Chapter Eighteen
KAYDEN
Game Day.
Today wasn’t another game. It was an audition for the rest of my life.
After NHL scouts had come to practice, everyone was on high alert.
Some of us were preparing for the next step, while others still had a few years to go, and a few who played it for fun.
As a hobby. This wasn’t a hobby for me, though.
It was ingrained into my brain from a very young age that hockey was everything.
While Dad himself wasn’t a hockey player, he was borderline obsessed with the game, which meant he was obsessed with making sure I did everything I was supposed to.
I gripped the stick, my knuckles turning white, trying to block out the noise and my loud thoughts. I didn't have room in my head for anything else. Not right now.
"Don't choke out there," a voice sneered from behind me.
Garcia was back at it, making sure he irritated me everywhere he went.
He thought he was good enough to take my spot; while he was good, but not the best. It didn’t help that his need to outdo everyone didn’t exactly scream teamwork.
So when it was between him and me for the starting position, Coach picked me.
If I were to be drafted, he’d be next up, unless someone transfers in and is better.
Or has a better attitude. Ever since our blowout at the house party, he’d been on my every move.
Making sure I fucked up so he could take my spot.
He was waiting for the right time and then he would swoop in, like a fucking knight.
He thought I was slacking, that because my life looked messy from the outside, I was throwing away the responsibilities of the "C" on my chest. He didn't know a damn thing. He didn't know that every second I was away from the rink was spent trying to keep my world from imploding.
My jaw clenched, but I didn’t say a word. He’s not worth it.
The blinding arena lights hit me first, followed by the deafening explosion of the student section.
I skated out onto the ice, my blades digging into the surface as I did a standard warm-up lap.
My eyes automatically tracked up to the glass by the player benches, looking for the telltale long coats and clipboards of the scouts. There they are.
I took a deep breath, letting the stress of everything around me fade away. Focus Kayden. Get your mind on track; don’t worry about anything else.
The referee blew his whistle, calling the centers to the dot for the opening faceoff.
The moment the puck hit the ice, the game erupted into violence.
I didn't win the draw cleanly. The opposing center hacked at my stick, the blades clashing with a crack that rattled up my forearms. I threw my hip into my opponent’s chest, physically pinning him back while Broadie, my left winger, anticipated the bounce.
He lunged forward, sweeping the loose rubber back to Dylan, our defenseman at the blue line.
"Cycle it! Cycle it!" Coach screamed from the bench.
I broke away from the dot, digging my blades into the chopped-up ice as I headed straight for the dirty areas in front of the other team’s net.
My job was to create a screen, to be an absolute nuisance to their goaltender.
Instantly, a two-hundred-pound defenseman slammed his forearm into the small of my back, trying to clear me out.
Fuck, that hurt. I anchored my weight, absorbing the blow, my eyes tracking the puck as Dylan passed it back and forth along the blue line, looking for a lane.
The crowd’s roar reached a deafening screech as he unleashed a heavy slapshot. The puck went screaming through the air, a black blur cutting through a sea of bodies. It slammed hard against the goalie’s chest with a thud.
The first two periods had been an absolute bloodbath, and by the time we marched back into the locker room, the walls were dripping with condensation and exhaustion. We were down 2-1. The guys slumped on the benches, chests heaving, staring at the rubber floor mats like we’d already lost.
Coach didn't speak right away. He let the silence stretch, the hum of the arena above us vibrating through the concrete ceiling. Then, he slammed his clipboard against the whiteboard. The sharp crack made the room jump.
"Look at yourselves," he barked, his eyes pacing the perimeter of the room, locking onto every single one of us. "You’re skating like you've got lead in your pants. You’re letting them dictate the physical pace of this game, and they’re chipping away at us because you’re afraid to take control.”
He stopped right in front of me, his shadow looming over my stall.
"Twelve NHL scouts are sitting out there right now with their pens out," his voice dropped to a dangerously low level, letting us know how serious he was.
“They didn't fly out here to watch a bunch of guys play cautious, scared hockey.
They came to see who wants it. They came to see who commands the ice when there is no hope. "
He looked away from me, his gaze sweeping the rest of the roster.
"Forty minutes of sloppy execution is behind us. It’s gone.
You have about twenty minutes left to decide if you're a championship team or a bunch of individual stat-chasers. I don’t care if your legs are burning.
I don’t care if you're bleeding. When you walk back through that tunnel, you finish every check. You suffocate their defense, and play like today is your last day.”
He pointed a rigid finger at the exit doors. "We go out there, we tie it up, and we take back what's ours."
The coaches walked out, the heavy door clicking shut behind them. I stood up immediately, the skates making me tower over the room as I slung my stick over my shoulder.
"You heard him," I said, my voice echoing off the metal lockers. "No more giving them space. If you see white jerseys, put them through the glass. Let’s go."
We were quickly back in the game, ignoring the crowd around us, including the scouts. We were focused; we were one.
"Loose puck!" Kellan yelled, and I lunged forward.
The defenseman threw his entire weight into my shoulder, trying to ride me off the play.
We collided heavily, the impact rattling my teeth inside my cage.
I dug the edge of my steel blades into the ice, refusing to move.
I hacked my stick down, lifting his out of the way, as the opposing winger slid in to clear the zone.
My blade found the rubber first. With a brutal, short flick of my wrists, I whipped the puck toward the top corner of the net before the goalie could reset his feet. It snuck right under the crossbar, tearing into the twine as the red light flashed behind the glass.
The arena exploded. My teammates swarmed me, burying me against the boards in a flurry of gloves and helmets, but my chest was heaving so hard I could barely breathe.
One hell of a game.