Page 30

The puck cracks off the boards and dies somewhere in the neutral zone, and the final buzzer sounds like a fire alarm.

My whole body is humming—exhausted and electric and raw in the best way. My pads are soaked from sweat and melting snow, my throat’s dry from yelling, and I’ve got a bruise on my collarbone from an unlucky slapshot that slipped through the top of my chest protector. But I don’t care.

I’m back.

I peel off my helmet and give it the smallest raise toward the stands. Not a full-on showboating salute, but acknowledgment. Gratitude. Relief.

And a small, stupid part of me hopes Sadie saw it.

The locker room buzzes, all noise and sweat and adrenaline.

It’s preseason, but Spags is acting like we won the Cup.

He’s got his jersey half off and is mock-fighting with Gagey while blasting music from a Bluetooth speaker he definitely wasn’t supposed to have in here.

The lounge? Fine, but Coach prefers we maintain some sense of professionalism in the stalls.

Mostly because the press can walk in at any moment and the last thing we need is Spags, half-dressed, serenading us with his hockey stick clutched like a microphone.

Although Tristan would probably love it.

“You’re all horn and no horsepower,” Robbie mutters, pinning the younger guy against the bench with one massive hand.

“Sounds like something a guy who got deked out of his jock would say,” Spags fires back, grinning.

I chuckle and start unbuckling my pads, my fingers clumsy and slow. I’m dragging it out, part of me not ready for this night to end. I feel heavy, solid, purposeful. I like it. A lot.

My phone buzzes in my stall. I glance at it, a quick glimpse of the screen lighting up, and my stomach turns like I’ve hit a sudden drop in a rollercoaster.

Twenty-one notifications. Probably more by now.

I know who I’m hoping for.

I towel off the worst of the sweat and sit back on the bench, scrolling through the lock screen. NHL alerts. Group text from the trainers. One from Kat expressing praise and also gratitude that she could stay up late to watch.

I grin and keep scrolling.

On social media, my old helmet post is blowing up again.

The one I filmed with Tristan last year while she was busy falling head over heels for the captain and trying to distract the public from a nasty scandal involving one of our forwards.

She talked me into leaving up when I wanted to delete it.

She said it would resonate. She said people needed to hear it.

I wasn’t sure what people needed to hear about the artwork on my helmet, but I’m always ready to gas up my baby sister.

Turns out Tristan was right. I should have never judged her expertise.

My sister begged to make an art account to get followers based on the numbers my one post brought in.

Amma and I said absolutely not, but I do still get comments and likes on that one video.

I also still get responses to my photo of Howl.

I swipe into the app and my thumb hovers over the video. It’s not the old post at all. Tristan reposted it to the main team page.

I see myself on the tiny screen, in the crease at the practice rink.

No pads, just a hoodie and my mask in hand.

Talking about the gyrfalcon on the sides—about flight, and control, and how home isn’t a place you return to, it’s something you reclaim when you’re ready to move forward.

I talked about Kat too in that video, what it’s like being so far from my family.

I still don’t love hearing my voice. Still hate the way the stutter hangs like an asterisk in the middle of every phrase. Tristan offered to have still images and let me write something, but it didn’t feel right. Instead, I let go. Raw. Honest. Real.

Tristan told me it was better that way, anyway.

I scroll through the comments flooding in tonight. There are so many I can barely keep up.

@hockeymom1975: The stutter makes it better. More honest. Beautifully said, kid.

@skatesandsyntax: My little brother has a stutter. Thank you for this. You made him feel seen.

@IcelandicIcicle: Are you single? Asking for science.

@linguistinthelowzone: How do you say “hot damn, daddy” in Icelandic?

My throat tightens. I should feel proud. Maybe I do. But underneath the buzz of the win and the praise, all I want is to know where Sadie is. Was she watching me play? Was she waiting with bated breath to see if I’d make it through?

She watched the video the first time it posted. I know that. But did she see what came next? Did she see the comments? Did she think of me after the game? Is she thinking about me now?

I open her message thread. Empty since earlier this week. I type and delete three drafts of a text before settling on something that feels safe:

Me:

Did you watch? We did it. Thank you.

I stare at it. Delete it. Type again:

Me:

8 letters. When the other team has no goals, but you do.

In theory, she was there. In theory, she watched, but I don’t want theory. I want her opinions, her reactions. I want to know what she saw. What she felt. What she thought of me. Did I impress her?

Before I can decide if I’m going to send it, Coach’s voice cuts through the room.

“Hey. No press today, unwind your own way, but Tristan wants you all posting something about the game. Doesn’t have to be your face, just something from today. We won. Look like you’re damn happy or something.”

Spags salutes like he’s in the Navy. “Yes, Content Commander, sir.”

Vic throws a sock at him.

I tuck my phone away and finally strip off the last of my gear, dragging every motion out like a kid trying to delay bedtime. The pads feel heavier today, but in a good way. Like armor, not responsibility.

In the showers, the water scalds the tired from my bones.

My hip pulses under the heat, aching from use, but I let it.

Let it remind me I did something real tonight.

That I moved. Blocked. Healed. Won.By the time I’m back at my stall, most of the guys have cleared out.

I dress slow—compression shorts, joggers, hoodie.

When I reach for my phone again, I swipe over to my camera roll.

There’s a picture I took this morning, before warmups. Just my jersey draped over the back of the stall, pads stacked in front of it. Helmet perched on top. Still and waiting. It looked like a shrine when I took it with every intention of sending it to Sadie. Like a thank you. Or a promise.

My thumb hovers over her name. Then I think better of it. I post it to my feed instead. No caption, just a wolf emoji and a blue heart.

I know she’ll see it.

Hopefully.

The comments roll in before I’m out of the Stand. Actually, I’m still in my towel when they rattle my phone like a mag 8 earthquake.

@goalie_girl_89: He’s back. He’s beautiful. He’s ours.

@shutoutcentral: Ragnar ólaffson, 37 saves, 0 goals, stonewalling like it’s his job (oh wait—)

@speaksoftlysaveshard: Can we get another video?? Your voice is calming. And that stutter? Hot. Just saying.

@icelandinfohq: Congrats on your first game back!

@goalieshutout1: A SHUTOUT TO START THE SEASON

I knock on the wooden doorframe next to me out of reflex.

“Superstition confirmed,” Vic says as he walks past, unwrapping a protein bar and knocking on the wood too. “You knock every time someone says shutout.”

I try not to smile or laugh, because yes, I do. We all do. It’s the equivalent of saying “Macbeth” in the theatre. Vic squints at me, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Is that…a smile?”

“N-no.”

He leans against the wall, chewing slowly. “You sure? Kinda looks like one.”

I roll my eyes and shift my bag higher on my shoulder.

“J-just g-glad to be b-back.”

“Sure. But it’s not just that.”

I grunt.

He lets the silence sit for a beat. Then: “You should text her.”

“I d-did.”

Vic lifts an eyebrow.

“A clue. Crossword,” I clarify.

He huffs. “Of course you did. Next time just ask if you can go down on her and buy her dinner. As a reward for your win. You’d probably get a better answer.”

I choke on my own spit. Trying not to expire right there on the bench.

Spags finds us just before we head out. His hoodie is backward, and he’s holding a bottle of Pedialyte like it’s a celebratory beer.

“Alright, gentlemen,” he says, “quick poll—on a scale of one to ten. How obvious is it that our goalie is in love with our trainer?”

Vic groans. “Spags.”

“I’m just saying,” Spags says, eyes on me now.

“I’m pretty sure you say more words to her daily than you’ve said to me in years.

Now you smirk. You used to ghost every post-practice dinner.

Now you ask if Sadie’s going. And don’t think I didn’t notice the way you were looking at her during stretches the other day.

Like she was a crossword clue you wanted to solve with your tongue. ”

I choke again.

Not because he and Vic are wrong, but because I thought I was more subtle than that. I knew Vic was aware. But if Spags has noticed, I may as well take out a billboard.

Vic covers his face, groaning into his palms.

Spags grins. “It’s okay, man. I ship it. I’ll even officiate.”

“You’re not even old enough to drink,” Vic says, smacking the back of the younger man’s head.

“I’ve seen enough rom-coms.” The look in his eyes is pure chaos as he leans into our captain and grins. “I’ve also seen some quickie Vegas weddings. I know what love looks like.”

Vic flips him off without turning, and I use the distraction to make my escape.

It’s after midnight by the time I get home. Howl meets me at the door like he’s been waiting for hours, tail wagging so hard his whole body wobbles.

“Hey, b-boy,” I murmur, kneeling to press my face to his fur. “Missed you too.”

He licks my chin and I laugh, feeling something loosen in my chest.

We head to the kitchen. I toss him a couple of frozen blueberries and sit on the floor with my back against the cabinets. Howl curls up beside me, head in my lap. His fur is silky soft under my fingers as I scratch behind his ears.

I scroll through my phone again.

Sadie still hasn’t texted back, but the comments on my post are flooding in. Over a thousand likes already. People are excited. Encouraging. Curious.

And somewhere in that crowd, maybe… maybe she saw it. Maybe she smiled.

I open our message thread again. Okay with looking as needy as I feel. And draft another message.

Me:

6 letters. Soft and full of holes.

I send it, then I wait.

Ten minutes pass.

Twelve.

I scratch behind Howl’s ears and pretend I’m not checking every other second.

Then—buzz.

Sadie:

The first one is SHUTOUT.

The second is probably your brain post concussion. Or Cheese?

I laugh, startled. My chest lifts like I’ve had a weight sat on my sternum and can finally suck in air.

Me:

Both, probably. But it was sponge.

Sadie:

Gross Rags. Okay. Give me another.

I bite my lip.

Me:

6 letters. Area directly in front of the net.

There’s a pause. Longer this time. I wonder if I overstepped. If it was too much. Or I’m reading into this. I’m literally sending her random texts with crossword puzzle clues. Not exactly compelling conversation.

Then her answer blinks through:

Sadie:

Crease.

I stop breathing. Then I laugh. Quiet and full and wrecked in the best way.

Howl whines like he wants to know what’s so funny, licking my chin as he gives me big dark puppy eyes.

I scratch his head and lean back against the cabinets, the phone still glowing in my hand.

For the first time in a long time, I feel like I fit.

In this game. In this place. In this skin. Sadie makes it easier. All of it.