Chapter Twenty-Six
My first shift is an absolute disaster. I lose a race to a loose puck against a defenseman who moves like he’s underwater with bricks on his feet.
When I finally do gain possession of the puck, I spot Dewey, but my pass—a routine play—sails way past him and ends up an icing.
When I get possession again, I’m too weak on my stick, getting knocked around by forecheckers who shouldn’t be able to touch me.
I skate back to the bench, frustration flooding through me.
What the hell is going on?
I stopped doing the work. That’s what the hell happened.
The moment I felt improvements—the second my body started responding like it used to—I eased off the gas. I abandoned the ballet. Neglected the flexibility work. Stopped doing all the things that rebuilt me.
Now, my body’s just returning the favor, reminding me that maintenance isn’t optional.
But the physical betrayal is nothing compared to the mental chaos.
Bunny Newman’s offer sits in my brain like a growing tumor, getting larger and more obstructive with every shift.
After this game, I’m supposed to make a statement on behalf of the team.
Either I stand with my teammates or betray them and take the deal that saves Claire and protects Petra from the truth.
There’s no clean win here. Every choice means crossing someone.
Late in the third period with under two minutes remaining, the score remains tied in what’s been a grinding war of attrition.
The puck squirts loose in the neutral zone—that black disk of possibility spinning along the ice waiting for someone to claim it.
I dig into reserves I’m not sure exist. My skates finally remember their job, biting through the ice as I chase down the puck with a defender on my back.
For a moment, I think I’m going to lose this battle, that tonight’s theme of inadequacy will continue. But at the last second, I reach out and somehow gather possession of the puck while absorbing a bodycheck a massive defender lays on me.
Dewey’s hopping off the bench, open and flying through center ice. Without thinking, I thread a stretch pass that actually goes where intended. Dewey catches it in stride, the crowd noise escalating from murmur to roar.
I hold my breath as I watch him streak in on a breakaway.
Dewey fakes a forehand shot, then he cradles the puck to his backhand, trying to drag it wide around the netminder who’s already committed to the original fake shot.
For a terrifying second, it looks like Dewey’s overskated it, like the puck’s gotten away, and this beautiful play will die an ugly death.
My heart tries to exit through my throat.
But Dewey—blessed, beautiful Dewey—reaches back at the last possible nanosecond and chips the puck over the goalie’s desperately stretching pad.
The puck finds net. The red light flashes.
The bench erupts. Dewey finds me immediately, grabbing my helmet and shaking me, dislodging my helmet.
“Are you kidding me?! That pass?! That was pure art!”
I laugh, breathless, relieved, momentarily forgetting that my life’s about to implode.
After the game, our locker room is pure, distilled joy. Dewey rips off his helmet, hair plastered to his forehead like he’s been swimming in his own effort. “Tell me that wasn’t the best damn stretch pass you’ve ever made.”
“You’re welcome for your ESPN top ten moment,” I smirk.
“Top ten?” He scoffs with mock offense. “That’s number one by a mile!”
Someone cranks “Fortunate Son”—our unofficial victory anthem—and the room transforms into post-game jubilation. Will Kelly weaponizes a Gatorade bottle, spraying it like champagne at a rookie recently called up from the minors.
“Come on, Kells!” the rookie belts out, peeling off his newly sticky jersey.
Dewey cackles, throwing an arm around the kid. “Little different than Hartford, eh?”
I peel off my shoulder pads, muscles screaming their familiar post-game song, but there’s something more intense than physical exhaustion gnawing at me. This is belonging. This is my team. These are my guys. The boys. This is what I fought to get back to.
For a few perfect minutes, I let myself exist in this bubble where the only thing that matters is that we won, together.
Then Rocky appears beside me like the Ghost of Consequences Present. He doesn’t smirk the way he usually does when delivering news I won’t like. He just pats my shoulder gently.
“Media’s ready for you. They’re outside by the team bus,” Rocky says, each word a nail in the coffin of my temporary happiness. “Ready for your announcement.”
I swallow hard. This is it. The moment where I choose which version of myself I want to hate tomorrow.
Either I stand with my teammates—the guys who bleed with me, fight with me, trust me to represent them.
Or I take Bunny’s deal and save Claire’s future, protect Petra from the truth, and sell my soul for their happiness.
I grab my towel and run it over my face. Then I stand. Whatever words are about to come out of my mouth, there’s no CTRL+Z for this. No taking it back.
I walk towards the door, towards the media, towards a choice that feels like stepping off a cliff and not knowing if I have a parachute strapped on or not.
Behind me, my teammates continue celebrating, unaware that their representative is about to either stand with them or sell them out for a favor wrapped in mahogany and manipulation.
My legs feel heavy, heavier than during the game. My mind is racing. And somewhere between the locker room and the exit, I have to figure out which betrayal I can live with.
But the truth is, some choices make themselves while you’re busy pretending you have options. The only question now is whether I can live with myself after I make it.