Chapter 7 #2
The hit was massive.
The sound was worse. That crack of body on body, with a grunt of air leaving the lungs. Then, the clatter of equipment against the ice. Heath went down like someone had cut his strings. Folded. His stick flew one direction, his helmet another, and for one horrible second, he didn't move.
The crowd hushed.
I stared.
Get up. Come on, kid. Get up.
Heath got up.
Slowly. Shakily. One knee first, then the other, and then standing with the careful movements of someone checking whether all their pieces were still attached. His face was pale, and his hands were shaking as he retrieved his stick.
The whistle had blown. Play stopped. The ref was saying something about icing.
Heath skated back to the bench.
He moved like a person trying very hard to look like nothing was wrong, which meant everything was wrong. His eyes were too wide. His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping. He dropped onto the bench and stared at the ice.
I was already deciding where I'd sit. I dropped onto the bench beside him without asking.
Heath didn't look up. He gripped his stick, knuckles white, and breath coming too fast. His eyes stayed fixed on some point in the middle distance.
I let the silence sit for three seconds. Long enough to be present and short enough that he wouldn't drown in it.
"You're not dead," I said. "That's a win."
Heath turned his head slightly.
"That guy's been playing pro hockey for nine years," I continued. "He's hit people twice your size. He's hit people who saw him coming. You didn't see him coming, and you got up." I shrugged. "League introduction. Everyone gets one."
"I was watching the puck." Heath's voice cracked. "I know better than to watch the puck. Coach told me a hundred times—"
"Coach tells everyone a hundred times. Doesn't matter until you learn it the hard way.
" I stretched my legs out, crossed my ankles, and made myself look relaxed even though my heart was still thumping from watching him go down.
"First time I got hit like that, I cried.
On the ice. In front of everyone. Hog had to carry me to the bench. "
Heath finally looked at me. "You didn't."
"I did. Ask anyone. It's legendary. They still bring it up at team dinners." I pointed at Desrosiers two spots down. "He has a video."
Desrosiers, without looking up from his water bottle, said, "I have a video."
Heath blinked. Something in his shoulders relaxed—not all the way, but enough.
"Here's the thing," I said. I turned toward him. "You didn't do anything wrong. You did something new. There's a difference."
"Felt pretty wrong."
"Yeah, getting folded usually does." I leaned in.
"Next time—bend your knees. Lower your center of gravity.
You were standing too tall, which meant he could get under you.
Absorb the hit, don't brace against it. Your body wants to tighten up, but that's what breaks things.
Stay loose. Let the energy go through you instead of into you. "
Heath nodded. He listened.
"The league introduced itself," I said. "Now you know what it feels like. Which means next time, you'll be ready."
"What if I'm not?"
"Then you get up again." I knocked my knee against his. "That's the whole job, rookie. Getting up when you're down. Everything else is details."
The words hung there for a second. Sounding like something I should probably remember later.
A whistle blew. Coach called out line adjustments.
Heath straightened on the bench. He was still pale and a little shaky.
"Pickle," he said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks."
I grinned at him. "Don't thank me yet. Wait till you see my advice backfire spectacularly. It's a fifty-fifty shot at best."
He almost smiled.
Coach pointed at the ice. "Donnelly, you're up. Same line."
Heath stood. His legs were steadier than they'd been a minute ago. He pulled his helmet on, adjusted his mouthguard, and climbed over the boards without looking back.
I watched him go.
I'd steadied someone else. Said the right thing at the right time. I was the voice that cut through the spiral instead of the one spiraling.
It felt strange, but good.
On the ice, Heath took his position. His knees were bent this time. His eyes moved, tracking threats instead of tracking the puck. When the play came his way, he didn't freeze—he shifted, adjusted, and stayed between his man and the net the way he was supposed to.
He didn't get hit. The game kept going. Minutes later, the buzzer sounded, and the world exploded.
Final score: Storm 4, Wolves 2. Victory.
I was over the boards before my brain caught up with my legs, skating into the scrum at center ice, where bodies were already piling up in that beautiful chaos of celebration.
Someone grabbed me—Desrosiers, I think—and spun me around.
Someone else pounded my back hard enough to rattle my teeth. The crowd screamed.
I screamed back.
Not words. Noise.
Hog caught me in a hug that lifted my skates off the ice. "Good game, gremlin."
"Good game yourself, old man."
He set me down and shoved my helmet sideways. I shoved him back. Neither of us stopped smiling.
The ice was chaos—beautiful, earned chaos. Jake had Evan in a headlock that was probably supposed to be a hug. Heath stood at the edge of the group, looking overwhelmed and thrilled and like he might cry, which meant someone needed to tackle him immediately. I volunteered.
"YOU SURVIVED!" I slammed into him hard enough to stagger us both. "You're official now. No returns."
Heath laughed. "I barely did anything."
"You got up. That's everything." I grabbed his helmet with both hands and made him look at me. "Welcome to the Storm, rookie."
His eyes were bright. He blinked fast and looked away.
I let him. Some moments needed room to breathe.
The crowd kept roaring. Sticks tapped the ice. Somewhere in the stands, someone had started a chant—"Storm Warning, Storm Warning"—and it spread like fire, a rhythmic stomp-stomp-clap that rattled the glass.
I spun in a slow circle, arms out, taking it all in.
It was everything. This was the reason I'd learned to skate before I could read, and why I'd spent my childhood in frozen rinks while other kids were doing whatever normal kids did.
I wanted to hold it. Bottle it. Keep it somewhere safe for the days when my brain wouldn't stop telling me I was one bad shift away from being forgotten.
I looked toward the tunnel.
Adrian was there.
Half in shadow. Camera up, lens pointed at the ice.
At the celebration. At me.
The world narrowed.
The crowd noise faded to static, and the bodies around me blurred. The cold, the sweat, and the ache in my legs—all of it dimmed until there was nothing left but him.
He wasn't moving. He was just watching.
No.
He was seeing.
The way he'd seen me in the parking lot with Biscuit.
He was looking at me now. Our eyes met across the ice.
Something passed between us. I felt it all the way down my spine.
He's gonna leave eventually.
Jake's voice. The warning I'd been successfully not thinking about for three periods of hockey.
That's his job.
Adrian's camera was trained on me. His face was unreadable from this distance, but I imagined the expression—a careful stillness that cracked open when he wasn't expecting it.
He shows up, he films the small-town hockey story, and then he goes back to wherever guys like him go back to.
I knew. He was temporary. This was borrowed time. I knew that wanting something didn't make it stay. Joy always had an expiration date, and the smart thing was to protect myself before the leaving started.
I knew all of that.
I chose to ignore it.
Right now, I was happy.
I wasn't going to apologize for that or brace for the crash before I'd finished flying.
The future could wait.
I skated harder into the celebration. Found Jake, Evan, and Hog. Let them pull me into the noise and the chaos and the joy.
Just before I turned away, I looked back at the tunnel.
At Adrian and the camera. I smiled straight into the lens.
See me, the smile said. I dare you.
The shutter clicked. Or maybe I imagined it.
Either way, something had been captured that couldn't be taken back.