Chapter 10 - Landon #2
“Sit down and shut the hell up.” The look on Coach’s face did more than his words ever could, and I sank down on the bench, tapping my stick against my skate.
“You’ve got the stuff, kid.”
I turned in the direction of the unfamiliar voice, and recognized the face instantly. An ex-Panthers player, seated right behind the players’ bench. Once he had my attention, he suddenly had a lot more to say.
“If you were wearing a Panthers jersey, you’d be starting every game and your ass would never warm a bench.”
His words coursed through me like a hot shot of adrenaline. Someone who saw my value. And if it came down to it, I didn’t owe The Surge anything. I had my career to think about.
“You trying to tell me something?” I asked, checking once to make sure Coach’s attention was glued to the ice as the timer ran out on our dismal first period.
The guy smirked. “Not my place. But I’d keep my phone close if I were you. Never know who’d be calling with an offer.”
“Ah, goddamn it.” Coach tossed his towel and stormed off without looking back.
First period done, and there was nothing on the board.
Bruised egos moped off the ice. I fell in line behind Grayson and Tucker, sparing a glance at the ex-Panthers guy before disappearing into the tunnel.
His words looped in my head, drowning out the boos that followed us out.
He was right; I was bigger than this. I didn’t deserve punishment for other players who couldn’t hold their own.
Then, halfway down the ramp to the locker room: “Don’t make me regret swapping out the end of my shift, rookie.”
Nicole’s giant foam finger slapped her friend in the face as she waved emphatically to get my attention. The friend scowled, swatting at the thing, but I burst out laughing. Not that funny, but… I don’t know. Maybe it was that funny.
Heading into the locker room, the first period’s failure evaporated.
Coach had a lot to say, and he used his angry voice to say it.
I barely noticed. Kept my head down, focused on retaping my blade, fixing my skates.
There was a short speech from the captain too, but there was no room for words anymore.
Words didn’t get the crowd hyped up. Words didn’t get the puck into the net.
The second period started with a clean faceoff win. Mason kicked the puck back, clean and controlled, and suddenly we were moving as a unit instead of five separate ideas. I cut wide, dragging a defender with me, and felt the space open before I consciously registered it.
The puck came off Grayson’s stick hard and flat. Not at my skates. Not behind me. Right on my blade.
I caught it in stride, pulled it across my body as the defenseman lunged, felt his stick glance off my shin pad instead of the puck.
Their goalie dropped early. I waited. Let him commit.
Then I snapped my wrists and sent it low, just inside the post, exactly where the ice had opened for half a second.
The net jumped, and Surge fans were on their feet. My pulse slammed back into my ears, riding the high.
That was better.
I pumped my stick in the air, riling them up even more as I did a victory lap with my team skating after me to slap my helmet or punch my arm. Mason barreled into me with a wide grin.
“About fucking time.”
I tapped his glove and lined up again. “Watch the dam walls break.”
But the Sharks didn’t fold. They pressed harder, tightened coverage, started finishing checks. A defenseman rode me into the boards on the next shift, shoulder catching my ribs, breath knocked loose. I stayed upright and shoved off, tracking the puck as it cycled high.
“Every hit comes back to you.” I gave him a hard shoulder-check as I skated past.
“Looking forward to it, rookie.”
Mason got it at the point, faked the shot, sent it down low instead. Grayson swooped in and crashed the net, pulling two bodies with him. That left the slot open.
I did what everyone inside the arena was yelling for me to do, and slid into it.
The pass came through traffic, skittering just enough to make it seem fifty-fifty. I caught it on the toe, jabbed it forward, tried to roof it. The goalie got a piece this time, glove flashing, puck popping loose instead of dying.
The groan from the fans was short-lived, because they saw me chasing it down myself. Their cheers expanded the ice as I cut behind the net, felt a stick hook my arm and ignored it. Looping around, I fed the puck back out with blind trust someone would be there.
Mason was.
He one-timed it before the goalie could reset, and this time there was no argument from the net.
Bench erupted. Mason had scored, but it was my name echoing off the rafters in a chant. Someone else smacked the boards so hard it rattled the glass, and I skated past the Sharks’ crease with a shit-eating grin.
“Holding up okay, big guy?”
“Eat a dick,” their goalie spat.
Between shifts, I glanced up into the stands without meaning to. Or maybe meaning to a little. Each time I caught Nicole’s eye, she jumped to her feet and gesticulated wildly, my name coming off her lips even though I couldn’t quite distinguish it between all the noise.
Still, that settled me more than any pep talk could have.
Third period came fast and mean. San Jose pushed like their lives depended on it, dumped pucks deep, and tried to grind us down. Our legs burned. My lungs did too.
Every game has a point where your body starts negotiating, and this was it.
I kept telling myself one more shift, one more sprint, one more hit.
The guys’ faces showed the same exhausted determination, and that was when I knew there was no room for a loss.
We were going to finish the game with everything out on the ice.
I chased a loose puck into the corner, took a shoulder to the back, but kept my feet.
The puck rimmed around the boards. Tucker snagged it up, danced once to buy space, then sent it back up high.
Grayson fired from the blue line, shot wide on purpose and sent the puck sailing off the end boards and back into the slot.
Back to where I was waiting for it.
The goalie slid across, pad down. I adjusted mid-stride, lifted the puck just enough to clear the pad and watched it disappear under the crossbar. No hesitation this time. Nothing but pure instinct.
I felt the impact before I heard the crowd. Mason slammed into me from the side, laughing as he shook me by the shoulders. Grayson hooked an arm around my shoulder as we coasted past the crease, sweat dripping, breath ragged, everything loud and bright and sharp-edged in the best way.
“This is what we came here to do. Keep it up.”
The ‘we’ grated my insides, but I made no sign of it. Just smiled and nodded, although my gaze snapped over to the ex-Panther in the stands. He got it. He knew what I was dealing with.
We didn’t let up after that. We couldn’t afford to.
San Jose scored late. One of those ugly net-front scrambles where the puck squirts free and nobody’s happy about it. The building went tense. Time slowed into chunks measured by whistles and heartbeats.
Last shift. Tie game pressure pressed at the back of my skull. They couldn’t grab another goal. We didn’t have it in us to fight back from a draw.
Tucker blocked a shot at the blue line, and kicked the puck to Mason. He didn’t look. He knew where I’d be. He always did when it mattered.
I broke up ice, legs screaming, defender closing fast. I chipped the puck past him, chased it down, cut toward the middle instead of the boards. The goalie came out aggressively, trying to cut the angle.
“Now!”
I glimpsed the captain sliding into space, and shot the puck across the crease instead of going for goal.
Grayson buried it.
The final horn felt unreal when it sounded. There weren’t enough minutes for San Jose to close the gap. Arms around shoulders. Sticks tapping ice. The kind of ending that made every bad shift before it worth surviving.
I was halfway down the ramp to the locker room, skates squealing against the concrete, when Holly fell in step beside me.
“Got a second?”
“For you?” I asked, grinning wide. “Always.”
Her laugh was performative, but I appreciated the gesture. “I put you forward to make a speech at the anniversary gala.”
I stopped short, letting the guys grab a lead on me as I stared at her. “Me?”
“You,” she nodded. “Celebrating twenty years involves looking back at how far the team has come, and what better way to usher in the future than with the face of The Surge’s new era?”
She wasn’t wrong. Out of all the names on the team’s A-list, mine was the brightest. More eyes on me, and that meant more open doors like the Florida Panthers.
“Sounds great,” I said, pushing out my chest just a little. “I mean… I’m the hottest shit, so it makes total sense.”
Holly’s pen tapped against her notebook. “There’s just one slight condition. From management.”
“Should I care, or is it something that could be your problem?”
She gave me a stiff smile, and said, “The only way they’re letting you on that stage is if you fix your attitude. On and off the ice.”