Chapter 43
Chapter Forty-Three
Jason
The Comeback Hat Trick Manifesto
The smell hits me first—sweat, leather, ice, adrenaline—and, fuck, I’ve missed it more than I’ll ever admit out loud.
The locker room buzzes around me—teammates laughing too loud, gear scraping against metal benches, sticks clattering to the floor—but it’s all just a hum in my ears. It’s only background noise because right now, there’s only one thing that matters.
The skates in my hands.
I hunch over, elbows digging into my knees, threading the laces slow.
Deliberate. I loop the first lace through the eyelet, tugging just enough that the boot hugs the arch of my foot.
Breathe out. Cross over, loop again. Breathe in.
It’s almost meditative, the way I weave the laces through one hole after the other, pulling snug, feeling the tension build, feeling the quiet fight back the nerves clawing at the edges of my brain.
It feels like the first time all over again.
Fifteen years old, sitting in some crusty-ass rink that smelled like mildew and stale popcorn, my heart hammering so fast it practically tried to beat out of my chest. Back then, I thought one good shift could change my life. Maybe it did.
Except now, I know better.
Now, it’s not just about the game. It’s about everything after—the career I’ve scraped together, the future I’m starting to realize I get to choose.
Whether that future comes crashing down by the end of this season or rides out for a few more years .
. . that’s on me. Not on fear. Not on a knee that decided to throw a temper tantrum mid-play and ruin my fucking year.
Coach Graham’s voice slices through the buzz.
“Stay focused. Keep your heads straight. Remember the game plan: work smart, not scared.”
The words barely register, but something in me latches onto them anyway.
Work smart.
Not scared.
Yeah, easier said than done.
When your body’s turned into a moody ex that might ghost you without warning, trust gets . . . complicated. My fingers tighten, tugging the laces until my palms ache, threading each loop tighter, pressing down the shaky part of me that wants to crack wide open.
Because this? This moment—I can own it.
I can’t control the ice, can’t control the puck taking a weird bounce, or some jackass defenseman deciding my knee looks like a personal vendetta.
But I can control how hard I pull these laces.
How even my breathing stays when my brain’s screaming like it’s auditioning for a horror movie.
How stubbornly I hold onto believing in myself when it would be much easier to spiral.
Double knot.
Tug.
Sit back.
Breathe.
Today, I’m choosing to trust the guy who fought his way back here. Even if some parts of me still want to flinch.
I close my eyes for half a second and picture it:
My skates cutting clean across the ice.
My stick snapping the puck across the rink like second nature.
Breathe in and out.
Coach keeps talking—last reminders, last corrections. This is what I fought for. The surgeries. The endless rehab sessions. The days I thought I’d never get back here.
This is what I bled for, and I’m not wasting it.
Not today and not ever again.
I finish tying the second skate, yanking the laces tight enough to bite into my palms.
The final knot feels like locking myself in—no turning back now. I sit there for a second longer, staring down at my hands. The room swells louder around me—sticks clashing, gloves slapping, someone barking out a pregame chirp about asses getting kicked—but I stay still.
For the first time since I got hurt, I’m not thinking about what I lost but about what I’m about to fucking take back.
My spot.
My future.
And if I’m lucky, I might get the girl: my girl—and the real dream.
I coast into the neutral zone, letting the cold slice through my lungs, clean and sharp.
My blades carve tight, confident lines across the ice, the scrape of steel against frozen ground a sound I’ve missed more than I want to admit.
My stick taps a rhythm into the ice—steady, sure.
A promise to myself. This rink. This game. My home.
Leif nudges a puck out toward me with the blade of his stick—quick, casual, the way he always does when he’s in a good mood. The puck slides across the ice like an invitation.
I don’t just catch it.
I roll into a tight pivot, carving a clean arc across the ice, and scoop the puck up with a flick of my wrist. It spins once before landing dead on the tape of my stick, so smooth it almost feels like a flex.
Muscle memory, pure and sweet. Maybe a little cocky.
Definitely a little cocky. A few guys on the bench bark out cheers, banging sticks against the boards like proud, feral idiots, and even though a grin tugs at the corner of my mouth, I keep my head down and lock my focus back where it belongs.
I’m not here to show off. I’m here to take everything back—the months lost, the faith I almost let slip through my fingers, the part of me that never really belonged anywhere except here.
Puck drop comes fast. No time to overthink.
I blast off the line, legs churning hard enough to burn, lungs dragging in cold air that scratches the back of my throat.
The rink fades until there’s nothing but movement and grit and the single-minded hunger to take what’s mine.
A pass slices across the ice. I catch it clean, stick and puck moving like they’ve been waiting for this reunion, and pivot hard into the offensive zone.
A defender shadows me, crowding close, stick hacking at my gloves.
Doesn’t matter. I cut left, fake right, dig in deep, and fire.
The puck rips low, a screaming missile across the ice, and slams into the back of the net.
Goal.
The red light flashes, the horn blares, and everything inside me roars to life. I skid into a spray of ice, punching a fist into the air as my teammates crash into me, helmets knocking, gloves pounding my shoulders and back.
Carson grabs my helmet and shouts over the noise, “You cocky son of a bitch—you’re still good.
” His laughter shakes against me, and something inside me unclenches for the first time in months.
I’m panting, grinning like an idiot, feeling more alive than I have in way too long. I’m here. I’m fucking back.
Second period grinds into something harder, grittier. The adrenaline wears off, and all that’s left is the burn. Every stride turns into a test. Every check rattles down to my ribs. I take a brutal hit against the boards—shoulder to chest—and for one terrifying second, everything blanks out.
Knee. Knee. Protect the knee.
My brain flashes warnings I can’t afford to listen to.
I pop back up, slamming my stick on the ice to call for the puck, teeth clenched so tight my jaw aches.
Fear presses in around the edges, but it doesn’t win.
Not today. Anders feeds me a pass, quick and clean.
I deke around a defenseman, everything raw instinct now, and snap off a shot without thinking.
The goalie gets a piece with his blocker, knocking the puck away. But it bounces right back to me, practicallgift-wrapped. I hammer it home, top shelf, nothing but net.
Second goal.
The crowd explodes, noise crashing down as I skate to the bench. I trade gloves with the boys, feeling their hits land solid against my gear. The coach claps me on the helmet, the lines around his mouth deep with something dangerously close to pride.
“About fucking time,” he says, shaking his head like he’s trying to hide a smile.
I’m grinning so hard my face hurts, my heart battering against my ribs with a different kind of rush.
Third period feels endless. Every muscle in my body screams, sweat soaking into my gear, but we’re up by one, and the clock drips down slow, unforgiving seconds. Every possession matters. Every check, every shot. One mistake could swing the whole game.
And then it happens. Turnover.
A lazy pass floats across center ice, begging to be punished. I pounce, stealing it clean, and launch myself down the open lane. The ice stretches out in front of me, clean and perfect, like it’s daring me.
Go, go, go.
I tuck the puck close, blades biting into the surface, legs driving harder with every stride.
One defenseman left. He lunges. I fake left, tuck right, my stick a blur, and suddenly, it’s just me and the goalie.
Time slows. I spot the tiniest sliver between the goalie’s pad and the post—the one opening he can’t cover fast enough.
I shoot.
The puck launches off my stick with a snap, ripping straight into the top corner.
In. Clean.
The arena erupts.
Hats rain down from the stands in waves, flooding the ice like a goddamn blizzard of belief.
I skid to a stop, arms thrown wide, soaking in the noise, the heat of it pounding through me like a second heartbeat.
My teammates tackle me again, shouting in my ears, pounding my back, but it’s all background now.
Because I’m already looking.
Scanning the stands. Searching.
And there she is.
Scottie.
Front row, against the glass, jumping up and down like she can’t help herself, hands cupped around her mouth as she screams something I’ll never hear over the roar. Her cheeks are flushed. Her whole face lit up with something so fierce it knocks the breath right out of me.
She’s here.
She came home.
I’m frozen for a second, the whole world falling away except for her. My hands shake inside my gloves. My lungs forget how to work. And then—like she feels me looking—she grins and lifts two fingers to her mouth, blowing me a kiss. Tiny, quick, a little shy, like maybe she’s nervous too.
It hits harder than the goal. Harder than anything, I’ve fought my way back from.
She might be mine, just like I’m hers.
Even if she doesn’t know it yet. Her presence, the fact that she came to surprise me . . .that hits harder than any goal.
I don’t even feel the rest of the game.
I don’t hear the final buzzer.
All I know is that when the final horn sounds, when we skate off victorious while the hats are still being shoveled off the ice—my chest is full of something bigger than adrenaline.
Bigger than the game.
Hope.
Home.
Her.
And I’m never letting her go.