13. Blake #3
I turn to Jett, who’s just finishing with his shoulder pads, looking like he’s expecting me to say something else.
“So whatever the fuck you were doing for the Tigers, do us all a favor and start doing it here. Welcome to the Aces.”
There’s a low rumble. Mumbled welcomes. Grudging but real.
I raise my voice. “COME ON! LET’S WIN THIS GAME...FOR THUMPER!”
And the room explodes. “FOR THUMPER!” Sticks pound against the floor, and fists hit lockers.
I drop back down onto the bench. Brody taps my arm once, firmly. “For Thumper.” He bangs his stick on the ground.
Then the noise starts to die. Quiet spreads quickly as the sound of footsteps in the corridor approaches. Heavy. Measured. Coach McCullum walks in, Danny trailing behind.
Coach doesn’t say anything at first. He just stands in the center, arms behind his back, eyes sweeping the room. He doesn’t need to raise his voice. His silence does enough.
“This is it.”
No one moves.
“Silver State Arena. Our house. You know who’s on the other side of that tunnel waiting for us? The LA Blades. You know what they want? To make us doubt. To make us hesitate. To push us back on our heels.”
He takes a breath, sharp and clean.
“We may have had a bit of a bad run. But we’re back. And we’re stronger. Are we going to let them?”
“FUCK NO!” It hits the ceiling.
“We hit first. We hit hard. We don’t stop. Every shift, every battle, every second, we own it. We’re not looking for the perfect shot, we’re looking to overwhelm, to bury them, to leave no doubt.”
He nods slowly, deliberately. “Look around you. You’re brothers. You fight for each other. You bleed for each other. You win for each other.”
A final pause.
“Now get the fuck out there and own it.”
The bench scrapes as everyone stands. Helmets snap into place, and gloves are pulled tight.
It’s time.
The tunnel is a throat of concrete and shadows, lit only by the narrow blades of light slashing in from the far end. My skates crack sharply against the rubber mat with every step, steady and deliberate.
Behind me, the guys fall in, silent, tight, a wall of black and silver armor. You can feel the pressure settle on us like a second set of gears.
The air’s thick with sweat, adrenaline, the sting of fresh tape, and wet pads. That chemical tang of the ice just ahead sharpens every breath like glass. I can taste it.
The crowd’s roar is muffled at first, distant thunder behind walls of cinder and steel. But with every step forward, it grows, feeding, swelling, gnawing at the tunnel like it wants to pull us in and swallow us whole.
Arena staff hustle past, their faces tense, clipboards clutched like shields.
A door bangs open on the right, coughing up the scent of beer and hot dogs, but it’s lost in the cold that coils through the tunnel.
That rink-cold, dry and merciless, the kind that gets into your gloves, your throat, your blood.
Then—there it is. The light at the end. Blinding.
I step through first.
It hits.
The full scream of it. Sixty thousand voices crashing over us, rising in one tidal, brain-rattling surge.
I push forward onto the ice, sharp and clean, freezing underfoot. My blades slice over the surface like it belongs to me.
This is ours.
The PA crackles alive overhead. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Silver State Arena for tonight’s matchup! Your Las Vegas Aces take on their biggest rivals—the Los Angeles Blades! LET’S GET READY TO RUMBLE!”
The place detonates. Screams, stomps, chants, it’s one massive organism of noise.
I skate hard toward the bench, the boys pulling in around me. Bishy wastes no time. He grabs jerseys and shoulders, hauling us in tight, our breath fogging between us.
The air stinks of sweat and high voltage.
I drop my voice, but every word lands solid. “We win this for Thumper.”
Sticks pound the ice. Boom. Boom. Boom. Steel and fury.
We break.
I lock into position at left defense. Peters takes the right. Jett crouches at the center, low, like a predator waiting to pounce. McAvoy’s back in the crease, shifting, his gloves twitching. Bishy and Brody are on the wings, ready to tear the Blades apart.
Across from us, LA settles into formation. There’s no noise now. No chaos. Just cold silence and bad intentions.
The ref steps up. He stands like a statue, black and white, one hand holding the puck.
Then—
The hush.
The second stretches, tightens.
The ref’s arm twitches. The puck drops.
I don’t hear it hit the ice. Don’t need to. My body’s already moving, blade cutting deep, left leg driving me forward.
I track the blur of black rubber like a predator eyeing it’s pray.
The Blades take possession, their center snapping it back and twisting like he’s been rewound and hit play at triple speed.
They're fast. Not just fast, but deliberate. Each pass snaps from tape to tape, blades cutting crossovers so tight they kick ice into our zone like shrapnel.
I stay low and shadow their winger. He tries to shake me with a spin, but I match him stride for stride.
His stick twitches. I’m there.
Clack.
I knock the puck loose, but he’s not the one that picks it up; his D-man’s already there, feeding it up the boards.
My legs burn. I ignore it.
We’re six minutes deep, and it’s a goddamn war already.
McCullum signals. Brody’s off. Richards jumps the boards.
I catch the swap out of the corner of my eye—Brody’s jaw tight, Richards already in motion.
He grabs a puck off the wall, spins, fires one low—pad save. Rebound kicked out.
Richards digs again, threads it to Jett—snap shot, just wide.
We’re pressing.
Two minutes later, Brody’s back. Richards taps out.
I catch Brody’s eyes as he skates past, he’s locked in now.
Then it happens.
Turnover.
Jett tries to sauce it to Brody, but it clips off a skate, wrong bounce, wrong second.
The Blades’ sniper scoops it up and rifles one off his stick before anyone even shouts.
A streak of black.
McAvoy’s glove flashes, but too late.
“brRRROOONNNK!”
The horn detonates. The red light blasts to life behind him.
1–0.
The crowd roars, angry, not ecstatic. This is our house. We don’t take that shit lying down.
Whistle. End of the first.
In the second period I barely even get two strides into my shift before number 13—same bastard from earlier—angles at me like a wrecking ball with a grudge.
No warning. Just a blur of movement and a wall of muscle slamming into my ribs.
Impact.
My spine crunches against the glass. Pain jolts through me like an electric shock. Then I’m airborne, flipping sideways, my skates clawing at nothing. I hit the ice on my back, hard.
The breath punches out of my lungs. The ceiling spins.
I blink. Once. Twice.
McCullum jumps up, but I look past him. The medical team’s already on their feet.
I grit my teeth and push up on one elbow. My head doesn’t feel like it’s trying to detach itself from my neck, so I keep going.
“Jesus,” Bishy mutters, offering a hand.
I take it on one knee. Then both skates, grabbing my stick on the way.
A massive sigh rips through me and the arena.
Not today.
I tap my stick on the ice once, hard.
McCullum’s voice cuts through the bench like a whip.
“Rest and don’t fucking move!”
I snap my head toward him. “I’m fine!”
He doesn’t blink. “Bench. Now.”
"Fuck this!" I curse under my breath, just enough to slice through the boards, but I obey.
Sterling jumps the boards in my place.
I sit. Breathing hard. Stick across my knees.
Sterling’s already in motion, slick, fast, surgical.
He threads a pass through two defenders, nearly springs Jett for a breakaway.
Circles back, digs out a puck in the corner, fires a sharp-angle shot—glove save.
I lean forward, elbows on my thighs, watching every damn second.
McIntosh steps behind me.
“You good?”
I nod once.
He gives me the signal.
I tap Sterling’s gloves, jump the boards, and hit the ice like a shot.
I’m back.
And I’m pissed.
First touch—body a Blades winger off the puck and send it up the wall.
We’re alive again.
Reset. Center ice.
Jett leans in. His mouth’s moving. Probably saying something about the guy’s mother. Or sister. Or both.
Ref drops the puck.
Jett times it perfectly, punching it back with a snap, and Bishy’s right there, scooping it up like he knew the play before it started.
Bishy flicks it toward me, and I catch it clean. No hesitation.
I accelerate. The ice tries to drag me down, but I cut through, carving around the Blades’ forward like he’s standing still.
I snap the puck cross-ice. Peters grabs it and doesn’t think twice, he launches it toward the net.
It hits something, pad, shin, doesn’t matter. Rebounds loose.
Jett’s already there.
He spins. Unloads.
“brRRROOONNNK!”
Crowd lifts off like a damn jet engine.
1–1.
They hit back. Second third.
We barely reset before they blitz again.
McAvoy gets bowled over in the crease, no call, while the puck squirts loose and one of their wingers punches it in under him.
“brRRROOONNNK!”
1–2.
Thirty seconds later, their captain catches our D mid-switch and screams down the boards and smacks the puck like lightning.
Top shelf.
“brRRROOONNNK!”
1–3.
“FUCK IT.” I nearly snap my stick, slicing it on the ice.
The arena sours. Chants turn to growls. Boos spill from the stands like a wave, fast and mean.
The ref skates off like he didn’t just gift-wrap that goal.
Whistle. End of the second.
We drag ourselves to the bench. Breathless. Sweaty. Furious.
McCullum doesn’t even wait for the tunnel. He storms down to us, yanks his clipboard out, and jabs a finger into the dry-erase board like it insulted his mother.
“Alright, shut up and listen. You’re giving them too much room at the blue line. Press higher. They’re not faster than you, they’re just smarter right now.”
Bishy breathes hard next to me, his helmet tipped back and red-faced.
“They’re baiting us wide,” Danny cuts in, wiping sweat off his brow with a wrist. “Pull the trap inside. Stack the slot and collapse fast. They can’t get rebounds if they never reach the crease.”
“We’re not getting bullied in our own barn,” McCullum snarls. “You wanna cry about missed calls or play like your paycheck’s on the goddamn line?”
“I vote paycheck,” Brody spits, his eyes blazing.
“Then start acting like it.”
I step forward, chest heaving. “COME ON!” I roar over the crowd. “Remember what we said—THIS IS FOR THUMPER!”
Sticks bang against the boards.
The noise is deafening.
We push back out. Third period.
The cold hits like a slap. The noise swells again. The fans are back in it, clawing for a reason to believe.
We don’t wait.
Four minutes in, Brody gets wrecked along the boards. It’s blatant. Stick to the ribs, elbow to the jaw, crumples him right to the ice.
No call.
“Jesus Christ. What are you blind?” I skate toward the ref, shouting.
Nothing. He glides away, uninterested.
Brody’s already up. Furious. Bleeding from his lip, eyes locked forward like a guided missile.
He tracks the puck and steals it clean with one swipe. No hesitation.
He weaves through one. Then another. D-man tries to block, but Brody juts left, slashing through the middle.
Snap.
That puck rips off his stick like a shot out of a cannon.
Straight through their goalie’s five-hole.
“brRRROOONNNK!”
2–3.
The place ignites.
The crowd’s stomping, screaming, and banners shake from the rafters.
We’ve got them nervous now.
McCullum signals—Peters off, Merce on.
Merce jumps the boards, calm as ever.
Jett wins a faceoff. Peters banks it off the glass. I chase it deep, pressure their D. He panics. Coughs it up.
Jett grabs it, drives to the crease.
Bodies crash and sticks scramble, there’s chaos in front of the net.
He finds daylight.
Goal.
“brRRROOONNNK!”
3–3.
Silver State Arena becomes unglued.
Merce taps out. Peters returns.
He hits the ice hard, eyes locked in, jaw set.
One minute left.
I breathe deeply, and my eyes scan the ice.
There—Bishy, just past the top of the circle.
I thread the puck between two defenders.
Bishy catches it mid-stride. Doesn’t slow.
He leans in and rips it like he means it.
Time slows.
The puck screams through the air, skimming past the glove like it knows exactly where it’s going.
Net.
The horn sounds. “brRRROOONNNK!”
The place blows up.
We don’t wait.
We hit the ice like we just broke out of prison, helmets smacking, gloves flying, and fists hammering each other’s pads.
4–3.
Victory.
***
Here we all are in the Bud Light Lounge at the Silver State Arena.
My ribs feel like someone took a crowbar to them. My neck’s stiff. There's a welt forming on my thigh the size of a grapefruit. And I’d play that game all over again tomorrow.
First win as captain, and I’m still breathing. Barely.
Riley’s all over Jett, one hand on his arm, the other tracing the logo on his shirt like she’s never seen letters before. Poor guy just looks like he wants to run for the hills.
Brody’s in an animated conversation with Mariana about God knows what.
Peters and McAvoy are wrestling on the floor near the jukebox, laughing and swearing and somehow spilling three drinks at once.
Bishy’s got a pitcher of Beer tilted like it’s a solo cup. Valerie is next to him, tapping his shoulder. He doesn’t notice. She looks like she’s either going to dump beer on his head or drag him to a corner and make out with him. Maybe both.
Total chaos. Total Aces.
And I’ve got Cassy in my arms.
She’s leaning into me, her cheek pressed against my chest, and we’re swaying to some slow, old rock song I don’t even recognize. It doesn’t matter.
Her fingers curl around my shirt, dragging just a little. Her hips shift against mine in a way that has no business being legal in public.
So, with an erection in my pants aching more by the second, I smile at her, one I only give when I’m up to something.
I tilt her chin up, kiss her once, just long enough to make her lips part. Then I murmur low into her ear, “You want to get out of here? If you want, I’ll show you the locker room.”
She doesn’t even flinch. Her eyes burn, dark and mischievous. “Great chat-up line, Mitchell. But only if you promise to rip my clothes off when we get there.”
I laugh, sharp, rough, thrilled. “Your wish is my command, babe.”
I grab her hand and we bolt for the door.