Chapter 32
Silas
The second period starts with a shove I’ve been expecting. Their top line decides to test whether my legs got left in the room. They try to stretch us north, lean on our weak side, run a set faceoff play that’s worked on three other teams this preseason.
Not us. I studied this team’s film, memorized what I could, then passed that knowledge along to the guys.
I jump the route before their winger completes his curl and pick off the pass with enough time to look the goalie in the eye from the top of the circle. His huge body fills the net. No shot.
So, I hold, hold, hold, until their center commits to me, then slide it to Colton on the weak side, flat and mean. He rips it. Bar down this time, not out.
The horn goes, and my world cracks open just enough to let in something like relief.
I don’t go to the glass, but my eyes travel just behind the bench. I skate to Colton, tap his helmet with the heel of my glove, and tell him what he already knows: “Best damn play I’ve seen all night.”
He grins around his mouth guard, a baby still, but hungry for more. “Thanks, Cap.”
The next few shifts are work. Nothing special. It’s the kind of minutes we train for. Keep the routes tight. Keep the sticks clean. Keep your mouth shut unless it’s to call a switch or defend our own.
Then it happens. One of their veterans decides he’s tired of being boxed out by me and takes a late run at Rooks instead. Blindsided, Rooks eats the boards and slides down it. I know he’s fine, because he pops up quick, but I see red anyway.
For a breath, the anger and the threat I thought I’d locked away scratch at the door.
Open it, and I hurt someone else. Close it, and I hurt me.
I choose the middle ground. I choose hockey.
On my next shift, I hunt the puck, not the man that I want to take out. When their veteran gets it on his tape near the half wall, I don’t blow him up like I want. I strip the puck from him without so much as a shoulder check.
It’s like the building takes a collective breath as they watch us battle it out. Stick on stick until the puck is gone, and then I’m gone, too, legs pumping and lungs burning. It’s just me, my stick, and the puck.
I cut inside the last defender, fake out the goalie, and tuck it back short side with a flick I haven’t trusted in months.
The place explodes.
I don’t hear my name. I don’t point to anyone.
I don’t even smile. I skate through it, bumping fists past the bench, until I climb the half wall and let my forehead rest on the curved glass for one second.
It’s cold. It’s real, I realize, as my eyes go straight to row six.
Aubrey is on her feet, both arms thrown up, sign forgotten, mouth a perfect O around a scream I can’t hear.
Oakley is laughing, head tipped back, the kind of sound that used to live in my kitchen like a light.
She catches me looking and mouths, That’s my captain.
I don’t deserve the word my. It still hits anyway.
As we head into the third period, we’re leading 2-1. They win the faceoff and try to wear us down by keeping us in their end for two minutes straight. I eat a puck off the knee but don’t feel it until I’m back on the bench. The pain proves I’m here.
Thorn keeps our minutes heavy. He doesn’t ask if we’re good. He assumes, because that’s the job.
I am good. Finally. Not because the anger’s gone, but because I’ve given it a lane and told it to stay between the lines.
With ninety seconds left and an empty net across from me, their coach tries to get clever with a mismatch. I jump over the boards before Thorn calls my name, and he doesn’t stop me. The puck pops free near our blue line, and for a stupid heartbeat, I consider trying to play hero alone.
Instead, I chip it to Rooks and let him cash it, because that’s what he needed after the hit—the reward for staying on his edges when that dude rang his bell.
When the horn finally rings for good, I don’t know if I’ve exhaled in twenty minutes.
We tap gloves. I leave my stick with the trainer, because my hands are shaking and it’s easier to pretend I need to get to the room quick. I cut the corner of the bench and look up once more to row six.
They’re making their way down. Aubrey skips down the steps like they’re a game of their own, one hand in Oakley’s, the other out for balance.
Oakley’s careful on the crutches as she keeps both tucked under one arm.
People move aside for them without being asked.
Who knows if it’s smalltown manners or Voltage loyalty.
“Cap!” Some kid slaps the glass near the tunnel. “Cap! You’re a beast!”
Not tonight. Tonight, I’m a man who finally found a place to put it.
In the locker room, it’s the usual chaos: gloves off, pads tossed, media guy getting swatted away with wet towels. Thorn does the shortest post-game of the year: “Better.” That’s all. We don’t need more.
I strip down to shorts and a T-shirt and sit for a second with my elbows on my knees until the buzzing in my muscles stops. Rooks drops onto the stall next to me, hair stuck up at stupid angles.
“You back?” he asks.
“For now.”
He nods like that’s all either of us can ask.
There’s a knock at the back door of the room before our ops guy sticks his head in. “Family is all on the secure side.”
My chest does that weird jump again. Family. That’s what we’ve made, isn’t it? Me, Aubrey, and Oakley Kate.
I stand, and my legs remind me I’m not twenty. The knee I blocked with is already thinking about swelling. I ignore the throb as I grab a towel and head down the short hall that leads to the little concrete room where the security gate is.
Aubrey barrels into me at a speed that would draw an interference call on the ice. I catch her under the arms and haul her up, pretending her weight is nothing. The grunt that follows earns a snort from Oakley Kate.
“You did it!” Aubrey mumbles into my neck. “You were like—” She pulls back and mimics my goal with sound effects that are ninety percent spit.
“Thanks for the expert analysis, kid.” I drop a kiss on her temple and breathe in the moment. “Where’s your sign?”
She twists to show it tucked under her arm, glitter raining down on my shoulder. “I almost dropped it when you scored, but Kate saved it.” She beams. “She said glitter is forever.”
“Unfortunately,” I say, glancing at Oakley.
She’s close enough now that I can see the tiny smudge of gold near her eyebrow. She smooths a palm down the leg of her jeans like she’s not sure what to do with her hands. When her eyes meet mine, the whole room goes quiet in a way noise can’t touch.
“Nice tuck,” she says, mouth quirking. “Kinda rude of you to undress their goalie like that in front of children.”
A laugh punches out of me before I can stop it. “He’ll live.”
She tilts her head. “How’s your knee?”
I glance down. Of course, she noticed the block. “Sore.”
“Do you want ice when we get home?” she asks, easy, like we’ve said we a thousand times in the last few years instead of a handful of days.
“Yeah,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray how much that word cuts and heals at the same time. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Mm.” She nods like she’s letting me have the illusion that I take care of anything myself. Then her voice drops just enough for only me to hear. “You played angry.”
I open my mouth to deny it. Close it. “I played.”
“That, too.” Her eyes soften. “Felt like you were breathing again.”
I don’t have anything to give back that won’t sound like a confession, so I shift Aubrey to my hip and kiss her hair again to buy a second. “You two eat?”
Aubs lights up. “Hot dogs! And a pretzel. And Dippin’ Dots. Kate says this counts as dinner, because game day is a holiday.”
I raise an eyebrow at Oakley.
“What?” She shrugs, no shame. “I can’t cook with crutches. It’s in the Harrison Survival Guide.”
“Pretty sure it’s not,” I deadpan then cave. “Fine. But I’m making eggs when we get in.”
Aubrey groans like I suggested freeze-dried sardines. “Eggs are gross.”
“Eggs keep you running.”
“I don’t run.”
“They keep you skating, then.”
She considers this. “Scrambled with cheese.”
“Deal.”
Rooks wanders by, sticking a fist out for Aubrey, and she thumps it like she’s been on teams her entire life. He winks at Oakley. “Good to have you two in the building.”
“Fun to watch you actually shoot the puck,” she fires back, and he laughs like he’s been waiting to hear that from someone other than me.
We don’t linger, partly because the room is too crowded, and partly because I can feel the adrenaline crash coming and I don’t want it to happen in public. On the way out, Hannah and Thorn catch us near the player lot.
“You skated like you had something to say,” Thorn tells me, hands in his coat pockets.
“Maybe I did.”
“Say it again next game.” He tips his chin toward Oakley and Aubs. “I spoke with my cousin down at the precinct. They’re running regular patrols in the neighborhood. He’ll call if anything pops up.”
“Thanks.” The word is too small for the shape of what I feel, but it’s what I have.
Hannah squeezes Aubrey’s shoulder. “You were the loudest fan in the building.”
Aubs preens. “I know.”
Oakley’s fingers find mine for half a heartbeat, and then they’re gone, her hand back on the crutch handle. It grounds me more than the ice did.
At home, the quiet is gentler than it’s been in weeks.
I set the alarm and check the doors without pretending I’m not checking them.
Aubrey flops at the counter, and I scramble eggs while Oakley leans on the island, ankles crossed, watching me like she’s making sure I’m actually eating, too.
When we finally begin to unwind, Aubrey brushes her teeth without being asked and mumbles around the toothbrush that she’s “not tired at all.” She’s asleep in under three minutes with the unicorn under her arm.
I stand in her doorway long enough to see the steady rise and fall of her chest under the blanket.
In the living room, Oakley has a blanket dragged over her legs, boot propped on a pillow like her doctor ordered.
There’s still glitter on her cheek, and I can’t stop myself from wiping it away.
I sit on the edge of the coffee table across from her and drop the ice pack on my knee.
The shock makes me hiss through my teeth.
“Baby,” she says softly, the old nickname slipping out before she can catch it. Her eyes flash an apology.
I shake my head. “I like it when you call me that,” I say. “Always have.”
She studies me for a long time. “Where’d you put it?”
“What?”
“The extra weight you’ve been carrying around.”
I know what she means. Anger, fear, grief—pick your poison. I glance toward the window where the porch light throws a soft shadow on the steps then look back to her. “On the forecheck,” I say. “In the corners. In the net. I left it out there as best I could.
Her smile is sad and proud at the same time. “That’s my captain.”
Her words slam me in the solar plexus, same way they did above the glass. I don’t correct her.
I check my phone before I can stop myself. No unknown numbers. No alerts from the cameras, but a text message from Rooker pops up.
Rooks: Better send me that sweet sauce again on Tuesday
Silas: Close your blade, idiot. It wasn’t sauce.
Rooks: *string of middle-finger emojis*
Another text comes in as I’m sliding the phone away.
My Girl: Walked all those stairs for you, and you barely broke a sweat. Thinking maybe you should change that.
I snort and look up at Oakley. She’s pretending she didn’t just text me from six feet away. I reply anyway.
Silas: You got it, Katibug. Don’t freak when you can’t feel your legs.
Her head tips back on the cushion, and she laughs quiet, so she doesn’t wake Aubs. “You played your game,” she says.
“Yeah,” I answer, the word like a breath I finally let out, ice sweating on my knee, their soft sounds filling the house. “I did.”
I don’t know what happens when the night is over and the cameras are just little red dots again. I don’t know when—or if—Brian tries to make good on a threat he can’t back with a court.
I know this: when the world narrowed, I didn’t swing at a ghost. I put my shoulder down and skated through it.
And for tonight, that’s enough.