Page 28

The locker room vibrates with pre-game energy—tape ripping as guys secure shin pads, the metallic click of skate blades against concrete, Coach's voice cutting through the noise with last-minute strategy adjustments. Normally, I'd be right in the middle of it, joining the banter, getting into the zone with my pre-game playlist blasting through my headphones.

Today, I'm oddly detached, going through the motions by muscle memory alone. My mind keeps drifting to the stands, wondering if Hannah is out there yet, if she's wearing team colors, if she's thinking about me the way I can't stop thinking about her.

"Connolly." Coach's hand lands on my shoulder, startling me back to the present. "You with us?"

"Yes, Coach," I say automatically.

He studies me, eyes narrowed. "I need your head in the game. Northeastern State has the best defensive line in the conference. You'll need to be smarter than them, not just faster."

"Understood."

"Good." He squeezes my shoulder once, then moves on to Peterson, leaving me to finish gearing up.

Miller slides onto the bench beside me, already fully dressed except for his helmet. "Heard your girl's in the stands tonight."

"Hannah," I correct him automatically. "And yeah, with her friends."

"First game she's been to, yeah?"

I nod, taping my socks with more focus than necessary.

"Big pressure," he comments casually. "Playing for scouts and the girlfriend at the same time."

"She's not my—" I start, then stop. "It's fine. I'm focused."

"Sure, you are," he says, unconvinced. "Just remember—play the game in front of you, not the one in your head. Save the overthinking for the classroom."

Before I can respond, Coach calls for the team huddle. We gather in a tight circle, arms over shoulders, the familiar pre-game ritual grounding me momentarily in the present.

"Alright, gentlemen," Coach begins, his voice steady and firm. "Conference finals. This is what we've worked for all season. Northeastern State is good—disciplined, physical, well-coached. But they're not us. They don't have our speed, our creativity, our heart."

He looks around the circle, making eye contact with each player. When his gaze lands on me, I see a flicker of concern that he quickly masks.

"Play our game. Clean breakouts, quick transitions, bodies to the net. Trust your training, trust each other." He puts his hand in the center. "On three. One, two, three—"

"WOLVES!" we shout in unison, the team name echoing off the tiled walls.

Then we're filing out of the locker room, down the tunnel toward the ice. I can hear the crowd now, the distant roar building as the announcer introduces Northeastern State's lineup. My heart rate quickens, adrenaline finally kicking in, pushing aside the distraction of personal drama.

This is hockey. This is what I know, what I'm good at, what makes sense when nothing else does.

The lights dim as we reach the mouth of the tunnel. The crowd noise rises to a fever pitch. I close my eyes, taking one deep breath, centering myself in the moment.

"And now," the announcer's voice booms through the arena, "your Central University Wolves!"

Spotlights sweep across the ice as we pour out of the tunnel, the home crowd erupting in cheers and stomping feet. The sound washes over me, through me, electric and alive. I scan the stands as I circle the ice, looking for Hannah among the sea of blue and white. Too many faces, too much movement to pick her out.

Warm-ups pass in a blur of skating drills and shooting practice. Before I know it, we're lining up for the national anthem, then the starting whistle, and suddenly the game is on.

First shift, thirty seconds in, and I'm battling for the puck in the corner with Northeastern's captain, a big defenseman with a reputation for playing on the edge of dirty. He pins me against the boards, driving a forearm into my back just out of the refs' sightline.

"Welcome to the finals, pretty boy," he grunts, digging for the puck between my skates.

I twist away, using my lower center of gravity to create space, then fire a pass to Rodriguez cutting through the slot. The defenseman slashes at my ankles as I break free, but I ignore it, focusing on getting to the net.

Rodriguez shoots, the goalie blocks, and I crash the crease looking for the rebound. Another defenseman crosschecks me from behind, sending me sprawling across the crease. No call from the refs. I push myself up, skating back to the bench for a line change, frustration already building.

"They're playing physical early," Coach notes as I drop onto the bench. "Don't let them get under your skin. Play smart."

I nod, downing water from the bottle Miller passes me. My next shift begins with a defensive zone faceoff. Peterson wins the draw, and I circle behind our net to collect the puck for the breakout. As I look up ice, I see a gap in Northeastern's coverage—a lane to the neutral zone.

I accelerate, carrying the puck through center ice, the defense scrambling to adjust. Their gap control is off; I've caught them flat-footed. I curl wide at their blue line, creating an angle, then cut hard to the middle.

Their defenseman steps up to challenge, but I'm a step faster, dekeing to my forehand, then quickly to my backhand as I slip past him. It's just me and the goalie now. I lift my head, find the opening over his blocker, and fire.

The puck hits the post with a hollow ring, deflecting wide.

"Fuck," I mutter, circling back toward the bench for another change.

The first period continues this way—close chances, physical play, neither team finding the back of the net. The frustration builds with each missed opportunity, each uncalled penalty, each shift that ends without the red light flashing.

Midway through the period, I'm forechecking hard in Northeastern's zone when their defenseman turns to play the puck up the boards. I see my chance and charge, pinning him against the glass with enough force that the water bottles on top of the net tremble.

The whistle blows immediately. Charging, two minutes.

As I skate toward the penalty box, I catch sight of the defenseman—still down on one knee, his teammates helping him up. Maybe I hit him harder than I realized. The home crowd boos the call, but I know it was the right one. I wasn't playing smart; I was playing angry.

I settle into the penalty box, watching as our PK unit takes the ice. Two minutes to think about how I'm letting my personal shit affect my game. Two minutes to get my head straight.

Then I spot him.

Three rows up from the glass, right across from the penalty box—Cade. Not alone; there's a group of guys with him I vaguely recognize from campus. And beside him, smiling like this is the best day of her life, is Megan.

My stomach twists, a toxic blend of anger and hurt rising in my throat. He brought her to my game. He positioned them where I couldn't miss them. The pettiness of it, the deliberate calculation, is so perfectly Cade that I'd almost admire it if I wasn't the target.

He notices me staring and raises his hand in a mocking wave, that shit-eating grin I've known my whole life plastered across his face. Megan follows suit, waving her fingers at me like we're old friends.

I look away, my hands clenching into fists. The penalty clock seems frozen, each second stretching endlessly as I force myself to focus on the ice, on my teammates battling to kill my penalty, on anything but the two people gleefully twisting the knife.

When the door finally opens and I'm free to rejoin the play, I hit the ice with renewed fury, channeling all my anger into speed, into physicality. I finish every check harder than necessary, battle for every inch of ice like my life depends on it.

"Easy, Connolly," Miller cautions during a TV timeout. "You're skating like you've got a vendetta. Play the game."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. He's right; I know he's right. But knowing and doing are different animals.

Late in the period, we're on the power play, our first of the game. I'm at the right circle, one-timer position, when Peterson threads a cross-ice pass through the defense. The puck lands perfectly on my tape, the goalie scrambling to adjust.

I don't hesitate, unleashing a slap shot toward the far corner. It's a perfect release, everything I have behind it, the kind of shot that feels right the moment it leaves your stick.

The goalie flashes his glove, somehow getting a piece of it. The puck deflects high, over the glass, out of play.

"Fuck!" I slam my stick against the ice in frustration, earning a warning glare from the ref.

The period ends scoreless, both teams heading to their respective locker rooms for intermission. Coach's assessment is blunt but fair—we're playing well, creating chances, but need to finish. Stay disciplined, stay focused, keep pressuring their defense.

I barely hear him, nodding in the right places while my mind races. Cade and Megan's presence feels like a personal attack, a deliberate attempt to throw me off my game on the most important night of the season. And it's working, which only makes me angrier.

By the time we return to the ice for the second period, I'm a mess of conflicting emotions, none of them conducive to playing my best hockey. The first shift passes in a blur of motion, my body functioning on auto-pilot while my mind spins uselessly.

On my second shift, disaster strikes.

I'm carrying the puck through the neutral zone when I spot Northeastern's captain lining me up for a hit. I try to chip the puck past him and take the contact, but he's anticipated my move. The hit catches me square, driving the air from my lungs, sending me sprawling onto the ice.

Worse, the puck goes directly to their winger, creating a two-on-one rush the other way. I scramble to my feet, racing back to help my defense, but I'm a step behind. They execute a perfect passing play, and the puck is in our net before I can get back into the play.

1-0 Northeastern.

Coach's face is thunderous as I return to the bench. "Bench!" he snaps at me, and I know I won't be seeing ice time again soon.

I sit, lungs still burning from the hit, watching as my teammates battle to erase the deficit I helped create. Minutes tick by, the middle of the period approaching, and I'm still glued to the bench. Coach hasn't even looked at me since the goal.

Finally, during a TV timeout, he crouches in front of me. "You ready to play hockey now? Or are you still in your head?"

"I'm ready," I say, meaning it.

"Prove it. Next shift."

My next shift starts with a neutral zone faceoff. Peterson wins it clean, and I collect the puck, curling back to build speed for the zone entry. I see Rodriguez open on the far wing and fire a crisp pass, hitting him in stride as he crosses Northeastern's blue line.

He drives wide, drawing the defenseman with him, then drops a no-look pass into the slot where I'm charging. I one-time it, the puck leaving my stick before the goalie can set, finding the top corner where glove meets post.

The red light flashes, the horn blares, and my teammates mob me along the boards. 1-1, game tied, momentum shifting.

The remainder of the second period is a battle of wills, both teams exchanging chances but neither finding the go-ahead goal. As we head to the locker room for the second intermission, there's a renewed energy among our group. We're in this. We can win this.

Coach's intermission speech is brief and to the point. "Twenty minutes. Everything we've worked for all season comes down to these twenty minutes. Who wants it more?"

The third period begins at a frenetic pace, both teams pushing for the advantage. Five minutes in, we're cycling the puck in Northeastern's zone when I spot a seam—a passing lane to Miller at the far post for what would be a tap-in goal.

I thread the needle, the puck sliding through sticks and skates, right onto Miller's tape. He redirects it toward the open net, a sure goal—until their defenseman dives across, blocking it with his shaft, sending it out of play.

Frustration mounting, I battle harder on my next shift, winning a puck along the boards through sheer determination. As I turn to make a play, I spot Northeastern's captain bearing down on me. I brace for the hit, but at the last moment, he raises his stick, catching me directly in the face.

There's a white flash of pain, and then nothing.

I wake up flat on my back, the bright lights of the arena ceiling swimming above me. Voices filter through the fog—our trainer, the ref, my teammates. My face throbs, a wet warmth spreading down my cheek that I vaguely recognize as blood.

"Don't move," our trainer says, kneeling beside me. "Follow my finger."

I track his finger with my eyes as he moves it side to side, up and down. My vision is blurry on the left side, but I can see.

"Any dizziness? Nausea?"

"No," I manage, though my voice sounds strange to my own ears.

"Let's get you to the bench."

With help from Miller and Rodriguez, I make it to the bench, where a more thorough assessment begins. The high-stick has opened a cut along my cheekbone, blood still flowing freely despite the towel pressed against it. My left eye is already swelling shut, and a headache pounds behind my temples.

"We need to get him to the medical room," our trainer tells Coach. "Possible concussion, definite facial laceration."

Coach nods grimly. "Can you walk?"

"I'm fine," I insist, though the arena spins slightly when I stand. "I can play."

"Not tonight, you can't," the trainer says firmly. "Protocol is protocol. Let's go."

The walk to the medical room passes in a blur of disjointed images—concerned faces of teammates, the hushed crowd, the ice stained with my blood being scraped away by an arena worker. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the announcement: five-minute major penalty to Northeastern. At least my team will get an extended power play out of my misfortune.

In the medical room, the assessment continues—vision tests, cognitive questions, the careful cleaning of the cut on my face. The good news: no concussion, no broken bones, no stitches needed. The bad news: I'm done for the night, the swelling around my eye making it too risky to return.

"Small consolation," the trainer says, "but that guy got tossed from the game. Match penalty for intent to injure."

I nod, barely processing his words. All I can think about is the ice I'm not on, the game I'm not playing, the scouts who came to see me only to watch me get carried off after a mediocre performance.

"Your team is still out there," he reminds me, misreading my silence. "They're up 2-1 with eight minutes left."

They scored on the power play. Good. But it should be me out there, helping to protect the lead, not sitting here with an ice pack pressed to my face like some invalid.

Time crawls as I listen to the muffled sounds of the game continuing without me—the crowd reactions telling the story I can't see. A roar suggests another goal, though for which team I can't tell. Minutes later, another eruption, this one unmistakably positive for our side. The final horn sounds, distant but clear, followed by thunderous cheering.

We won. Conference champions. Without me.

The trainer returns, grinning widely. "3-1 final. Your boys did it!"

I should feel elated. This is what we've worked for all season, the culmination of countless hours of practice, sacrifice, sweat. Instead, I feel hollow, disconnected from the celebration I can hear building in the locker room down the hall.

"You can join them if you're up for it," he offers, noting my lack of reaction.

"In a minute," I say, needing time to compose myself, to find an expression that won't betray my selfish disappointment at not being on the ice for the victory.

Left alone, I stare at the blank wall across from me, the physical pain in my face throbbing. I wanted this game to be perfect—not just for the scouts or the championship, but for Hannah. I wanted her to see me at my best, to be proud of me, to understand this part of my life that's defined me for so long.

Instead, I crashed and burned, distracted by Cade's mind games, undisciplined, ultimately sidelined with a bloodied face and wounded pride.

The worst part is, I don't even know if Hannah stayed to the end or left when I was injured. I don't know what she thought of the game, of my performance, of the violent nature of the sport I've dedicated my life to. I don't know if seeing me carried off the ice frightened her or disgusted her or made her question what she's getting into with someone like me.

Normally, physical pain is a balm for emotional turmoil—the ache of muscles, the sting of cuts, the tangible sensations that crowd out more complicated feelings. But tonight, even with half my face throbbing, I can't escape the nagging voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like Cade: You don't deserve her. You never did.

The door opens, startling me from my thoughts. Miller stands there, still in his gear, face flushed with exertion and victory.

"There's our warrior," he says with a grin. "You coming to celebrate, or what?"

I force a smile, wincing at the pull on my injured cheek. "Wouldn't miss it."

As I follow him to the locker room, to the waiting champagne and championship hats, to the teammates who finished the job I couldn't, I push aside the doubt and self-recrimination. There will be time for that later, time to sort through the mess of feelings about Cade, about Hannah, about my future.

For now, I'll play the part expected of me—the tough hockey player who took one for the team, who celebrates their victory as if it's his own, who doesn't let personal drama interfere with professional achievement.

Even if that feels like the biggest lie of all.