Chapter 30 Knox
KNOX
The locker room feels…off.
I can’t put my finger on exactly what it is though. Maybe it’s the way Bouchard—who’s a pro juggler—keeps dropping his balls. Or maybe it’s because Cunningham, the most laid-back guy on the team, just snapped at Mac for accidentally tripping over his gear.
Or maybe it’s the empty stall where Davis should be.
“Where the hell is he?” Coach barks into his phone. Tension radiates from him in waves as he paces near the door, face flushed, jaw tight. “I don’t care if you have to put out a BOLO, just find him and tell him to get his ass to the arena.”
He ends the call and stuffs the phone into his pocket.
“Davis is a scratch,” he announces, voice clipped. “Lindy, you’re taking his spot on the fourth line.”
Lindholm nods, face stoic. Normally he’d be thrilled to make the lineup, but not tonight. Not like this.
Something’s wrong, and every guy in this locker room knows it.
We’re pros. We don’t just skip games. Even if Davis is sick, he wouldn’t just go radio silent.
Coach storms out, muttering about last-minute lineup changes and the goddamn league rules, leaving us in a silence so thick I could cut it with my skate blade.
I glance around the room, doing a pulse check. Hardy’s staring at the ceiling as if it holds the secrets to the universe, and Patterson’s lacing his skates up for the third time. Even McGinnis, who never shuts up, is quiet.
My gut hardens. If we carry this energy onto the ice, we’re fucked.
D-Vo nudges my arm and jerks his chin toward the door. I follow him into the hall, grateful for the excuse to move.
The second we’re alone, he turns to me, hands braced on his hips. “Do you know what’s going on with Davis?”
“No.” The word is bitter on my tongue. “You?”
He shakes his head. “Dude’s been quiet the last few weeks, but I figured he was just…I don’t know. Going through something.”
Guilt slams into me like a pissed off D-man.
Davis has been quiet. Withdrawn. Hell, I can’t even remember the last time he was active in the group chat.
I was so wrapped up in my own shit—sneaking around with Ava, hiding from Coach, obsessing over every stolen moment—that I didn’t think too much about it.
That was a mistake.
A big fucking mistake, the kind a team captain can’t afford to make.
“Dammit.” I scrub a hand over my face, wishing I could go back in time.
“Hey.” D-Vo claps me on the shoulder. “This isn’t your fault. You can’t fix whatever’s going on with Davis, but you can rally the team. They need you, Cap.”
He’s right. There’s nothing I can do about Davis right now, but I can make sure the rest of the team doesn’t spiral.
I take a fortifying breath, square my shoulders, and head back into the locker room. D-Vo follows.
The guys look up when we walk in, and it’s a gut punch to see the uncertainty in their eyes. To know that this time, it’s not driven by the game, but by the fear that something terrible has happened to one of our own.
“Listen up,” I say, my voice cutting through the tension. “I know you’re all worried about Davis. I am too. But right now, we’ve got a job to do.”
I meet each of their gazes, one by one.
“We need to focus on the game and leave everything else in the locker room. We’re not going to let the Flyers embarrass us on our home ice. Not tonight.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then Hardy nods. Boosh taps his stick against the bench, and Fontaine joins in. The quiet, rhythmic tapping grows as one by one the rest of the team follows suit.
“Let’s fucking go,” McGinnis says, leaping to his feet.
The energy in the room shifts.
It’s not the electric buzz we usually bring to the ice, but it’s enough.
We make our way to the tunnel. The sounds of the crowd grow louder with each step, the low rumble of anticipation filling the Treehouse like never before.
The announcer’s voice booms through the arena. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your Atlanta Gliders!”
An attendant opens the dasher door, and just as I’m about to step onto the ice, the lights go out.
The crowd gasps, and for a second, everything is pitch black.
Then blue lights start racing around the upper level of the arena, drawing all eyes skyward. A rock anthem I don’t recognize blasts through the speakers, and flames shoot up in all four corners of the rink.
What the hell?
I watch in disbelief as Chippy ziplines down from the ceiling at the far end of the arena. He glides through the air, arms spread wide like he’s fucking Superman.
Or, well, a flying squirrel.
He lands near our entrance, his new bandit mask on full display, and the crowd loses it.
Chippy takes a victory lap, pumping his fists and waving to the fans. Then the jumbotron lights up, and we all watch as he tiptoes up to the Flyers’ empty bench with large, cartoonish steps.
He turns to the crowd, covering his mouth to signal an exaggerated giggle, and pulls a bottle of spray foam out of his sleeve.
In giant letters, he writes “CRYERS” across the glass closest to the visitors’ bench.
The arena erupts. The noise is deafening, a wall of sound that vibrates through my chest.
And the team? They’re going bonkers too. Rousseau’s doubled over laughing. McGinnis is howling. Even Boosh cracks a grin.
Hardy slaps me on the back, his eyes bright with amusement. “No pressure, Jamesy, but now we have to win.”
Yeah. No pressure at all.
We take the ice, and the energy from the crowd is infectious. They’re on their feet, chanting and cheering, and for the first time tonight, things feel right.
The ref positions himself at center ice, and I skate forward to meet the Flyers’ captain, Nelson.
He’s a smug bastard with a reputation for running his mouth, and tonight is no exception.
“Sending your mascot out to do your dirty work now, St. James?” He sneers. “I always knew you were a little bitch.”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist.” I smirk. “Chippy probably thought the tag would make you feel right at home.”
His eyes narrow. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what it means.” I lean in slightly, my voice low. “Are you really going to make me say it?”
“You don’t have the balls.”
“Maybe not,” I say, my smirk widening. “But at least I don’t need a microscope to find mine.”
His face flushes and when he replies, his voice drops to a hiss. “Fuck you. Go bake a cake, mama’s boy.”
The last part is so quiet I almost miss it.
But that’s the point. When it comes to chirping, family is off-limits. It’s an unspoken rule, and Nelson doesn’t want to be overheard breaking it.
My blood heats, outrage coursing through my veins. I drop into position, my fingers tightening around my stick.
“Alright, gentlemen. Let’s have a clean game,” the ref says, holding the puck out.
No chance. Not with the Flyers in the house.
I should be tracking the puck, but my eyes are locked on Nelson.
“You wanna go?” he hisses, sweat already dripping from his brow. “Let’s fuckin’ go.”
I’ve never been a fighter, but there’s something in the air tonight, and I’ll be damned if he’s going to get away with that chirp.
The puck hits the ice, and we surge forward, gloves and sticks clattering to the ice.
Nelson holds up his fists, but I don’t need to size him up. I’ve already got his number.
I charge straight at him, leading with a right hook. My knuckles crunch against his jaw, and a satisfying jolt of pain races up my arm.
Worth it.
The crowd noise surges when he retaliates with a blow to my ribs. The air rushes from my lungs, but I still manage to land another punch. It glances off his helmet, and Nelson loses his feet.
He spins away from me, but not before I grab a handful of his jersey.
No way am I going to let the prick slip away that easily.
He attempts to punch me in the face, but I duck under his arm. My knee goes down hard on the ice, the impact reverberating through my entire body. I rebound quickly, and when I come up, I find the front collar of his jersey.
Jackpot.
I fist the fabric in my left hand, blocking the worst of his strikes with my biceps.
Nelson’s left side is exposed, and I deliver a series of blows to his face and shoulder that send his helmet flying. My knuckles split and my biceps is on fire, but I don’t let up until he lowers his center of gravity, attempting to take me to the ice.
I can’t let that happen.
The team needs a win, and there’s no way in hell I’m going to let him best me in front of the woman I love.
We wrestle for control, and I’ve almost got him down when the linesmen rush in and pull us apart.
They drag me off Nelson, and I don’t resist as they lead me to the sin bin. McGinnis hands me my gloves as I pass by.
“You better win that face-off,” I tell him, knowing full well Coach will shift him to center while I’m in timeout.
“Don’t worry, Cap. I’ve got this.”
The Treehouse reaches a fever pitch as I approach the box, and I freeze when I realize what they’re shouting.
St. James. St. James. St. James.
They’re cheering for me.
It’s happened before, in San Jose, but never here in Atlanta. The only person—and I use that term loosely—they’ve ever cheered for is Chippy.
Pride warms my chest, and I wave to the crowd, acknowledging the support.
This is exactly what Emerson was talking about. Rabid fans who come for the hockey and stay for the vibes.
At least something is going as planned.
Nelson and I both get five for fighting, and while I’d much rather be on the ice, I need to catch my damn breath.
I grab a towel from the stack at the end of the bench and wipe my face as I settle in to watch the face-off.
The first period is pure chaos. We can’t seem to settle down, and there are a lot of turnovers on both sides. Hardy gets into a shoving match over a questionable hit, but thankfully, it doesn’t progress to a full-blown tilt.
The Flyers are aggressive on the forecheck, applying more pressure than we’ve seen from them in the past, but Boosh comes through, holding the score 0-0.
The second period is a little better, and Chippy spends most of it harassing the visiting team. He’s a total menace, and the fans are eating it up.
Their energy is infectious, and when the Flyers draw a two-minute penalty for slashing, Smitty scores on the power play.
1-0, Gliders.
The Flyers answer the call, tying it up early in the third. We’re throwing everything we’ve got at them, trying to prevent the game from going into OT, but they’re not going down without a fight.
Coach signals a shift change, and I take the ice along with the rest of the first line.
I win the face-off and pass to Bash, but he gets tangled up behind the net. He passes to McGinnis, who takes the shot.
It bounces off the goalie’s skate and gets picked up by the Flyers D.
Fuck.
Ginny drives the defender to the outside, and Bash is right there to cut him off. The giant bruiser smashes the defender against the glass, and Ginny steals the puck.
He resets, passing it to me up top.
The Flyers’ defense has been strong all night, but we have to find a way to score.
Breathing hard, I fake left, drawing the defenseman toward me. He takes the bait, and I snap a wrist shot toward the net. The goalie’s glove shoots up, but the puck deflects off his blocker and bounces into the corner.
McGinnis is there in a heartbeat, battling for possession. The Flyers defender is making him work for it, but he eventually digs the puck out and sends it back to Kristiansen at the point.
The winger winds up for a slap shot, and I crash the net, positioning myself for a rebound.
The shot comes hard and fast, and the goalie makes the save, but he loses the puck. His head snaps left, then right, but I’m already moving, my blade connecting with the rubber before the defenseman can clear it.
The goalie drops, a last-ditch effort to block the shot, but the puck slides between his legs, clearing the red line.
Goal!
The horn blares, and the arena explodes as a fresh wave of adrenaline sluices through my veins.
Ginny and Bash rush me, and I can hardly believe my eyes when Ginny launches himself into the air, leaping into my arms. I catch him, just barely, and set him down on the ice as Bash throws his beefy arms around us, shouting, “That’s how you win games!”
When the final buzzer sounds, the score holds: 2-1, Gliders.
We celebrate on the ice, exhausted but victorious, and when we get back to the locker room, the mood remains electric despite the fact that we’re all exhausted.
Bash blasts his classic rock playlist through a wireless speaker, and McGinnis dances like a fool in the center of the room. I can’t help but laugh as he tries to get me to join him. “That’s a big hell no for me, Ginny.”
“Spoilsport!”
The celebration is just ramping up when Coach calls for our attention.
Bash kills the music, and the room falls silent.
Coach clears his throat. “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”
Every muscle in my body locks up, tension freezing me in place.
Davis.
How could I have forgotten? The instant the game was over, I should have remembered. Should have checked in with Coach.
Hell, I should have tried calling Davis myself. That’s what a good captain would’ve done.
“Ollie Davis was in a car accident early this evening,” Coach says, tone somber. “It was pretty bad.”
Fuck. I knew something was wrong. I should’ve listened to my gut.
And done what? What could you possibly have done to prevent this?
Checked in. Taken him out for a drink. Paid fucking attention to the fact that he was visibly struggling.
In short, I should’ve done something.
“Is he going to make it?” I ask, bracing for the answer.
Coach’s tired eyes meet mine, and a feeling of helplessness settles over me. My skin suddenly feels too tight, my uniform too restrictive. It’s like I can’t fucking breathe, but I know it’s all in my head, a physical manifestation of grief and anger.
“I don’t know.” Coach scrubs a hand over his face. “I don’t have a lot of details, but he’s at Grady. I’m going to head over there as soon as I wrap up here. Anyone who’d like to join me is welcome.”
I’ve been down this road before, and it’s one I’d hoped to never travel again, but I can’t bail on Davis, no matter how much it hurts or what old memories it dredges up.
I need to shower. Message Ava. Get my ass over to Grady.
Because that’s what a good captain—a good teammate—would do, and I’m not going to screw this up again.