Chapter 11
KNOX
Opening night always brings a kind of frenetic energy, and tonight is no exception. The locker room hums with excitement, and I close my eyes, soaking it in. A new season is a blank slate with the potential for a playoff run and, ultimately, a chance to vie for the Cup.
But it’s way too early to be thinking about the playoffs.
Right now, we just need a win. One win that we can string into two. Two wins we can leverage for momentum.
This early in the season, it’s all about building confidence, on the team and in the stands.
We’re playing the Hurricanes tonight. They’re a good team, and our division rivals, so pulling off a win would be huge.
The door of the locker room swings open, and the roar of the crowd drifts in. It’s just what I need to get my blood pumping. To remind me why I love the game—and all its idiosyncrasies—so much.
Hockey players are known for being superstitious, and this team is no exception. All around me, guys are locked into their pregame rituals.
On my left, Smitty sits with his eyes closed and his headphones on. The volume is so loud, I can pick out the guitar riff from Welcome to the Jungle. He’s completely in the zone, his entire body rocking to the beat of the music.
To my right, D-Vo is taping his stick, and there’s a good chance he’ll do it again before he takes the ice. The guy goes through more tape than anyone I know, but I can’t fault him for being a perfectionist.
The newest member of our team, Kristiansen, sits in front of his stall with his hands braced on his knees.
At first, I think he’s talking to one of the guys, but no, he’s whispering something to himself.
Probably a mantra or affirmations. Lots of guys do it, but I wouldn’t have pegged the bruiser as being the type.
Bouchard, however, is. Our goalie’s completed his extensive meditation and has moved onto juggling.
Tennis balls fly through the air in a circular pattern I couldn’t match on my best day.
He’s got quick hands, and we’re going to need them tonight.
Carolina was hot in the preseason and in a matter of minutes, he’ll be facing down eighty-mile-per-hour snappers.
McGinnis is, as usual, running his mouth, chirping everyone who passes by his stall.
“I was aiming for a hat trick tonight, but then I thought, why not make it four?” He catches my eye and smirks. “That’s the record for a rookie debut, right? What do you think, Cap?”
“The record is five, wiseass.” I shoot him a dark look. “And I think you’ll be riding the bench if you don’t lock the fuck in.”
The room erupts in laughter, and McGinnis flips me off with his typical zero fucks given grin.
Must be nice.
I shake my head and turn back to my stall, gaze landing on the torn photo strip lying on the shelf. There are only two images, but I’ve carried them with me for the last five years. In both of them, Ava and I are kissing.
It’s hard to make out her features since her face is in profile, but there’s no mistaking her beauty.
I reach out and tap the photos with my index finger. Once. Twice. It’s the same ritual I’ve done before every NHL game I’ve played.
The long-standing tradition started by accident.
I’d been dressing for my debut in San Jose, nerves damn near eating me alive, when the photo strip fell out of my wallet.
I’d forgotten it was there, a keepsake from a night I couldn’t stop thinking about.
The instant I picked it up—the instant I saw Tink’s gorgeous smile—something in my chest loosened.
Just the sight of her, and the memories of that carefree night, relaxed me.
That night, I played a near-perfect game, with two goals and an assist.
After that, the photo strip became my good luck charm. I pull it out before every game and tap it twice, just like the first time.
The guys all know about the tradition. They’ve seen me do it a hundred times—and chirped me twice as often.
What they don’t know is that she’s the reason I have a flamingo tattooed on my ass.
And they sure as hell don’t know she’s the same woman who walked into our practice facility yesterday as the team’s new mental performance coach.
“Still tapping the mystery woman?”
I glance over to see Dvorak watching me, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. D-Vo and I go way back. I billeted with his family when we were teenagers, and he’s the closest thing I have to a brother. He’s also the only person on this team, aside from Coach, who can read me.
“Don’t start,” I mutter, reaching for my helmet.
“I’m just saying, that thing’s going to wear out long before you retire.” He nods toward the photo strip. “What are you going to do then? Frame it? Laminate it? Get it tattooed on your other ass cheek?”
I snort. “Fuck off, D-Vo.”
He laughs, but then his expression shifts. His eyes narrow, and he leans in closer, squinting at the photos. “Wait a second. Is that—”
My chest tightens. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
“Holy shit.” His voice drops to a whisper, but his eyes are wide with shock. “Is that Ava? Is Coach’s daughter the woman you’ve been—”
“Shh!” I grab his arm and pull him close, my voice low. “Keep it down.”
D-Vo glances around the locker room, but no one’s paying attention to us. McGinnis is still running his mouth, and the rest of the guys are too focused on their own routines to notice.
Still, my heart is pounding like I just skated a full shift.
“Are you serious right now?” D-Vo hisses. “You’ve been carrying around a picture of her for five years?”
“I didn’t know who she was,” I say through gritted teeth. “Not until a few days ago.”
“Jesus Christ, Knox.” He runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “Does Coach know?”
“No. And it needs to stay that way.” I meet his eyes, my voice firm. “You can’t tell anyone, Luke. I mean it.”
He stares at me for a long moment, and I can see the wheels turning in his head. The fact that I used his first name is about as serious as it gets.
Finally, he nods. “I won’t say anything. But you know this is completely unhinged, right?”
“Yeah.” I turn back to my stall. “I’m well aware.”
D-Vo claps me on the shoulder, and relief flickers in my chest.
If there’s anyone I can trust with this, it’s him. He’s been there for me through everything—losing my parents, the dark days that followed, the climb back to something resembling normal life.
He’s not going to screw me over now.
Still, the weight of the secret sits heavy in my chest.
I haven’t talked to Ava since Sunday night, unless you count team building activities, which I don’t. She’s been avoiding me, and I’ve been giving her space because I don’t know what else to do.
The problem is that I miss her. I miss the sound of her laugh, the press of her lips, and the way she makes me feel like I’m more than just a hockey player.
This isn’t the time, asshole.
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to clear my thoughts. After months of living with facial hair, it feels unnatural to find only smooth skin, but there’s no way I’d take the ice without a fresh shave. It would be bad luck.
What can I say? Hockey players are superstitious motherfuckers.
The door to the locker room swings open, and Coach Carlyle steps inside. The room falls silent, and we all turn our attention his way. He’s wearing his game-day suit—I swear to god the man only has one—and his expression is calm but focused.
“Alright, boys.” His deep voice carries easily through the space. “I’m going to keep this short. What happened last season doesn’t matter. Preseason doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is what happens out there tonight.”
He jabs a finger toward the rink, letting his words sink in.
“This is a fresh start. We’re a new team and this is a new season.
I want you to go out there and play the kind of hockey I know you’re capable of playing.
Fast. Smart. Clean.” His gaze sweeps over the room, landing on each of us in turn.
“You’ve put in the work, and you’ve got the talent.
Now it’s time to show Gliders Nation what this team is made of. ”
There’s a chorus of agreement, sticks tapping against the floor in a rhythmic beat.
“Let’s go out there and kick some Canes ass,” Coach bellows.
The room erupts, the guys’ shouts and cheers blending into a cacophony of pregame confidence. I stand and pull on my helmet, the familiar surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
This moment right here. This is why I’ve always loved hockey.
The rush is unlike anything else in the world, matched only by sex.
I glance at the photo strip one more time, my fingers brushing over the images.
Focus, St. James. When you step onto that ice, there’s only the game.
Hockey has always been my escape. It’s the one place where the world falls away and all that matters is the ice, the puck, and the next play. I’ve built my life around the game, and I can’t let anything—even Ava—derail my focus.
Not when I’ve got so many people counting on me to deliver a winning season.
But as I lead the team out of the locker room, I can’t help but wonder if she’s here. If she’s in the stands watching, thinking about me like I’m thinking about her.
It doesn’t matter. It can’t. Not right now, anyway.
I need to lock in if we’re going to have any chance of winning tonight.
Coach is counting on me. My teammates are counting on me. And so are the 18,000 screaming fans who showed up to support their hometown team.
It’s a lot of fucking pressure, but I have broad shoulders.
The players’ tunnel is loud and cold, and the sounds of the crowd echo off the concrete walls as we pass through.
A couple of the guys tap the Gliders mural painted on the wall and there are a few rowdy cries of “Let’s fucking go!
” and then we’re at the edge of the ice, huddling up as we wait for the announcer to welcome us.
His voice booms through the arena. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your Atlanta Gliders!”
The lights flash and music blares through the arena as McGinnis’s name is called.
He steps onto the ice to take his rookie lap, and for the first time, his smile is genuine.
The kid may be a pain in the ass, but it’s tradition for rookies to take the first lap solo at their NHL debut, and he’s earned this moment.
When my name is called, I bolt onto the ice.
The cold air hits my face, and I grin as I skate out to center ice, the deafening sound of the cheering crowd echoing through the arena.
Win or lose, this is where I belong.
We go through the usual pre-game motions, and after the national anthem plays, Chippy skates down the line, fist bumping the team with his big furry mitts.
When I finally square up with the Hurricanes’ captain, my adrenaline is pumping.
“How’s it feel to be the worst team in the league?” he chirps. “Huh, St. James?”
I snort, keeping my eyes locked on the ref’s puck hand. “Does your coach know you’re out here?”
The puck drops, and I’m moving before it even hits the ice. The Hurricanes’ center is fast, but I’m faster.
Instead of snapping the puck back to Forey, I push it forward, sliding it right between my opponent’s legs to win the face-off.
I’m around him in an instant. I pass the puck to D-Vo and take off down the ice, skating hard. He flips it back to me as I cross the blue line into the attack zone. My world narrows to the puck, the net, and the goalie.
Our eyes lock, and I shoot.
He lunges, but the biscuit sails right past his glove and into the basket.
Goal!
Pride fills my chest as the arena erupts, and I drop into a kneeling fist pump. My teammates swarm me as I come up, gloves knocking mine and patting me on the helmet.
“Captain Clutch does it again!” Forey says, giving me a light shove.
The excitement is palpable, and though most of their cheers are drowned out by the crowd, I grin, adrenaline singing through my veins. This is it. This is the start we need.
It’s the first step to building confidence within the team.
Unfortunately, the high doesn’t last.
The Canes come back hard, and our defense is slow to react.
It doesn’t help that McGinnis is showing off, trying to dangle through the defenders instead of making smart plays. The Canes are taking cheap shots at him, and Kristiansen—who’s supposed to be keeping the pressure off the kid—isn’t doing a damn thing to discourage it.
“Ginny, stop fucking around!” I shout as he skates past the bench. The kid is on the second line, but he’s playing like it’s his first day, which, technically, it is. “Play smart!”
He ignores me, and I grit my teeth.
Our defense is sloppy, leaving Bouchard exposed. He’s scrambling, saving shots that never should have been allowed. His frustration shows in the hard set of his shoulders and the way he holds his stick, and I don’t blame him. He has every right to be pissed.
“Wake the fuck up!” Bouchard roars at the defenders. “I’m under siege!”
When I’m back on the ice, I skate harder, trying to pick up the slack, but it’s not enough. The Canes are beating us in the corners, and every shot they take is wearing Bouchard down.
At the end of the first period, they score on the breakaway.
They score again early in the second period, and suddenly, we’re down 2-1.
The pressure is on, and if we don’t pull it together, we’re going to lose the damn game.
I try to focus on the basics—winning face-offs, clean passes, accurate shots—but it’s impossible to ignore the nagging voice in my head that says we’re already fucked.
Focus, St. James. The game isn’t over yet.
We’ve come back from worse. We can still win this game. But every time I look at the bench, every time I see Coach’s face, I’m reminded of everything I have to lose.
We tie it up late in the second period with a goal by Ginny, but the Canes score again in the third, and no matter how hard we rally, we can’t close the gap.
The buzzer sounds and the final score glows on the jumbotron: 2-3.
Another fucking loss.
I drift to center ice, chest heaving, and unstrap my helmet. All around us, fans exit the arena, heads down, energy sapped.
We let them down tonight.
Fuck, we let ourselves down.
My teammates head for the tunnel, and I join them, silently cursing my performance.
I had a wide shot in the second period that should’ve been a goal. And one in the third where I went high when I should’ve gone low.
This loss is on me. I should have done more. Played better.
That’s what good captains do. They find ways to win, even when it’s tough.
The weight of the loss settles over me, and for the first time in a long time, hockey doesn’t feel like an escape.