Page 16

Chapter 16

Olli

Three days later—three days of practices, of hiking and snowshoeing, a sketchy run across ice-crusted streets that almost ended with me breaking my neck, and another drop-in where Avery and I prove we have some sick synergy—and I’m still thinking about Nat Taylor.

But now I guess it’s your team.

My truck trundles down the sun-lashed streets of Day River.

How different it looks in the daylight, the skyscrapers sparkling with light and life, the snow nearly blinding with its reflective intensity—sun reflecting off snow and steel in equally brilliant measures.

A city of light, of hope, of potential, whereas in the dark it’s such a deceptive calm.

I turn the truck into the rink’s parking lot, where I’ll be joining the team on a bus ride to our first away game—and my first official game as a Day River Dingo.

Perfect. More socially awkward encounters to further tug at the threads of my darkness, the ones I’ve been trying to keep shoved under the rug with nearly obsessive activity for the past two weeks.

I hop up the steps of the bus. Low classic rock plays in the background, and I’m grateful for Steven Tyler’s vocals—especially as I note that there’s only one person on board.

“Hey, Coach.” I slide into the seat behind him. “Ready for the game? ”

“Ready? As we ever are, I guess.” He sighs, like he’s already resigned to losing. No wonder the team and the town don’t believe, if our own coach doesn’t.

Dingoes are yesterday . . . The Ice Out is our game.

Maybe it’s the memory that makes the next words tumble out of my mouth. “Have you ever been to the Ice Out?”

“What?” His brows shoot towards his hairline, and his mouth droops slightly. “How the hell do you know about that?”

“I make a point of knowing what the locals know.” I lean over the back of the seat. “Understanding the people and whatnot—doesn’t matter. Have you been?”

“Yeah.” His mouth tightens to a hard line. “It’s a bunch of hacks.”

“Hacks with heart,” I say, my voice softening. “And the town loves them way more than us.”

Coach’s jaw flexes, like my words strike something—but he shakes his head. “We’re better than that cheap hack shit, James. You and me and all the boys on this team. There’s a reason we’re professionals and they’re not.”

Something clenches in my chest, and I realize it’s because I’m thinking of him . He says Syd wasn’t the reason he stopped playing—which just means there’s another story there.

“We’re the professionals,” I say. “But they’re the ones with the fans in the stands.”

Coach straightens, his brows pulling low. “If you’re asking for my permission to go to the Ice Out, there’s no fucking way I’m giving that.”

“I’m not,” I say, lifting my hands like a defense against his accusation. “Just . . . pondering. That’s all. A team’s gotta have heart, and the heart of this town’s in the Ice Out.”

I slide into the aisle before he can respond. Snag a seat on the left, exactly halfway down. Not that I’m overthinking.

However, I am gonna spend this entire bus ride to the airport thinking about how Coach is wrong .

We’re better than that cheap hack shit, James. But that’s just it—we’re not better. None of us is better than any of the hacks at the Ice Out. And thinking we are is exactly what’s drawing the line between us and the town.

To save this team, we gotta erase that line.

Andy Everton bops onto the bus—bright grin, hipster locs, Pink Floyd tee, and all. Skyler slides on behind him, looking like one of the Lords of Dogtown accidentally dropped into Iceville with his waist-length California-blond locks and skater-boi fashion sense.

“Yo, James!” Everton plops into the seat in front of me, Skyler beside him. “You ready to get our ass handed to us?”

“That’s not a very sunshiny attitude, you know,” I inform him. “No wonder we don’t win any games.”

“Just being realistic.” Everton gives me a light punch on the shoulder. “We’re not exactly a power team.”

The truth of those words—and the resigned, almost careless way in which he delivers them—hits me square in the chest. When did the Dingoes stop believing in themselves, in each other?

Skyler pulls out his phone, and he and Everton hunker down to watch fail videos. Leaving me to wonder, while the rest of the team piles on.

More California boys, more transplants.

More people resigned to losing for a few games or seasons. With every out-of-towner Coach recruits onto this team, he further blackens the line between team and town—and Coach and I are definitely not seeing eye to eye on the whole line issue.

Dammit.

The bus rumbles to life, and the darkness scratches at the edges of my mind. Not so much begging to be let in as reminding me there’s no way to keep it out.

When it wants to come in, in it will come. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it, even after all these years.

But right now, I absolutely refuse to dwell on it. Not when I have so many more important things to think about. So I set my temple against the cold glass and watch the hard lines and soft creases of snowy mountains transform into a tumbled brown-beige desertscape.

On the plane, a new city opens beneath us in a slick spill, like quicksilver and oil sluiced out across the desert, cut by the gridiron of roadways. The scene sharpens into the neat squares of houses nestled into the grey-green of plants and palms, the hard lines of roads.

The beige and soft red of the desert emanates through it all, like no matter what’s built, what emerges from the hands of humanity, nature will always find a way through.

We get off the plane and onto a bus. The city claws itself up around the rented coach. Such a different world from the ice and snow of Day River, this rolling, tumbling, jagged landscape of rock and earth. I might like living out here.

So why is my heart stuck back in Icetown?

Before I can decide, the arena emerges from between glossy skyscrapers, sandwiched at the base of towering office buildings and luxury condos.

Calm settles in my bones.

We collect our bags, file into the locker room. I close my eyes, and the tang of ice and sweat could be any rink.

“Yo, James!” Charlie’s shout pulls me back to reality. “Your seat’s over here, man.”

He slaps an open palm on the bench beside him. Of course. Because hockey is all about ritual. It must be observed, every game, lest one risk upsetting the hockey overlords.

“Naturally.” I slide onto the varnished wood. “Bench buddies for life. Is there a name for that?”

“B-B-F-L?” Charlie’s brows knit into a deep furrow as he leans over his bag to extract his dryland shorts. “Ben Buds? That sounds like some kind of weird pot thing—”

The buzz of my phone on the bench dashes any trace of good feelings, coils my stomach into a rope of ill-tied knots.

I lift my phone, illuminate the screen .

NT: Good luck today. You got this, Captain.

And it’s like I can see him in front of me, throwing back the doubt with the brightness, the intensity, of his faith.

I grin, type out my own response. You know it.

And I do something I definitely should not do. Ever.

I let myself sink into this bubbly feeling. Let it consume me. Not the silly bar kiss, but the way he looked at me when we sat in the stands, those green eyes so intense, like I was the only thing he saw.

The smile.

The way he talked about music. The way he read me on the ice. The way he always reads me, like he sees right through all my masks.

Nobody’s ever made me feel like that before—

“Yo, James!” Charlie’s voice once again rips me from the clouds and plunks me back onto my bench seat. “Hell’re you smiling about instead of getting dressed?”

Crap. I resist the urge to mash my fingers against my face to check. I am sitting here, grinning like an idiot, while everyone else changes. “Just so excited for this game.”

“Bullshit.” Charlie’s eyes narrow to slits, like he’s trying to read me. “Girl or guy?”

“Okay, that’s just not fair.” I toss my phone into my bag before I can look at it again, reach for my shorts. I know how dangerous it is to hang your happiness on someone else—when reality strikes, you fall so much harder.

But I’m gonna do it anyway.

“Wait, you already got a new fling?” Everton’s looking at me now too, and goddamn, I let myself play the game.

I pull my lips tight against my smile, mime turning a lock. “We got a game to focus on, boys.”

“Speak for yourself,” Charlie mutters. “You’re all buzzy.”

“Makes me play better.” I slip my shorts on, toss my button-down atop my dress pants. “Gives me energy, you know?”

Everton only grins wider. “Aww, the Cap’s in love! ”

I roll my eyes, bite back another smile. Try not to let those words make me feel all fuzzy and funny inside.

But I’m not exaggerating. This thing with Nat, it’s a high. Maybe the headiest one I’ve ever chased. Dangerous, so dangerous. And so very alluring. A drug. A terrifying drug, because I know once the high wears off, the low will be so very dark and lonely.

And today, I’m gonna use that drug.

We need a win. We need team synergy. Family vibes. A captain with enough bubbly, positive energy to pull it all together and lead us to that win.

And I’m gonna be that captain, whatever it takes.

Whatever the cost.

So I cling to that desperate, false bubbliness of an external crush that may or may not pulverize me into oblivion later. I chase the high.

I follow the others out of the locker room for a run around the rink—pull crisp, warm California air into my lungs. The high follows me into off-ice warm-ups. Back into the locker room to drag on my gear.

I barely sit still through Coach’s classic speech. Don’t hear a damn word.

As one, we race out onto the ice, my skates beating against rubber. Skate. Warm-up.

National anthem.

My eyes dance down the line of starters, all of us aligned like little padded soldiers, chewing our mouthguards, shifting from skate to skate, the pulse of adrenaline rendering us unable to hold still, even for the few minutes the anthem bellows through the speakers.

And then it’s over and we’re back at the bench, and I throw out a few random words of encouragement that might be considered a captain’s speech, and our gloves pile together into the middle.

“Dingoes!” we shout as one. The first line breaks away, and the game begins .

As I head for the center face-off dot, I close my eyes. Breathe in the sharp bite of the ice, drink in the roar of the crowd.

You’ve got this, Captain. And yeah, you know what? I do got this. This is my home, my purpose, my place, my reason for living. My dream.

I’ve got this.

I crouch for the face-off. Eyes on the ref’s hand. Too aware of the forward across from me, aware he’ll take the body, because I know how to read crappy players like that.

The ref’s fingers twitch open.

Puck drops.

“Walk with me, James.”

I don’t reckon any good conversation between a coach and a player ever started that way, but what else can I do but fall into stride beside Coach Ethan?

I mean, on the positive side—and I’m all about positives—we are outside on a beautiful SoCal October evening, and the weather is perfect. Cool, dry air, a smattering of stars poking through the faded lights of the city glow.

The sidewalk behind the rink winds through an empty field, so it’s just me and Coach and a slight buzz to the air, like the excitement of our tie—not a win, but the first not-loss in a year—has followed us out here.

The silence stretches between us, becoming uncomfortable, and it’s not just my ADHD and social anxiety telling me so. Coach is getting ready to say something biggish, and I can feel it coming.

Don’t like that one bit.

Finally he stops, digs into his pocket, and pulls out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes, and I get to stand there while he fishes one out. “Smoke?”

“I’m a professional hockey player. ”

“Right.” He pops one against his lip and lights. “Good call.”

And then I get to stand more and wait more while he puffs a few times, clearly thinking. Until, without warning—

“We’ve had another transfer request.”

My insides go cold, like someone just poured ice water down my throat. “What?”

“We’re losing Jas Bryant.” Second line left wing. Gone. Just like that. “I thought you should know before anyone else.”

“Uh. Right. Crap.”

“His agent called me today, before the game.” Coach focuses on the cigarette as he flicks ash off the end. “We’ll have another gap in our roster. And honestly, I’ve spent so much time studying other teams, other players, trying to fill holes, trying to move money around to come up with good enough offers . . . I don't know what we’ll do.”

He sighs, puffs, sighs again, exhaling smoke this time.

I shift from foot to foot, like I would if I were standing out in the cold trying to keep warm. But the weather’s perfect and I’m not cold. I’m too warm, actually, sweat gathering in the creases of my palms and under my arms.

I’m anxious.

Not super loving this latest development—another player waltzing off to something better. And now I’m overthinking what that might mean for our season, the Ice Out, my career, my general life trajectory . . .

“You’re an outstanding player, James,” Coach says finally. “But we need more than a good captain. We need more than ties. We need—”

He breaks off to draw on the cigarette, drags a hand through his hair, and I realize that this conversation isn’t for my benefit—not really. We’re out here because he’s as worried as I am. He, too, is watching his own career fade into the background.

I wonder what things he’s not telling me. Maybe someone’s threatened his job. Threatened to move or dissolve the team. Maybe it’s already in the works .

“We need a team,” I murmur, “not a bunch of players.”

We need a family , I don’t say. A family with the support of the town behind us.

“We do,” Coach agrees in the same pensive tone.

Maybe that’s why I keep talking. “The way I see it, there are two reasons this team is failing. And if I see it, I know you do too.”

He says nothing, waits for me to continue.

“We have no support from the town. No fans in the stands, no financial support, no high schools asking us to come sign jerseys or work charity events or whatever.”

His jaw flexes, his concession to my accuracy. “No, I suppose not.”

“And because we have no support from the town, we have no support in the team either. Nobody wants to stay here. And why would they? The town is cold and unfriendly—literally and metaphorically. We lose. We have no synergy.”

Another flick of his jaw. “I guess that’s true.”

“But look at the Ice Out . . .” I angle my head up towards the smogged sky so I don't have to face his glare. “Half the town is there—well, okay, not literally, but you know what I mean. There are fans. Support. Skaters. Heart. They got something we don’t, and I think maybe we should find out what it is.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m not sure,” I tell him honestly. “But I think maybe the answers to our problems aren’t in the places you're looking, that’s all.”

“You think so?” Coach turns toward me so I can’t escape the dark circles beneath his eyes, the red shot through the white. “Can you bring this team together?”

He stares at me another long minute, neither of us speaking, before he turns away. He flicks his cigarette onto the sidewalk and rubs the toe of his dress shoe against it. What a litterbug!

“I don’t know,” I admit at long last, both of us watching the ash scatter black against the white sidewalk. “I really don’t know.”

But I do know I can sure as hell try.