Page 28

The hum of the arena is different tonight. Not the full-throttle pulse of regular season or the thunderous roar of the playoffs, but it’s not nothing either. There’s a sharpness to the energy, like everyone’s been holding their breath since last spring and finally—finally—they get to exhale.

I should feel the same way. I’m excited. I swear I am, but under the excitement is something tighter. Thinner. Frayed at the edges and threatening to unravel.

It’s the first preseason game. Aka, the first game since Ragnar went down hard on the ice last season, and didn’t get up.

No matter how much we’ve worked on his recovery, no matter how many drills I watched him power through, I can’t stop thinking about that moment.

One minute he was there, puck secure, little smirk over the mouth guard, and the next sprawled on the ice, the breath knocked out of him and the entire team standing there stunned.

I can’t forget the blue of his eyes slicing deep into me as he blinked up from flat on his back.

That image is branded into my brain.

I keep telling myself he’s ready. I know he is. His numbers are solid. His flexibility is incredible. His conditioning is on point. He’s put in the work, day in and day out, and I’ve seen every painstaking second of it.

But… what if?

What if tonight is too soon? What if he pushes too hard because it’s his first time back in the net and his body betrays him? What if that sponsorship deal hangs over his head so heavily that he makes a mistake? What if he gets hurt again?

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to banish the spiral before it takes over completely. I need to be the calm voice of reason. I cannot be the one panicking here. I’ve got to keep it together.

“You good?” Greg’s voice cuts through my panic spiral, and I blink up at him.

“Yep,” I lie. “Just, you know. First game jitters.”

“Not your first game.” He grins knowingly.

I shrug. “But it’s his.”

It’s not like he just got called up from our farm team, or just inked his contract. Technically, he didn’t miss any game time from the last season. It was game seven. The playoffs. Rocky Mountain got the cup, and the arctic lost their goal tender.

This is day one all over again.

Greg sobers at that, his smile fading just a little. “He’s ready, Sadie. You know that better than anyone.”

I nod, but the knot in my stomach doesn’t ease. I haven’t seen Ragnar yet tonight. The team’s been annoyingly tight-lipped about who’s starting in the net, even during warmups, and part of me hopes it won’t be him. That he’ll get another week to breathe before stepping back into the crease.

Deep down, I know better. Ragnar wants this. He’s worked too hard to sit on the bench, no matter how much I might want to wrap him in bubble wrap and force him to play it safe.

It’s not physical. He’s good to play. Every test shows it. The issue will be if he doesn’t fully believe he’s ready. Lack of confidence can cause him to second guess.

Benching him today would give him more time to mentally prepare, but it will also send the wrong message to the rest of the league.

It’s not uncommon to play with lineups during preseason, but to not play our star goalie?

Fresh off of an injury? Well, people will assume we don’t have faith in his recovery.

That’s not a good look. He can always step back over the next few weeks of the preseason, but tonight?

The opener? At home? He needs to pull this off.

“Sadie,” Greg says, pulling me back again. “He’s good. He needs you to know it, too.”

I nod, throat tight.

I head out of the trainers’ wing and make my way toward the tunnel, weaving through the familiar maze of hallways until I hit the spot where I know I’ll have the best view of the ice without being in the way. Warmups are done. Ragnar was out there stretching and take shots along with our backup.

The arena lights dim as I lean against the boards by the Zamboni. I have a perfect view of the tunnel as the announcer’s voice booms, and the team is introduced one by one. Cheers erupt, echoing off the rafters as each player steps out of the tunnel and onto the ice.

Ahlstrom, Oakes, and Varg. Gage and Maroni. Line one.

Pelletier, Spaeglin, and Martin. Bouchard and Beck. Line two.

I wait, listening for the last name. They always announce him last.

“And starting in net for your Quarry Creek Arctic… number thirty-three… Ragnar ólaffson!”

The crowd explodes. A cheer that makes your heart thump in your chest and your ears ring. Like the Stand was a bottle of ice-cold coke and someone dropped in a handful of mentos, put the lid back on, and shook it with all their might.

And there he is. Ragnar. Fully geared up, skating out onto the ice like he owns it. His eyes are laser-focused, his shoulders broad and squared, and his movements… they’re smooth. Confident. Controlled.

I let out a breath, my hands gripping the edge of the boards.

He’s here.

He’s back.

And god… he looks good.

I scan his body automatically—habit now—watching for any signs of stiffness, any hesitation in his movements. But there’s nothing. Not a single damn thing. He’s loose, easy in his stance, tapping his stick rhythmically against the posts as he settles into the crease.

I don’t even look towards Varg and Oakes, taking their spots for the anthems and the faceoff. I’m watching Ragnar ólaffson roll his shoulders, swing his arms across his body—stick and all—and then slowly, carefully, just the way I taught him, stretch out the lines of his neck.

The national anthem plays, the puck drops, and just like that, we’re underway.

It’s like an electric current zaps my little toe.

I barely breathe for the entire first period.

Every shot that comes his way has me gripping the wall like it’s the only thing tethering me to the ground.

But Ragnar is calm. Steady. He tracks the puck like it’s an extension of himself, reading plays before they unfold, sliding across the crease with precision and grace.

And not a single defender lets anyone get within arm’s length of him.

By the time the buzzer sounds, we’re up by two, and Ragnar’s got a… nope. I won’t even let myself think it. I know better than to jinx him.

I exhale hard, my knees weak with relief. Honestly, I debate sliding down the boards to curl up on the cold, damp concrete. In the fetal position. Isn’t relief supposed to feel good? All I feel is wrung out, and the game’s not even over.

“See?” Greg says from behind me. I didn’t even hear him walk up. “Told you.”

He claps a hand on my shoulder and I smile, but my eyes stay locked on the ice. On him.

The second period starts and Ragnar is even sharper. He’s in the zone now, locked in completely, his movements instinctive and seamless. Every save is a little dagger of pride in my chest, each one proof that he’s okay. That he’s better than okay—he may have actually done it. A comeback.

The crowd chants his name after a brutal glove-save twists his spine into a pretzel, and I swear I see the corner of his mouth lift beneath the cage of his mask. I suck in a breath.

I’m so proud of him I could cry.

But I also know he has an entire period left.

The buzzer sounds to end the second , and I finally remember how to breathe the right way.

Ragnar is killing it out there. The scoreboard shows a perfect zero for the other team—a goose egg—and my heart races with equal parts joy and gut-twisting nerves.

I wonder how he’s feeling. From here he seems happy, but I don’t have the best view of his face.

I step back from my spot, trying to shake out my stiff legs, when I spot Tristan weaving her way over.

She’s spends most game in the box with Quinn and Erik.

Her chic boots click against the concrete.

Have I ever seen her not in heels? I’m in awe.

Then again, I’m not barely five-feet tall and required to face off against players that mostly top out over six feet.

I’m pretty sure her husband is six foot five!

She gives me a grin as she approaches, her eyes flicking toward the ice and then back to me. “Hey, superstar.”

I snort. “If you mean the guy on the ice, yes. Total superstar.”

She hums, stepping up next to me, her gaze lingering where Ragnar spent the last period crouched in front of the net. He’s over by the tunnel now, chatting with Vic as they head off the ice.

“He looks good,” Tristan says. “Really good. You’ve been working miracles.”

I glance at her, my throat tightening. “Again, he’s the one doing all the work. I’m just… there.”

“Sadie.” Tristan tips her head, giving me a knowing look. “Don’t downplay it. Seriously. He wouldn’t be out there like that if it weren’t for you.”

I shrug. Greg would have put in the work if I hadn’t. Everyone keeps praising me, but I just followed the treatment plan and documented it for school. Ragnar is the one doing the work. Ragnar is the one blasting all expectations out of the water, but my chest still warms at the compliment.

We watch in silence for a beat as the kids skate out to sweep up the snow and clear the ice.

“So,” Tristan starts casually, “how’s he doing? Not just physically—I mean, is he happy? Being back in the game, in the spotlight?”

Her tone is casual, but there’s something else beneath it. Subtle. Curious.

I lift a shoulder, trying to keep my voice even. “He’s good. I think he was nervous—like, really nervous—but now? He looks solid. Like himself.”

Tristan hums, nodding slowly.

“He seems lighter. Happier. It’s nice to see.” Her eyes flick to me with a little smile. “You’ve been spending a lot of time together. Helping him with the social stuff, too, right?”

I freeze for half a second, but play it off with a casual nod. “Yeah. Just, you know, coaching him a bit. Helping him get comfortable with others.” I shrug.