Second period starts with Dallas pressing hard. They're faster now, more desperate. A turnover in the neutral zone gives them an odd-man rush, and they capitalize. Tie game.
The momentum shifts. Our passes stop connecting. Frustration builds on our bench.
Brenner skates by after a whistle, bumping my shoulder deliberately. "Got lucky on that first one, Barnes. Won't happen again."
I meet his eyes but say nothing. He wants me rattled. Wants the old Nate Barnes who would take a stupid penalty and put his team in a hole.
"What's wrong? Are you a fucking pussy now?" he sneers.
The comment stings, but I channel the feeling into focus. Next shift, I jump over the boards with renewed determination. Sawyer feeds me a perfect pass in the slot, and I one-time it past the goalie's glove hand.
2-1.
As I circle back after celebration, Brenner cross-checks me from behind, sending me sprawling face-first onto the ice. The ref's arm goes up—he's getting a penalty—but Brenner isn't done. He leans down as I get to my knees.
"I know you want to hit me. Just do it, you fucking pansy."
I stand slowly, my hands trembling with rage. Every muscle screams at me to swing, to shut his mouth with my fists. The hot anger floods my chest, clouding my vision around the edges.
But Elena's face flashes in my mind. The pride in her eyes when I told her about therapy. About working on myself and wanting to find a new way.
"Got nothing to say, Barnes? Not so tough anymore, huh?"
I give him my best “eat shit” look, then skate away.
"Way to keep your cool," McCoy says, when I join the bench. "Brenner's just trying to get in your head."
"Let's make him pay on the scoreboard," I reply, surprised by how calm I sound despite the adrenaline coursing through me.
The third period becomes a chess match. Dallas presses for the equalizer while we look to counter. With five minutes left, Ifind myself with the puck on a breakaway. It's just me and the goalie—the moment slowing down as I approach.
I fake forehand, go backhand, then pull it back to my forehand as the goalie commits. The puck slides into the open net as I crash into the boards, momentum carrying me through the shot.
Hat trick. Fuck yes…
The ice becomes dotted with caps and beanies as the crowd celebrates. My teammates mob me, faces bright with excitement. Even Coach allows himself a smile from the bench.
Brenner fumes by the Dallas bench, slamming his stick against the boards. When he catches my eye, I don't gloat or taunt. I just turn back to my team’s celebration.
We close out the game 3-1. A solid win against a conference rival.
The locker room afterwards vibrates with victory energy—guys laughing, music blasting, everyone riding the high.
"Miller's in twenty," McCoy announces, emerging from the shower. "First round's on me!"
A cheer goes up from the room. These post-win celebrations have become tradition, a way to bond off the ice.
"You coming, Barnesy?" Tucker asks, pulling a fresh shirt over his head. "Gotta celebrate that hatty, man."
I smile, thinking about the text I sent Elena earlier. She's coming over to my new place tonight—our first real time alone together since we decided to try again. We’ve been on casual dinner dates and took a run together the other day but we haven’t spent time at either of our places yet. Not until tonight.
"Can’t, guys," I say, zipping my bag. "I’ll catch you next time."
As I leave the locker room, I feel happy and relieved. Not just because of the win or the hat trick, but because for the first time, I chose a different path. I faced the same old triggers and made a new choice.
And now, instead of drowning post-game adrenaline in beer and shallow conversation, I'm going home to Elena.
Ten minutes later, I’m parking my car in the deck.
