Aye, I'll get right on that. Are you actually trying to settle me down or just wind me up?"
"Wind you up," he says, that familiar grin widening.
I shake my head at him, half laughing, because the bastard is not wrong about that either. He gives my knee a final slap before rising and heading back toward his own stall to finish with his gear.
I stay where I am for a minute, forearms on my knees, letting the weight of the evening settle. The arena above is a rising wall of noise, the playoffs are days away, and the air in here finally feels electric again, the way it hasn't in months.
This is the run for the Cup. I take a breath and reach for that icy focus, the kind that used to roll in like fog the second the pressure peaked. It's been harder to find lately.
Then there's Margot, somewhere up in the crowd. The thought of her is a strange anchor and a spark of adrenaline all at once. I'm desperate to impress her tonight, though I should probably keep the unnecessary recreational violence to a minimum. Ease her into the barbarism, as it were.
I finish lacing my left skate, grab my helmet from the shelf, and push up off the bench.
"Right," I mutter, barely audible over the Enya. "Time to go to work."