22. Kel
The arena air hits me like a freight train. Twenty thousand fans scream my name, a wall of noise that rattles my teeth. I step onto the ice for pre-game warm-ups, taking a hard lap and digging the edges of my blades into the fresh sheet.
Last night with Vayda still hums in my veins. The new bond, the skin-on-skin, the way she looks at us fuels my adrenaline. I woke up ready to run through a brick wall. I play left wing on the best line in the League. Tonight, we take the Alpha Cup.
Circling behind the net, I look toward the VIP level. Tinted glass reflects the overhead stadium lights, obscuring the suite. Vayda and Brendan sit up there, tucked away from the chaos on the ice in matching Reaper jerseys.
Vinny and Kristy pack into the box with them. Kristy is probably screaming her lungs out for her brother Henry on the second line. Knowing my family is watching provides all the focus I need for the next three periods.
The Heathstead Bears skate in circles on their half of the red line.
My gut tightens. They turn every series into an absolute mess.
They play a trap system full of interference, stick work, and cheap shots after the whistle.
Their captain catches my eye near center ice.
He flashes a missing-tooth grin, trying to get in my head early with a classic red line stare-down.
I skate right past the bait. I play a gritty, power-forward game, but I keep my cool. My job means staying on the ice and putting the puck in the net. Getting suspended before the puck even drops ruins our chances.
The horn blasts to end warm-ups. We clear the ice. The Zamboni makes a fresh cut, leaving behind a gleaming, flawless sheet. Ten minutes later, we line up for the opening draw.
The ref drops the puck at center ice. Wally wins the draw clean back to our point.
The defenseman shoves it to me on the boards.
I catch the pass on my tape, speed up, and put my head down through the neutral zone.
A Bears defenseman tries to cut me off, leading with his shoulder.
I drop my center of gravity and drive straight through his check.
His air leaves his lungs in a rush as I bounce him off the boards.
He crashes to the ice. The home crowd goes wild.
I skate past their open bench door. "Start packing your bags, boys. We're ending your garbage season tonight."
A Heathstead winger slams his stick against the top of the boards. "Keep your head up, Lars. We're taking your knees out."
I flash him a wicked grin. "Try it."
The Bears target Simon the second he touches the rubber.
It's their standard game plan. They want to rattle his focus and take away his speed.
They send their designated grinder to shadow him, hacking at his ankles every time the play moves near the right wing.
I watch Simon take a cross-check to the lower back behind the net.
The ref misses the call. I catch every detail.
Skating into the corner, I track the play.
The Bears captain digs for the puck in the trapezoid.
I bypass the predictable glove-to-the-face routine.
I just play hard hockey. Timing my approach, I hit the boards with a controlled, brutal thud.
I pin the captain against the plexiglass.
He tries to push off. I have ten pounds of muscle on him and all the leverage in the corners.
"You look tired, cap." I lean into his ear, my breath hot against his visor. "Legs giving out already?"
"Eat shit, Lars." He drives his composite stick into the back of my skate. He wants me to snap. He wants to draw a roughing minor to get his team a power play.
"Stay mad." I strip the puck from his blade. I flip a blind backhand pass right to Wally parked in the high slot.
Wally fires a one-timer. Their goalie flashes the leather, making a desperate glove save. The whistle blows.
I keep my feet moving. Every single shift, I get right in their faces. I finish my checks, hit them clean, and get back to the defensive zone. They want a chippy, amateur game. We plan to maintain our discipline and skate circles around them. We represent the Reapers. Tonight, we finish the job.
Wally circles back toward the face-off dot, skating past their center. "That's all you got? We see better backchecking in the beer leagues."
The Bears center slashes at Wally's shin pads. "Shut the fuck up, Nelson. You guys are choking."
Wally stares right through him, lining up for the next face-off.
He looks stone-faced and laser-focused. He wins the draw, pulls it back to the blue line, and we set up the offensive cycle.
Simon moves to the right wing half-wall, creating space.
I hover on the left circle, waiting for a rebound.
I watch the Bears scramble. Panic sets into their defensive structure. They know our cycle exhausts them.
One of their defensemen hacks at my skates as I cut toward the crease. I turn and catch his eye. "Check your laces, bud. You're falling all over the ice."
He loses his temper, rushes me, and tries to shove his glove into my face mask. I side-step his momentum. He falls headfirst into the boards, looking like a total clown.
I take the loose puck and dump it deep into their corner. I skate hard for the bench. Henry hops over the boards with fresh legs to replace me, chasing the puck down. Simon and Wally follow right behind me, swapping out for the rest of the second line.
We hit the wooden bench. I drop my weight onto the seat, gasping for air. We skate our forty-five-second shifts and get off the ice to keep our legs fresh.
The smell of ammonia smelling salts and damp hockey gear fills the cramped space. I grab my water bottle and squirt a stream into my mouth.
"They're cracking." I look at my linemates. "Their defense keeps chasing the puck instead of playing their zones."
"Keep dumping it deep." Wally wipes sweat from his forehead with a towel. "Force their defensemen to turn around and retrieve it. We hit them every single time they touch the rubber."
"I got the right side on lock." Simon tightens the velcro straps on his gloves. "Their bruiser is losing a step. His top speed is gone."
We watch Henry and the second line go to work. They pin the Bears in the defensive zone. The Heathstead players look gassed. They skate back to their bench looking like they ran a marathon. We represent the Reapers, and we look like we just finished warm-ups.
We wear them down to the bone over the next twenty minutes.
Every check, clean hit, and offensive cycle strips their will to play.
The horn blasts to signal the end of the first period.
The crowd noise swells. Sweat drips down my back.
My lungs burn for oxygen. A constant hum of adrenaline floods my veins. I block out the aches and bruises.
I look back up at the VIP box. The first period served as a brutal test. The second period guarantees a war. I pull my skate laces a fraction tighter. The ice belongs to us. The game belongs to us. The Cup goes home to Vayda and Brendan tonight.
The stadium clock reads past one in the morning. We sit in the locker room during the intermission between the fourth and fifth overtime periods. We sit twenty minutes away from breaking the League record for the longest game in hockey history.
Silence fills the room. Guys stare at the rubber floor mats with hollow eyes. The trainers move from stall to stall, handing out chunks of banana and small cups of electrolyte slush to stop the full-body muscle cramps. The room reeks of sweat, ammonia, and exhaustion.
I peel off my soaked base layer. My arms feel like lead weights. I toss the wet fabric into the laundry bin and pull a dry, long-sleeve compression shirt over my head. The fresh fabric offers a brief comfort against my chilled skin.
I grab my phone from the top shelf of my stall. The screen lights up with a new text message.
VAYDA:
Vinny took Brendan home a couple hours ago to get him into bed. Vinny is cheering you guys on the TV. I'm right here. Bury those Heathstead bastards into the ice and bring the Cup home.
Turning the device around, I hold the bright screen up for my linemates.
Wally reads the words. A wicked grin cracks through the exhaustion lining his face. Simon lifts his head from his knees, his eyes scanning the text.
Her fierce command acts like a shot of adrenaline. It reinvigorates all three of us, replacing the fatigue with a ruthless drive to finish the job. We share a look, locking in our focus.
"Drink." Wally shoves a blue sports drink into my hand.
I take the bottle and chug the cold liquid. Wally looks like a ghost, but a familiar fire burns in his dark eyes. We run on fumes, but our Omega just handed us the spark we need.
"Listen up." The head coach stands in the center of the room. He looks just as drained as the roster. "The ice out there turns to chopped snow fast. Keep your shifts short. Forty seconds max. Dump the puck deep. Shoot from everywhere. A garbage bounce wins this game. End it."
We tape our sticks, grab our helmets, and march back down the concrete tunnel.
The crowd remains on their feet. The fans run on the same desperate adrenaline keeping us upright. The stadium erupts in a deafening roar as we step back onto the ice.
I look up at the VIP box one last time. The memory of her lavender and honeysuckle scent hits my brain. She claimed us as her Alphas last night. She gave us a future. I dig into that memory, pulling a fresh surge of energy from the bond we finalized.
The horn blasts to start the fifth overtime.
The first ten minutes turn into a brutal, grinding war of attrition.
Both teams dump the puck into the corners, too exhausted to carry it through the neutral zone.
Deep ruts and piles of snow cover the ice, making every pass a massive gamble.
The puck bounces like a tennis ball over the chopped surface.