12. Hudson
HUDSON
The locker room is absolute chaos.
It’s loud and humid, filled with adrenaline, sweat, and the sharp thrill of winning.
Guys yell over each other as music blasts from busted speakers. Towels snap, and gear clatters against the benches.
Someone pops champagne like we just won the Stanley Cup, even though it’s only a regular-season game.
“Shutout, baby!”
“Forty-five saves? What the hell was that?”
“Cross isn’t human!”
Half the team is already talking about getting blackout drunk. The rest argue about which bar to go to first and brag about how much pussy they plan to destroy before sunrise.
I tune out the noise and quietly take off my gear, peeling off sweat-soaked layers. My muscles ache in that deep, satisfying way that means I did my job.
Usually.
Tonight, it just feels hollow.
The showers are blessedly empty when I finally step into them.
Hot water runs over my neck and shoulders, steam filling the air, but it doesn’t make a difference.
Nothing clears my head anymore.
We won in a shutout.
I stopped forty-five shots.
More than the Olympic gold medal game in Milan.
Club record.
Tomorrow, every sports network will show the highlights, and analysts will talk about how focused I seemed tonight.
Meanwhile, all I can think about is Eva Sorenson.
By the time I get back to my locker with a towel around my waist, the noise has doubled.
The guys are still riding the high, replaying each goal as if they want to hold on to the moment before reality comes back.
Ari Stoltz is at the center of it.
The kid’s got that kind of gravity.
Fresh face, fast hands, no hesitation.
He plays like he has nothing to lose, and maybe that’s true. He’s on a rookie contract, finally getting his first real shot with big expectations.
And tonight he delivered.
Hat trick.
Three filthy goals.
He grins like he just got everything he ever wanted.
“Man, that third one?” someone says. “Disgusting.”
“Did you see the angle on that?”
“I didn’t even think that was going in.”
Ari laughs, running a hand through his damp hair. “I saw it.”
Of course he did.
I watch him for a second longer than I probably should.
He’s a great player. He’s quick, focused, and determined to win.
That kind of hunger makes the rest of us change our game for him.
This team’s been drowning in bullshit for years.
Owned by the mafia.
Rumor is, the people pulling the strings behind the Reapers are our captain’s in-laws. They pay off refs, pressure the coach into shitty decisions, and mess with us so the bets pay out, and they get their pockets filled.
After long enough, that kind of rot gets into everything.
But lately, things are shifting.
Nikolai Ivanov looks more and more like a guy who’s getting tired of throwing games just to make rich criminals richer.
Beyond that, we’ve got a few younger players who are still innocent of all the nonsense.
Or as innocent as anyone lasts around here.
Losing Max Knight last year should’ve buried us offensively.
Instead, management ended up drafting Ari Stoltz by accident, a rookie who has no clue how messed up this place really is.
Tonight, he crushed Columbus and got the whole bench fired up.
I think tonight gave everyone hope that if we keep winning, we might make the playoffs. Maybe even go for the Cup.
Young guys like Ari will do that for a team.
It makes older guys like me wonder if we’re holding the team back.
Rationally, I know that’s bullshit.
I know I’m still a good goalie.
Sometimes a great one.
Forty-five saves tonight prove that.
But hockey isn’t a solo game. There are always five other guys out there with you.
Connor punches me hard in the shoulder, enough that I growl at him, even though he’s wincing and shaking his hand out.
“Man, you are made of fucking steel,” he comments.
“Go the fuck away,” I say.
Connor grins. “Damn, man. You stood on your fucking head out there. Stopped a gazillion shots. You can’t even crack a smile?”
I just ignore him.
He studies me for a second, head tilting slightly.
“You’re unbelievable,” he says, sounding half annoyed, half impressed. “You know, normal people actually enjoy winning, right?”
“I’m not normal.”
Connor snorts.
“Yeah, no shit.”
He lingers another second like he’s debating whether to keep poking at me.
Surprisingly, he decides against it.
“Good game,” he mutters finally, quieter this time, before wandering off to harass somebody else.
I don't answer.
I grab my clothes and get dressed to get the hell out of here as fast as I can.
Around me, the locker room is all adrenaline and celebration.
Across the room, Ari's laughing.
The rookie looks like he's living a dream.
I should be celebrating with them.
Instead, my mind keeps replaying every mistake I made tonight.
Every opening I left.
Every shot that nearly got through.
At some point, hockey stopped feeling like a sports game.
It got tangled up with men like Martin. Violence crept into every part of my life and blurred everything together.
And underneath all of it, she's still there.
Lingering.
The look on her face when she realized I wasn’t going to touch her after all.
I push the thought away and slam my locker shut so hard it rattles the whole row.
A couple of guys glance over.
Nobody says anything.
They’ve learned not to.
I turn and head for the exit.
But it’s never that easy.
Nik reaches out as I pass, his hand landing on my shoulder firm enough to stop me cold.
“What?” I ask, already irritated.
He raises an eyebrow.
“Good game tonight,” he says. “Amazing, really.”
I shrug one shoulder.
“It’s my job.”
“Right.”
But he doesn’t let go immediately.
His gaze lingers on me, thoughtful.
Like he's trying to figure out what's eating at me.
Eventually, he releases my shoulder.
“Have a good night.”
I grunt and keep walking.
The drive back is quiet.
No music this time.
Just the low hum of the engine and the sound of my own thoughts grinding against each other.
I’ve got an apartment near the stadium.
I don’t go there.
Not lately.
Not since we brought her in.
I want to go home.
Drink a beer.
Throw on some meaningless show.
Pretend my life is normal for a few hours.
But I can't.
Not while Eva Sorenson is sitting in that mansion.
So instead of turning toward downtown, I head for the estate.
The property sits back from the road, behind iron gates and enough security cameras to watch a small country.
From the outside, it looks like something out of a magazine.
Expensive.
Polished.
Untouchable.
But it’s all a fucking lie.
Everything inside it is questionable.
I park, kill the engine, and sit there for a second before getting out.
The house feels like it’s holding its breath when I walk in.
Low lights.
Long hallways.
It’s the kind of place where every sound echoes if you let it.
Most of the club guys are out on runs or getting wasted somewhere after the game.
I head straight for the kitchen, stomach growling hard enough to make me irritable.
Lucian’s there when I come through the door.
He’s leaning against the counter, looking at his phone while something cooks in the air fryer.
“What’s up?” I ask.
He startles slightly, looking up like he didn’t hear me come in.
“Oh, Hud. Dude, you played a hell of a game tonight.”
“So I’m told,” I say, opening the fridge and looking inside. “What are you making? I’m starving.”
“Um, pizza bites.”
“Gross,” I say, making a face. “That’s food for teenagers.”
“Delicious food,” Lucian says with a grin. “Seriously, though. You should watch the highlights. You looked like a superhero tonight.”
“Mmm.” I grab a container of grilled chicken from the fridge. “I’m not a hero. You know it.”
The air fryer beeps, and Lucian pulls the basket open, dumping pizza bites onto a plate.
“I was gonna eat these in front of the computer,” he says, “but honestly, I’d rather recap the game with you.”
Lucian never shuts up when he’s excited.
“Did you see that third-period sequence?” he asks, already moving before I can answer. “The rebound off your pad—you kicked it out like this?—”
He acts out the whole thing, nearly clipping a chair with his leg.
“And then you tracked it again instantly. It was insane.”
I lean back against the counter and watch him.
He’s full of energy, waving his hands like he’s still watching the game live.
I don’t remember it that way.
I remember being busy.
Focused.
Most of the saves felt routine in the moment.
Positioning.
Angles.
Instinct.
A few were probably better than I realized.
I’ll have to see them on film to know what really happened.
“I’m pissed I wasn’t there in person,” Lucian says once he finally runs out of breath. “That had to be insane live.”
“You know I can get you tickets anytime, right?” I say. “Bring your friends or whatever.”
“I know.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and he doesn’t have to.
Tonight was an anomaly.
Most Reapers games aren’t worth watching. We lose too much. Nobody wants to drive downtown to see the team shit the bed.
Honestly, half the time I don’t want to be there either.
“The guys were pretty fired up after the win,” I say.
“Yeah, well.” Lucian shrugs, grabbing one of the pizza bites before it’s cooled off. “It felt different tonight.”
I glance at him.
“Different how?”
“Like…” He tries to find the words. “Like all the talent actually mattered for once. Like you guys really gave a shit.”
I wince at the comment. “I gave a shit?”
It sounds childish. There’s no reason to snap at a nineteen-year-old who doesn’t know what the Reapers are really about. He just knows his older brother got shelled last week, then came back tonight and played out of his mind.
He’s proud of me.
“Sometimes hockey is still fun,” I admit, letting myself be honest for a second. I only talk like this with him. Lucian’s the only person who makes me want to be better.
The microwave dings.
I grab the plate, shove a fork into it, and start eating before it’s even cooled.
We eat, and he asks more questions about the night. I realize everything happened fast, and I don’t remember much.
Lucian watches me for a second, then shrugs and goes back to his pizza bites.
We sit there quietly for a minute.
Two brothers.
Same space.
But we live in completely different worlds.
I rinse off my plate and put it in the dishwasher.
“Is Martin around?” I ask.
Lucian glances toward the hallway automatically before answering.
“Office, probably.”
A beat.
“Donnelly was looking for you earlier.”
I dry my hands on a dish towel. “Why?”
Lucian shrugs. “Some guys were arguing about a shipment route.” He almost smiles. “Apparently, nobody wanted to decide until you gave your opinion.”
I scoff.
“Martin is the boss.”
“Yeah,” Lucian says carefully. “Officially.”
The way he says it makes my jaw clench.
I ruffle his hair on the way past, earning an annoyed look before heading down the hall.
I find Martin in his office.
The room is mostly dark except for the soft glow of a desk lamp while he looks over paperwork, reading glasses low on his nose.
The way he looks like this could fool anyone.
Just an older guy working late, not the head of a criminal organization.
Not a man responsible for enough violence to drown a city.
But everybody in this club understands the truth.
Martin gives orders.
I finish them.
He looks up when I walk in.
“Hudson.”
His tone is warm.
“Hell of a game tonight,” he says. “Looks like you finally showed up for work.”
His eyes stay on me a second too long.
Measuring.
The compliment feels wrong, and I can’t help but curl my lip.
“I’m tired of talking about it,” I mutter. “Lucian already replayed the game for me over dinner.”
“He looks up to you. It hurts him when you’re not at your best.”
“Well, I stopped forty-five shots tonight.” I lean against the doorframe. “Helly got a Medal of Freedom for fewer than that.”
Martin lets out a dry laugh, unamused.
“Did you decide what to do with the Sorenson woman?” I ask, ready to change the subject.
Martin’s smile shifts slightly.
Amused now.
He takes a slow sip of his drink and doesn’t answer.
My patience starts thinning.
“Well?”
He chuckles under his breath.
“I have something else for you,” he says, ignoring the question completely.
I go still.
“What?”
“A job.”
“Tonight?” I ask. I’m so tired. I should have gone to my own place.
“No,” he says. “In a couple of days. I need you to escort a special delivery over state lines.”
“Special delivery?”
“It’s an important one,” Martin says. “We need more muscle for it.”
He studies me.
“You’re off later this week, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Shouldn’t take long.”
Right away, something about it feels off.
“Fine,” I say.
But I don’t leave.
“What about her?” I ask again.
Martin’s gaze lifts back to mine.
There’s something in his eyes I don’t like.
Something satisfied.
“She’s being handled,” he says.
That’s all.
He looks back down at the paperwork in front of him, and I know I’ve been dismissed.
I sigh, annoyed, and head back out.
Special delivery.
Extra muscle.
What the fuck does that even mean?
And why wouldn’t Martin answer me about Eva?
I should let it go.
Because whatever Martin’s doing with her isn’t my business anymore.
That should make things easier.
Somehow it doesn’t.
Frustrated, I shove open my bedroom door and throw myself onto the bed without bothering to change clothes.
I’m exhausted.
I should be asleep instantly.
Instead, I stare at the ceiling while my brain keeps circling the same thoughts.
She’s a job.
That’s all.
So why the fuck does it bother me that Martin’s the one touching her instead of me?
I sit up, drag both hands over my face, then drop back onto the mattress again.
Sleep never comes.