I finally glanced up. The locker room buzzed with pre-game energy—guys pulling on jerseys, adjusting shoulder pads, andmuttering whatever prayers they thought might help. Hog stared at me like I'd grown a second head.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Usually, you're cracking jokes or executing an interpretive dance to your warm-up playlist. Today you're..." He gestured vaguely at my face. "Focused. It's unsettling."
Before I could chirp back, footsteps approached my stall. I knew the sound—measured, purposeful, and no wasted strides.
Evan walked past, game jersey stretched across his shoulders, helmet tucked under one arm. He didn't stop. Didn't say anything. Only caught my eye for half a second and gave me the slightest nod.
My stomach clenched. It wasn't encouragement or good luck or any of the usual teammate bullshit. It was recognition. It said:I see you. I see you trying.
My hands trembled as I finished the tape job. I flexed my fingers around the shaft of my stick and tried to remember how to breathe.
It was another chance to prove myself, and it mattered. The team was starting to trust me. Evan saw me as more than a walking punchline.
It all scared the shit out of me.
"Riley!"
Coach Rusk bellowed my name. He stood in the doorway, wearing his backward cap and an expression that meant business.
"You listening, or you gonna keep making love to that stick all night?"
"Listening, Coach."
He stepped into the room, and the noise dissipated. Even the rookies stopped fidgeting with their gear.
"Gentlemen, tonight's not about pretty plays or highlight reels. It's about showing them what happens when you count us out."
He scanned the room, making eye contact with each of us with a gaze that burrowed into our hockey souls.
"They think they know what they're getting. Small market team. Minor league mess. Bunch of guys who couldn't cut it anywhere else." His gum snapped between his teeth. "Let's give them something they don't expect."
He looked at me on the phrase "don't expect," and every fuck-up I'd ever broadcast to the world came home to roost. There was something else, too—something like a dare.
The room stayed quiet for a beat after he left. Then Pickle broke the silence with a nervous laugh.
"Anyone else need to change their underwear, or is that just me?"
Several guys laughed, and it was enough to break the tension. Everyone started moving again, checking laces and adjusting chin straps.
I stood and caught my reflection in the mirror near the equipment bins. I looked different. Sharper. Like someone who belonged on a rink instead of someone who'd stumbled into the wrong story.
The tunnel stretched ahead like a throat waiting to swallow us whole. Our skates clicked against the rubber mats in rhythm—twenty guys breathing hard through nerves and adrenaline.
The ice hit me first. That sharp, clean smell that cut through everything else. The Fort William Barn wasn't much to look at, but when those lights hit the freshly Zambonied ice, it transformed into something holy.
My legs were loose and ready as I took my first stride. The crowd was already buzzing—maybe three hundred people who'd paid real money to watch us chase a piece of rubber around for sixty minutes.
"Let's fucking go!" Hog's voice boomed from center ice as we skated warm-up laps.
The first period started like a car accident in slow motion. One of their defensemen—a brick wall named Kostner, who probably ate nails for breakfast—caught me at the blue line with a hit that rattled my teeth. My helmet stayed on, barely, but my confidence scattered across the ice like shattered glass.
I picked myself up and skated back to the bench. Hog tapped my shoulder as I sat.
"Welcome to the show, pretty boy."
The next shift, I kept my head up. Kostner was hunting, but I was ready. When the puck came around the boards, I went into the corner like my life depended on it—shoulders down, stick active, feet moving.
