5. Blake #4
He shoves again, but I step into it, ready to swing.
The ref’s whistle cuts through, and thank the lord, Foster’s sent off.
I breathe out. That really was about to blow up.
Thumper’s back.
He slaps gloves with Davis, eyes blazing.
“Let’s finish this,” he mutters, voice like gravel.
Next shift, we push, and the puck tumbles loose near my skates. I lock eyes with Brody. Send it.
Fuck... the pass misses. Shit!
But no one touches it, and somehow, don’t ask me how, it slides straight between the goalie’s legs.
“brRRROOONNNK!” GOAL. 2-2.
Bishy skates past, shaking his head like he can’t believe it. “That wasn’t even YOUR shot, you lucky bastard!”
The arena gasps in a beat of stunned silence.
Then we explode, gloves raised, fists in the air, we pound each other’s backs.
But we can’t breathe yet. Twenty seconds to go, and the Stormhawks rush one final time. Their winger curls and shoots.
Their winger curls, shoots.
McAvoy dives.
Too late.
“brRRROOONNNK!” 2-3.
NO!
I freeze as the ref blows the final whistle, the arena erupts, and they win.
The Stormhawks swarm at the bench, sticks raised and gloves flying.
We skate off, just us and the cold crawl back to the tunnel. My helmet is in my hand. Sweat is freezing on my neck, and the taste of defeat is as bitter as blood.
Nobody speaks. Not one word. Just the hollow drag of skates on concrete, and the click of a stick tapping the ground. We file through the corridor, heads low, our jerseys clinging to our backs like dead weight.
Vegas has never felt so far away.
***
Three days now. We’ve been back three days, and it’s been… quiet. Still. Like the whole team hit mute. Two nights ago, McCullum called. Told us to come in. Now. Didn’t say why. Just, “Emergency meeting. No excuses.”
I’d barely been home an hour from practice. Still had my duffel by the door when I turned right back around and drove back to the arena.
We were all there. Every one of us. Bishy, Brody, Danny, Peters, McAvoy, the whole team and coaching staff, everyone.
The look on McCullum’s face should’ve told us. But what he said hit like a freight train. Thumper, our Captain. Gone.
High-speed collision. Drunk driver blew a light. Thumper was killed on impact.
McCullum’s voice didn’t crack. Didn’t shake. Just delivered it straight. Cold.
Still didn’t feel real. Still doesn’t.
Thumper. Loud, reckless, fast-talking bastard. Always the first to fight, last to shut up. Drove us insane, but we loved him for it.
Nobody moved, and nobody said a thing.
I’ve never seen Bishy cry before. Not once in all the years I’ve known him. But in that office, with his shoulders hunched and his face twisted up, his tears just came.
He and Thumper were close. Real close. Friends since they were kids.
***
Now here we are at the Woodlawn Cemetery. The air’s heavy. Dense with grief that nobody knows what to do with. A cool breeze cuts across the rows of black coats, sweeping the mist that clings low to the grass.
The sky is the same color as wet concrete. Flat. Silent. Even the sun couldn’t bring itself to show up today.
We stand shoulder to shoulder. A solid line, but it feels like we’re barely holding each other upright.
Shoes crunch softly into the damp earth. That, and the rustle of the trees overhead, is all you hear.
No words. Just presence.
On one side of me, Brody, Mariana, and the medical team.
On the other, Cassy and Riley, flanked by a few of the media department.
The rest of the guys and Aces staff stretch out behind us, a wall of black under a low sky.
Thumper’s family is upfront, his parents and his younger brother, tight together.
Off in the distance, a handful of photographers hang back near the tree line. Telephoto lenses up. Vultures. But they’re not the story today.
I was going to ask Cassy out when I got back from Vancouver. Had it all planned out. Nothing big. Just something real. I wanted to tell her how I felt. I mean, really felt.
But now?
Now we’re here, staring at a coffin.
The grave gapes open before us, the polished mahogany box nestled deep in the earth. It's too shiny. Too perfect. Doesn't fit him.
It’s all too final, and he’s gone.
Hell. I’ll miss him. We all will.
McCullum stands nearest the edge. His jaw is clenched tight, and the lines in his face are deeper than I’ve ever seen them. But his eyes…they don’t say a thing. Not grief. Not anger. Just blank.
Brody shifts beside me, his thumb and fingers pressed against his lips like he's holding something in. Bishy’s not even blinking, just staring at the dirt, unmoving.
McAvoy exhales, slow and steady, but there’s a shake in it he can’t hide.
Peters is as still as a statue, fists clenched as though if he let go, the world might crack open.
Danny jams his hands into his pockets, eyes shut, breathing like he’s trying not to lose it.
No one moves. Except her. Cassy.
Her hand lifts, brushes mine. Just a whisper of contact.
Her eyes flick to me, quick and uncertain, then drop back to the ground.
My fingers twitch. That’s all I give her.
The silence is unbearable. Then—
A low rustle. The priest steps forward, murmurs something none of us really hear, and lets the first clump of dirt fall. It hits with a thud.
Thumper’s father steps up next. His face is gray. Unreadable. He lets the soil drop, then steps back. His tearful wife follows, her lips pressed together so hard they’ve gone white.
His little brother’s shoulders shake when it’s his turn. He doesn’t cry. Doesn’t make a sound. Just drops the dirt and backs away.
Another follows. Then another.
The sound isn’t loud, but it hits hard. A low, dull finality that drops into your chest and stays there.
Then it’s me.
I step forward. My boots sink slightly into the damp ground. I crouch, grab a handful of earth, cold and wet, and toss it down into the hole. It scatters across the top of the casket, and I glance at Bishy, his jaw tight, eyes glassy. Then I glance at Thumper’s parents.
This is it.
No comeback. No fix. No second period.
This is real.
This is final.