14. Wally
The visitor locker room at Heathstead Arena smells like ammonia, old sweat, and fresh floor wax.
Cold air blows from the ceiling vents above the painted cinderblock walls.
Fluorescent tubes hum overhead, casting a white light on the team.
Guys pace the black rubber floor in their base layers.
They stretch their hamstrings and tape their sticks.
Tape rips from rolls in short, loud bursts.
Settling into my assigned stall in the far corner, I run a fresh strip of white cloth tape along the blade of my stick. The quick routine gives me a second to breathe before grabbing the team-issued tablet from the top shelf. The screen displays game footage from last week.
The Heathstead Bears won the Alpha Cup last year against us.
I watched Wes, Logan, Jace, and Ford celebrate on the ice while hats rained down from the bleachers.
That star group of Alphas retired right after the season ended.
The league expected the franchise to crumble without their top players.
Instead, the Bears bumped their second line up and held strong.
They tightened their roster and kept winning.
They still defend the title with a brutal trap-style defense.
I tap the screen, rewinding a play from their new top line.
Their center parks on the red line. He cuts off the passing lanes and forces our wingers to dump the puck deep into the corner.
Their defensemen swoop in, collect the loose puck, and break out the other way.
We need to break through that wall tonight. We need the points to secure our playoff spot. I memorize the timing of their defensive shifts and the spacing between their wings.
My thumb rests over the play button. My mind drifts away from the footage.
I stare at the red and black jerseys on the tablet.
An image of a fading yellow house on the edge of the city pushes into my thoughts.
A trace of lavender and honeysuckle lingers in my nose, cutting through the locker room stench.
Focusing back on the screen, I study the Bears' defensive pairing. I need to keep my head in the game. She is safe at home. She has Brendan, Vinny, and a brand new fence keeping her secure.
Kel sits one stall over. He yanks the laces of his skates tight.
The intricate, dark cedar branch tattooed on the side of his neck flexes as he pulls the thick strings.
Simon stands next to him, securing his shoulder pads with Velcro straps.
His nervous energy radiates across the narrow space between us.
"Keep your head on a swivel tonight." Kel points a taped finger at Simon. "Their defensemen play dirty in the corners. Number forty-two targets the numbers. He likes to ride guys face-first into the glass. Steer clear of the trap."
Simon catches a puck in his glove. "I know how to take a hit, Kel. I plan to skate circles around that oversized goon. He turns like a dump truck. I chip the puck past him, take the inside lane, and leave him eating ice shavings."
"Just watch your back." Kel glares at the rubber floorboards. "We finish this in regulation. We skip overtime. We grab the points, get on the jet, and get the hell out of this city. I want to go home."
"We all want to go home." Simon drops the puck into his gear bag. "I miss the smell of her house. This arena reeks. We win the game, we go back to our Omega."
Their shared focus settles my nerves. We share the same goal. We plan to wrap this road trip up, secure the win, and get back to our mates.
I pull my cell phone out of my pocket. The screen lights up, showing a new text message. I open the thread.
VAYDA:
Bren is settled in for the night. Cali and I have the pre-game show on the TV. Give the Bears hell on the ice.
I stare at the screen. The tension in my neck unwinds. She reached out first. She sent the update on her own. I let out a slow breath, rereading the words on the glowing display.
"She texted." I turn the screen so Kel and Simon can read the message.
Kel drops his skate laces. He leans over to read the glowing words. A genuine smile breaks through his usual scowl. "She has the game on. She is watching us play."
"She's paying attention." Simon grins. "Now we just have to bring home the win."
I type out a quick reply.
WALLY:
We will. Enjoy the game, sweetheart. See you tomorrow.
I lock the phone and shove it into my bag. The lingering anxiety evaporates. She is safe. Brendan is safe. I grab my helmet from the top shelf of the locker. I strap it on, clicking the plastic chinstrap into place. I grab my stick and stand up.
The locker room doors swing open, hitting the cinderblock wall with a dull thud. Coach Sampson steps into the room, a scowl etched deep into his weathered face. He holds a tablet tucked under his arm.
The pacing stops. Two dozen guys turn their attention toward the front of the room. The arena's ventilation hums in the background.
"Alright, listen up." Coach taps his tablet, lighting up the digital smartboard behind him.
"The Bears think they own the ice because they hold the cup.
They think they can bully us in the neutral zone with their traps.
We dictate the pace tonight. We hit them fast. We hit them hard. We take the puck and we keep it."
Kel stands up, slamming his stick against the rubber floor. Simon follows, his green eyes burning with competitive fire. The rest of the team joins in, banging their sticks against the benches. The noise echoes off the cinderblock walls.
Coach nods, a tight smirk replacing his scowl. "Let's go take their pride!"
I push past the double doors and lead my team down the concrete tunnel. The roar of the Heathstead crowd echoes ahead. My head is clear. I have mates waiting for me at home. I plan to win this game for them.
We step out of the tunnel and onto the ice for the pre-game warm-up.
The Heathstead crowd screams. A wall of noise rolls down from the packed bleachers.
Fans bang their fists on the glass, chanting insults and waving foam bear claws.
The cold air bites my lungs, clearing the locker room fog from my head.
I lead the team in a wide circle around our half of the rink. My skates carve deep grooves into the fresh surface. We break into our standard passing drills. I take a crisp pass from Simon and fire a wrist shot at the net. The rubber smacks the goalie's pads and ricochets into the corner.
Kel practices his backward crossovers along the blue line, keeping his stick low. We spend twenty minutes cycling the puck, stretching our hamstrings, and tuning out the hostile crowd.
The buzzer blasts through the arena, ending the warm-up session. We funnel back to the bench to clear the ice for the Zamboni. I grab a water bottle, take a long pull, and squirt the rest over my face to cool down. My blood pumps fast. The adrenaline kicks in.
Minutes later, the resurfaced ice shines under the bright overhead lights.
The starting lineup gets called. I hop over the boards and glide to the center circle for the opening face-off.
Kel flanks my left side. Simon sets up on the right wing.
Hutton and Graves drop back to anchor the blue line.
Price secures his mask and taps his goalie stick against the metal posts behind us.
The Bears' star Alphas retired right after winning the cup last season.
I remember this guy centering their second line.
Now he wears the captain's letter on his jersey and glares at me through his plastic visor.
He flashes a missing front tooth like a badge of honor.
He carries a reputation for dirty hits. The referee drops the puck between us.
I snap my stick down, winning the draw. I sweep the puck back to Kel on the left wall. The game erupts into motion.
The Bears play with a punishing style. They aim to hit anyone who touches the puck.
Within the first three minutes, their defensemen take runs at us.
They check Hutton and Finnick into the boards, trying to intimidate our defense out of the zone.
The sound of pads crashing against the fiberglass boards echoes through the arena.
My lungs burn fifty seconds into the shift. I glide to the bench and hop the boards, making way for the second line. We cycle on and off the ice, grinding through short shifts to keep our legs fresh.
Halfway through the period, my line hops back over the boards. Simon flies down the right wing. His skates blur with speed. He chips the puck past the blue line, hunting for an opening in the defense.
Number forty-two lines him up. He waits for the puck to leave Simon's stick, then steps right into his path. The Bears' defenseman grips his stick with both hands and drives the shaft straight under Simon's chin for a late cross-check.
Simon flies back. He crashes onto the ice, sliding across the slick surface and slamming into the corner boards.
The referee blows his whistle. The crowd roars in approval.
My jaw clenches. I drop my gloves, ready to tear the guy's helmet off. Kel beats me to it.
Kel launches himself across the ice. He zeroes in on number forty-two. He drops his stick and gloves, grabbing the front of the defenseman's jersey. He lowers his shoulder and explodes upward, driving his entire body weight into the guy to take him down. Kel throws a brutal right hook.
The impact rattles the glass across the arena. The refs swarm them, blowing their whistles and breaking up the fight. Number forty-two folds in half, gasping for air on the ice. Kel stands over him, his chest heaving as the linesman drags him backward.
"Keep your stick down!" Kel points a bare finger right in the guy's face.
The referee skates to the penalty box to announce the calls. Two minutes for interference on forty-two. Five minutes for fighting and an extra two for instigating on Kel. We lose a man and start the penalty kill. We send a massive message, though. We protect our own.