Chapter 18 - Landon
Landon
The standings glared down at us from the corner of the locker room like it had a personal vendetta.
Fifth in the Central. One point behind Colorado. One game left.
Win, and we lived. Lose, and the season died right there on the ice, pads still warm, sticks still taped. No second chances. No math gymnastics. No “if this team loses tomorrow.”
Tonight was it.
I sat on the bench tying my skates for the third time even though they were already tight before, my leg bouncing like it wanted to take off without me. Around me, the room hummed with that low, dangerous energy that only shows up when every guy knows exactly what’s on the line.
Tucker slammed his helmet down onto the bench beside me. “They think we’re done,” he said, voice calm but eyes lit. “Media wrote us off as hopeless wonders.”
“Good,” I said. “I play better when people get it wrong.”
He grinned. “What a coincidence? Me too.”
Across the room, the boys were chirping, pacing, tugging jerseys over shoulder pads. Music thumped, bass rattling the walls. Coach stood near the whiteboard, arms crossed, letting us have this moment before strategy took over.
I leaned back, rolled my neck, and let myself picture the rink.
The Colorado Avalanche were fast, disciplined, and ruthless on the forecheck. They didn’t waste chances, and they sure as hell didn’t give many away. They knew all they had to do was keep us from winning.
The tunnel felt narrower than usual when we lined up. The roar of the crowd spilled into it, heavy and electric, vibrating through my chest. I stepped onto the ice, blades biting, and scanned the stands out of instinct more than hope.
She was there, like always. Third row, center ice, wearing her retired number twelve jersey. Hair pulled back, cheeks flushed, hands clasped together like she was trying to hold the entire game in place through sheer willpower.
My chest loosened even more when I noticed who wasn’t next to her.
No James.
No arm slung possessively over her shoulders. No too-clean smile or polite clapping. Just Nicole and her giant foam finger, eyes locked on the ice.
Something feral stirred in me.
“Focus,” Mason muttered beside me as the anthem wrapped up.
I nodded, but my mouth twitched. “I am.”
The puck dropped, and the game exploded right out the gate.
Colorado came out hard, exactly as expected. Heavy pressure, quick passes, trying to force us into mistakes. Hunter stood on his head early, flashing leather and swallowing rebounds. I blocked a shot in the first shift and felt it ring up my shin, the pain sharp and grounding.
Good. Now I was awake.
The Surge answered with speed. Clean breakouts, and tape-to-tape passes. The bench came alive with every hit, every cleared zone. Mason took a roughing penalty after shoving a guy into the boards a little too enthusiastically.
“Worth it,” he yelled from the box, grinning like a menace.
They scored first.
A greasy rebound, wrong bounce, wrong time. The arena went quiet in that stunned way that feels like the air getting sucked out of a room.
I skated to center, jaw tight, heart steady.
Plenty of hockey left.
We tied it late in the first on a power play, a clean one-timer from the blue line that ripped past their goalie before he could set. I was on the ice, parked in front, screening, taking cross-checks like they were part of the job.
Between periods, the locker room was loud but focused.
“Keep pushing,” Coach said, tapping the board. “They’re starting to chase. Make them pay for it.”
Second period was a battle of wills and flying fists.
Colorado answered with another goal. We tied it again off a broken play that Mason turned into magic. He skated past the bench afterward, eyes wild.
“Not done,” he said. “Not even close.”
By the time the horn sounded for the second intermission, it was tied 2–2, sweat dripping, lungs burning, legs screaming.
I sat on the bench and looked up into the stands again. Nicole met my eyes immediately, like she’d been waiting for it.
She smiled, and that look followed me back into the locker room.
The third period started with everything on a knife edge.
Every shift mattered. Every mistake felt amplified. The crowd was on their feet, noise crashing over the ice in waves.
Midway through the period, Colorado took the lead again. A clean shot from the slot. No chance for our goalie. The bench went silent for half a heartbeat.
Then Tucker stood up.
“Hey,” he said, making sure each of us was listening. “We’ve been here before. We know how to answer.”
I pushed off the boards for my next shift feeling like my blood had turned into pure electricity.
We hemmed them in their zone, cycling the puck, grinding them down. I took a hit along the boards, popped back up, stole the puck, and sent it behind the net. Mason crashed the crease and jammed it home through a pile of bodies.
3–3.
The building detonated.
I pointed at him as we skated past the bench. “That’s how you do it.”
Time ticked down.
Five minutes.
Four.
Every shift felt like it could be the one.
Then Coach leaned over the boards and tapped his finger against my chest.
“You’re up,” he said. “Make something happen.”
I nodded.
The puck dropped in our zone. Grayson won it clean back to Tucker, who fired a stretch pass up the boards.
I took it in stride at center ice.
Colorado closed fast. Two defenders angling in, trying to force me wide.
I faked left, shifted my weight, and pulled the puck through my skates, threading between them. The crowd gasped as I burst free into open ice.
Breakaway.
The goalie squared up, calm, patient, trying to read me.
I slowed.
Just a fraction.
Let him think I was going forehand. Let him drop his shoulder. Let him commit.
Then I snapped the puck behind my own leg, toe-dragged it back across my body, and went backhand, lifting it just enough to clear the pad.
Time stopped.
The puck kissed the post and disappeared into the net.
The sound. Oh, my God, it was thunder.
I didn’t hear my own shouting but I sure as shit felt it. Felt the boys crash into me, helmets knocking, gloves pounding my back.
“Holy shit,” Grayson yelled. “Holy shit!”
I skated past the glass on instinct, heart hammering, and looked up. Nicole was on her feet. Hands over her mouth but not in disbelief. Of everyone in here, I knew she was the one who never stopped believing we stood a chance.
The final minutes were a blur of blocked shots, desperate clears, and white-knuckled tension. Colorado pulled their goalie. The puck lived in our zone.
The horn sounded.
We’d done it.
Surge 4. Avalanche 3.
And we made the playoffs.
We poured onto the ice, sticks raised, shouting, hugging, laughing like lunatics. Underdogs. Wild card. Still in it.
In the handshake line, Colorado guys nodded, respect sharp in their eyes. Back in the locker room, champagne sprayed, music blasted, and someone started chanting my name. I peeled off my gear, chest still buzzing, sweat cooling on my skin.
Mason clapped a hand on my shoulder. “That goal,” he said. “That was some dirty shit.”
I grinned. “You know how I like it.”
Later, when I finally stepped out toward the tunnel again, Nicole was waiting near the railing. She didn’t say anything at first, just looked at me, eyes soft but gleaming with pride.
I knew, then.
Tonight had changed something.
And this season?
It was just getting started.
*
I still had the taste of cheap beer on my tongue when I unlocked my door. “This is getting to be a trend,” I said to no-one, because my place was empty.
The adrenaline from the win hadn’t burned off yet. My hands were steady, but my body felt too big for my skin, like I was still skating, still chasing that final goal. Laughter and music from the locker room echoed faintly in my head as the door clicked shut behind me.
Then I heard it.
Nicole’s voice. Sharp. Raised. Not laughing or teasing.
A searing shot of anger snapped me fully awake and sober.
I froze in my entryway, keys still in my hand, heart stuttering once before it kicked hard into my ribs. The walls between our apartments weren’t thick. They never had been. Normally that meant muffled TV noise or the hum of her shower.
Not this.
“I said I’m done,” Nicole shouted.
Something crashed. Glass, maybe. Or a picture frame. The sound was violent enough that my stomach clenched.
James’s voice came next, lower and way meaner. I couldn’t make out all the words, but I didn’t need to. The tone carried plenty.
Another crash. Heavier this time. And a thud against a wall.
My body moved before my brain caught up.
I was out my door and back in the hall in seconds, sneakers slapping against the cold tiles. Nicole’s door was closed, but the noise bleeding through it was worse up close. Something hit the wall hard enough to rattle it.
“Don’t walk away from me,” James yelled.
That was it.
I didn’t knock.
I backed up, then took a running shove into the door with my shoulder and every pound of weight I had in me. The door opened so hard it slammed into the wall behind it, the sound sharp and explosive.
Nicole was in the middle of the living room, eyes wide, breath coming fast. A lamp lay shattered near the couch. One of her jerseys, framed and signed, was crooked on the wall, the glass spiderwebbed.
James stood a few feet from her, chest heaving, fists clenched. He turned toward the sound of the door opening.
Toward me.
For half a second, nobody moved. Then something in me snapped clean through.
I crossed the room in three strides and swung blindly.
My fist connected with his jaw with a crack that echoed off the walls. The impact jolted up my arm, solid and final. James went down hard, stumbling back into the coffee table before hitting the floor.
Nicole screamed my name. I think. The rushing in my ears made it hard to know for sure.
James rolled, groaning, spitting blood onto the rug. He stayed down for a beat, just long enough for me to register the shock on Nicole’s face.
“Landon, what the hell are you doing?” she yelled.
I opened my mouth to answer, but James was already moving. He surged up off the floor with a snarl and launched himself at me.
We collided near the couch, the force knocking us both sideways. My shoulder slammed into the wall. He swung wild, catching me in the ribs. Pain flared, and I doubled over.
“Get out of my way,” he spat. “This is none of your business.”
I grabbed his shirt and shoved him back, hard. He crashed into the shelving unit, sending pucks, photos, and framed memorabilia tumbling to the floor.
“It became my business,” I said, my voice low and shaking with something ugly, “the second you put your hands on anything in here.”
He laughed bitterly and swung again. I ducked, drove my shoulder into his gut, and we went down together, crashing into the coffee table. Wood splintered. Something sharp bit into my palm, but I didn’t care.
Nicole was shouting now, frantic. “Stop it. Both of you, stop!”
James kneed me in the thigh. I grunted and shoved back, adrenaline drowning out the pain. We rolled, knocking into the couch, the wall, anything within reach.
“You think you’re some hero,” he snarled, trying to land a punch. “You think she wants you.”
That did it.
I slammed him back onto the floor and climbed over him, my knee pinning his chest down. He struggled, hands clawing at my arms, but I had the leverage now. I fisted the front of his shirt and hauled him up just enough that his head snapped forward.
My face was inches from his.
“You stay the hell away from her,” I said. My voice didn’t sound like mine. It was rough, stripped bare. “You hear me? Stay the fuck away from her or I won’t let up next time.”
His eyes flicked past me, to Nicole. Then back to me. Something like fear crept in around the edges of his anger.
I shoved him away hard.
James scrambled, got his feet under him, and bolted for the door, hauling it open and disappearing into the hallway without looking back.
I stood there, chest heaving, my hands still curled like I was ready to fight air itself.
The apartment was wrecked in every sense. Furniture skewed. Glass on the floor. My heart hammering so hard it drowned out everything else.
Nicole was suddenly in front of me.
“Are you okay?” she asked, voice breaking as her hands skimmed over my arms, my ribs, my shoulders, checking, frantic. “Did he hurt you?”
That was it. That was the last thread holding anything back, and it severed.
One second she was hovering in front of me, all wide eyes and shaking hands, and the next I had her pulled tight against my chest. She gasped, fingers clutching at my bare arms, and I didn’t give myself time to think.
I kissed her.