Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Heather
Hockey is not a game. It is a socially acceptable riot performed on knife blades.
I had watched games on TV before. I had seen the highlights on ESPN where the goals looked graceful and the hits looked like choreographed stunts. But TV was a liar. TV flattened the world. It stripped away the speed, the size, and the sheer, terrifying violence of the sport.
Here, in the designated "Family and Friends" section of the Boston arena, there was no screen to protect me.
The sound was the first thing that hit me.
It wasn't just noise; it was a physical assault.
The crack of a stick against a puck sounded like a gunshot.
The thud of bodies slamming into the boards vibrated through the concrete floor and up into the soles of my boots.
The crowd—eighteen thousand hostile Boston fans—roared with a collective voice that sounded less like cheering and more like a desire for blood.
I gripped the cold metal railing in front of me, my knuckles white. I was wearing Jerry’s jersey.
It was massive on me. The heavy black fabric, emblazoned with the white saber-tooth tiger crest on the front and VANE 19 on the back, hung to my knees.
It smelled like him—clean laundry detergent and that faint, sharp scent of cedarwood that seemed to cling to his skin.
Wearing it felt like a claim. It felt like walking around with a target on my back in enemy territory.
"Relax, honey," a woman next to me said. She was older, wearing a bedazzled jersey that said MOM on the back. "If you squeeze that rail any harder, you're going to bend it."
I forced a tight, wobbly smile. "I'm trying. It's just... loud."
"It's Boston," she laughed, taking a sip of her beer. "They eat their young here. Just keep your eyes on number nineteen. He knows how to handle himself."
Keep your eyes on number nineteen.
As if I could look anywhere else.
Down on the ice, the warm-ups were ending. The Sterling Falls Sabers were circling their half of the rink, a swarm of black and silver locusts. They moved with a predatory grace that was mesmerizing and terrifying.
And then there was Jerry.
He didn't skate like the others. He didn't glide; he carved. Every stride was explosive, cutting deep into the ice, propelling his massive frame forward with a power that seemed defy physics. He was huge. In his pads, he looked like a tank made of carbon fiber and aggression.
He was currently at center ice, stretching.
He leaned forward, testing the edges of his blades, his stick resting casually across his thighs.
His helmet was on, the visor casting a shadow over his eyes, but I knew that stare.
I knew the cold, calculating assessment happening behind the tinted plastic.
He was "The Judge" right now. The boy who ate breakfast with me, who kissed me in the car, who held my hand like it was a lifeline? He was gone. In his place was a weapon.
The buzzer sounded, a harsh, blaring noise that made me jump.
The team gathered at the bench. Jerry stopped. He didn't join the huddle immediately. He turned.
He looked up.
The arena was a sea of thousands of faces, a chaotic blur of color and movement. But Jerry’s head tilted back, and his helmet tracked perfectly to section 104, row C.
He found me.
Even from this distance, I felt the connection snap into place. It was a physical tug in my chest, an invisible tether pulling taut across the chaotic air. He stood there for a heartbeat, just looking. Making sure I was there. Making sure I was watching.
He tapped his stick against his shin pad—once, twice. A signal.
I see you.
Then he turned and skated to the bench, disappearing into the mass of his teammates.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
"He's intense," the mom next to me noted, looking impressed. "My son is the backup goalie. He just waves. Vane looks like he’s engaging a targeting system."
"He is," I whispered, sinking into my seat. "He absolutely is."
The game began, and with it, my education in terror.
The first period was a blur of violence. The Boston team—the Terriers—were big, mean, and clearly had a strategy: Hit Vane.
Every time Jerry touched the puck, two red jerseys swarmed him. They didn't just check him; they tried to bury him. They slammed him into the glass, they hacked at his ankles with their sticks, they threw elbows that the referees conveniently missed.
My stomach churned. I felt nauseous. Every time he went down, my heart stopped until he got back up.
"Get off him!" I screamed, my voice lost in the roar of the crowd.
Jerry didn't react. He was a machine. He took the hits with a stoic, terrifying calm. He bounced off the boards, regained his balance, and kept the puck. He was efficient. He was brutal.
With five minutes left in the first period, he caught a pass at the blue line. He didn't look for a teammate. He looked at the net.
He wound up. The stick bent like a bow.
Crack.
The sound echoed through the arena. The puck was a blur. It hit the top corner of the net with a metallic ping and buried itself in the twine before the goalie even moved his glove.
The red light flashed. The siren wailed—or rather, the buzzer sounded for the goal, silencing the Boston crowd.
Jerry didn't celebrate. He didn't pump his fist. He didn't smile.
He just glided past the Boston bench, staring down their coach, before turning to fist-bump Tank.
It was the coldest thing I had ever seen. And God help me, it was the sexiest.
The power. The competence. The absolute control.
I sank back into my seat, my skin flushing hot despite the chill of the arena. I was turned on. I was terrified. I was a mess.
"That's my boyfriend," I whispered to no one, the words tasting strange and heavy on my tongue.
It wasn't fake anymore. I knew it. The contract was a piece of paper back in Colorado. Here, in this hostile city, watching him wage war on ice, the feelings were real. They were visceral.
I wanted him to win. But mostly, I wanted him to survive.
The second period was worse. The Terriers were frustrated. They were losing 1-0, and they couldn't stop Jerry. So they stopped playing hockey and started playing dirty.
The tension in the arena ratcheted up. The crowd was baying for blood. Fights were breaking out in the stands. A beer cup landed on the ice near the penalty box.
Jerry was in the face-off circle. His helmet was askew. There was a smudge of something dark on his jersey—blood? Not his, I hoped.
The puck dropped.
Chaos.
Jerry won the draw, pushing the puck back to his defensemen. But the opposing center didn't go for the puck. He went for Jerry.
He cross-checked Jerry in the ribs. Hard.
Jerry stumbled but stayed upright. He shoved the guy back. The whistle blew.
"Roughing! Sterling Falls!" the ref shouted, pointing at Jerry.
"What?" I stood up, incensed. "He hit him first! Are you blind?"
Jerry skated to the penalty box. He didn't argue. He sat down, took a sip of water, and stared straight ahead. He was vibrating. I could see it from here. The rage was building, bubbling under the surface of his discipline.
Coach Miller had warned him. One more incident.
Jerry sat for two minutes. He watched his team kill the penalty. He watched Boston score a cheap goal to tie the game 1-1.
When he came out of the box, the air in the arena changed.
He wasn't skating efficiently anymore. He was skating angry.
He took the puck end-to-end, weaving through three defenders like they were traffic cones. He deked the goalie out of his jockstrap and slid the puck in.
2-1.
He spun around and glared at the Boston student section, who had been chanting "Daddy's Money" at him for twenty minutes.
He raised a gloved hand to his ear. I can't hear you.
The crowd went feral. Boos rained down.
I laughed. A hysterical, breathless laugh. He was insane. He was magnificent.
The disaster happened with two minutes left in the third period.
Sterling Falls was up 3-2. Boston pulled their goalie for an extra attacker. It was 6-on-5. A desperate scramble.
The puck was loose in the corner. Jerry went for it. He was digging, fighting off two defenders. He kicked the puck free, passing it to Johnson to clear the zone.
But the whistle didn't blow.
A Boston player—number 55, a giant of a man with a reputation for ending careers—skated across the ice. He didn't look at the puck. The puck was gone.
He looked at Jerry.
Jerry was turning, relaxing slightly because the play had moved up ice.
Number 55 lowered his shoulder and launched himself.
It was a blindside hit. Illegal. Predatory.
He hit Jerry square in the chest, lifting him off his skates. Jerry flew backward. His head snapped back. He slammed into the glass with a sickening thud that rattled the bones of everyone in the first ten rows, then crumbled to the ice.
He didn't get up.
The arena went silent.
My heart stopped. Literally stopped. The world narrowed down to a single pinpoint of horror: Jerry, lying face down on the ice, motionless.
"Get up," I whispered. My hands were shaking so hard I couldn't feel them. "Jerry, get up."
The ref blew the whistle frantically. The trainer ran onto the ice. Tank skated out of his crease, looking ready to murder number 55 with his goalie stick.
I was on my feet. I was scrambling past the mom with the bedazzled jersey, climbing over knees, desperate to get to the glass. I needed to be closer. I needed to see him breathe.
"Stay down!" someone yelled. "Don't move him!"
Minutes stretched into hours.
Then, Jerry moved.
He rolled over onto his back. He ripped his helmet off, throwing it onto the ice. His hair was matted with sweat. His face was pale, his eyes squeezed shut in agony. He clutched his ribs.
Tank was there, kneeling beside him, talking low and fast.
Jerry shook his head. He pushed Tank away.
He rolled onto his knees. He staggered. He grabbed the boards for support.
"Stay down, son!" the trainer yelled.