Page 19

19

LANE

T he roar of the crowd fills my ears. Adrenaline pumps through my veins. My nerves are so frayed with tension and anticipation that my hands would be shaking if they weren’t wrapped tight and hard around the wood of my hockey stick.

Thoughts are bouncing around in my head so fast that it’s like time stands still. The other players seem to be in slow motion as they move into position for the puck drop.

In just a couple seconds, I’ll be playing my first game in nine months.

Is my leg going to hold up? Will I have my old speed? Same reaction time? Same strength to power through body checks and halt charging players?

My stomach is twisting and contorting and flipping and doing motions I don’t even know how to describe.

I’ll have the answers to all those questions by the end of this game—to some of them, in just a couple seconds.

I clamp down on my jaw to stifle the nausea rising to my chest as Sebastian lines up against the University of Maine player, the referee beside them, hovering the puck in his hand above the ice.

For a split second, when the black disk first makes contact with the white ice, everything goes still and silent for me.

Then, the game starts.

Sebastian wins control of the puck, flicking it to Carter Prescott. The game quickly becomes a behind-the-net scramble on Maine’s side, and it feels like torture as I hang back in defensive position, almost wishing our opponents seize control and make a charge on our side of the ice, so I can finally test myself.

I don’t have to wait for long.

The Maine center wins control of the puck and slides it to their left forward, Darren Grant. He’s big for a hockey player, not as fast as most, but way more powerful. And now he’s barreling right toward me.

Maine’s strategy is clear: direct the initial assault against me, betting that I’ll either be rusty, or just straight-up washed.

My eyes narrow at Grant, competitiveness beating in my chest. I pump my skates, putting myself into a collision course with him. We lock eyes, and we both know there’s not going to be any deke or faking out or passing on this play. We’re going to smash into each other like two charging bulls and see who remains upright on their skates.

I do.

The crowd erupts in boos when I slam my shoulder into Grant’s chest and put him on his back.

Would’ve been nice for my first big moment back on the ice to be greeted by the jubilation of a home crowd, but I won’t pass up the salty whines of an away crowd, either.

A victorious thrill throttles through my veins, and I grab control of the puck, passing it to Tuck to take it back up to Maine’s net.

Their goalie is sharp, though, catching the puck in his glove when Tuck takes a shot. Maine’s able to keep the puck on our side of the ice for a while, and the back of our net is like a perpetual dogfight. Before long, I’m sucking wind.

Coach calls for a shift change, and it’s only when I sit on the bench that I realize just how exhausted I am. I bend over, head between my knees, chest heaving.

As much as I worked out during my time off, it’s just not possible to simulate the rigors of the game any way other than playing it. Not at this level.

I was riding high after coming out ahead in that first body check against Grant, but by the end of the third period, I feel like I’m barely holding on. My fatigue’s caught up to me, and I’ve been playing worse and worse.

We’re up 3-2 as the time clock ticks down. But the Maine guys are playing like men possessed to change that. Coach sends out the first line for the end of the game to try and hold them off.

In the last minute, we’re confronted with a nightmare scenario. A dirty as fuck Maine player, Henry O’Doole, draws a foul from Rhys, and suddenly we’re facing down a power play.

I already felt like I was hanging on by a thread, and now I’m the only D Man on the ice for our team.

I bite down and demand more from my body than I ever have. I’ll probably throw up the next time I’m relaxed enough for my chest to unclench, but as for now, I’m working my legs and arms to the breaking point, fending off the attack.

Right as I’m scrambling in front of the net trying to help Hudson stave off the goal that’s going to rip this win out of our hands, the sound of the buzzer cuts through the air to end the game.

A collective groan of disappointment whooshes from the crowd, my teammates celebrate, and I just fall to my back on the ice, exhausted, relieved, but with a smile on my face.

I fucking missed this.

If I play this way for the rest of the season, we have a problem. But for my first game back after nine long months? I’m going to pretend Scarlett’s right by my side giving me advice, because I know she’d tell me to chalk it up as a win. So, I do.

Scarlett.

As the guys pick me up from the ice and crowd me with hugs, pats, and body slams of celebration, there’s one question ringing in my mind: I wonder if she was watching?