Page 9 of On Ice

Evan

Three hours before puck drop, and I want to crawl under a rock.

The locker room already pulses with its own heartbeat. The familiar scent of athletic tape and stick wax mingles with fresh coffee from the trainer’s room. Background noise builds like a sonata: skates being sharpened down the hall, music from someone’s pregame playlist, the steady thump of soccer balls as guys warm up in the corridor.

I feel like a zombie, but I start my routine the same way I have since juniors. Right shin pad, then left. Right sock, left sock. Each piece of equipment in its precise order, muscle memory built over thousands of repetitions. Around me, my teammates move through their own ceremonies.

“You okay, Cap?” Noah asks. He’s already in his base layers, methodically wrapping his stick with fresh white tape. Starting from the heel, each quarter-inch overlap is precise and deliberate, never rushed. The goalie position is notorious for making players crazy. It demands focus, endurance, and nerves of steel. But Noah? He’s the steadiest person I know, unshakable even under the most crushing pressure.

I avoid his gaze because I’m too ashamed about what I’m going to do tonight. I focus on adjusting my shoulder pads so I have a reason not to look him in the eye. “I’m fine. Just in my head a bit about the game.” It’s not a complete lie.

“Sure. We all are.” He pauses his wrapping. “I know Chicago is ranked better than us, but we can definitely take them.”

My gut churns at how confident he sounds. “Of course we can.”

If Luca wasn’t a fucking prick, or if I had any balls.

I guess I didn’t sound convincing enough because Noah sighs. “Look, Cap, Chicago’s solid, no doubt, but their second defensive pair struggles with speed. We exploit that, and we’ve got a real shot. We cycle deep, tire them out, and force turnovers. They’re a great team, yeah, but they’re not invincible. And their goalie’s glove side? Not as quick as it used to be. We just have to stay out of the box and keep our heads in the game.”

I force myself to meet his gaze. “You’re right. They’re not unbeatable. Not by a longshot.” I mean every word. That’s what makes the situation so fucked up. I know we can beat Chicago if we play our hearts out. Obviously, Luca has no faith in us, but I know what we’re capable of.

“First time we’ve sold out in months.” Torres bounces past, already half-dressed and vibrating with energy. Kid can’t sit still before games. “My parents drove up from Miami. Dad’s never seen me play an NHL game before.”

Fucking hell. Really Torres? You gotta say that now?

“Tell him to watch me play if he wants to actually see a skilled hockey player.” Deck taunts from his stall. Our veteran enforcer loves ragging on cocky players like Torres.

Torres takes the ribbing good-naturedly. “I’ll pass it along.” He starts re-taping his shin guards for the third time today. Some guys chirp him for his superstitions, but we all have them.

Mills stretches nearby, earbuds in, completely in his zone. He’s been studying Chicago footage all week, looking for any advantage. His new stick leans carefully against his stall, the exact model he scored with last game. Hockey players don’t mess with what works.

I pull my new jersey on over my pads. Down the row, Noah starts his visualization routine, eyes closed behind his mask. He’s mentally rehearsing every save he might need to make.

Jackson pauses by my stall, soccer ball tucked under his arm. “You look really fixated, Cap. Save some of that intensity for my passes, yeah?” He grins, then jogs out to rejoin the warmup game in the hall, and the steady thump of the soccer ball resumes.

Coach Baker makes his first pass through the room, checking in with players individually. He stops at Torres’ stall, discussing defensive positioning. Moves on to talk power play strategy with me. His presence adds another layer of guilt to the already suffocating pile.

I feel Noah watching me. He knows all my tells, knows something’s off. But he doesn’t push, just offers a fist bump as he heads out for his pre-game stretching routine. I feel like Judas. My skin crawls at the very idea of doing what Luca’s commanded me to do. But If I don’t, Noah might die. That’s even more unthinkable than me throwing a game.

The final hour approaches. Music gets louder, conversations drop off. Each player settles into their mental space. The tension is thick in the room, but everyone is trying to pretend they’re not worried. Of course they’re worried. You can be the best player in the world, but sometimes things just don’t go your way.

I feel sick to my stomach watching my teammates. They want this win so badly. I want it too, so much I can taste it. But if I do what Luca wants tonight, I’ll be the reason these guys come back here after the game broken. Demoralized. If I follow his orders, I’ll be the one who pushes my team one step further from the playoffs. This game could throw them off so badly they might not be able to bounce back next time.

That’s if Luca will even allow us to win the next game. For all I know that bastard wants us to lose every game we play. Is this all my fault? Did I play Luca wrong? Should I have tried teasing him and been more playful? It’s obvious going head to head with him didn’t work. Maybe if I’d approached him differently, he’d have given me what I asked for?

I guess I’ll never know.

For now, this is my reality. I either throw the game, or Noah could die. There’s no easy decision here. I’m fucked no matter what choice I make. But I have to pick one. Time is running out.

****

The arena thrums with so much energy, I can feel it from the tunnel where we’re gathered. I’m distracted as Coach Baker’s pre-game speech washes over me. Something about proving ourselves, and never giving up. It only makes my shame worse. I catch Torres nodding to every word of Coach’s speech. Deck stretches his bad shoulder as he listens to Coach. It’s an injury that should have ended his career two seasons ago but somehow hasn’t stopped him from protecting his teammates. My eyes sting as I look at every face on the team. I love these guys. I’d do anything for them.

And instead of leading them to victory, I’m supposed to help them lose.

As the tunnel darkens slightly, my heart bangs my ribs so hard I feel nauseous. The stomp-stomp-clap rhythm of We Will Rock You by Queen starts playing and we skate out onto the ice. The crowd cheers loudly, and I soak in the high-energy moment. Part of me feels like I don’t deserve their approval. Not tonight. Tonight, instead of giving my team the win we deserve, I’m supposed to serve the insatiable greed of Luca Barone.

The first period starts fast. Chicago plays like their record suggests: quick, skilled, ruthless. But we’re keeping up like I knew we could. Noah does gymnastics, making saves that belong on highlight reels. Torres and Mills work their new defensive pairing like they’ve been together for years. Deck takes a massive hit to protect Jackson on a rush, then gets up grinning.

“That all you got?” he taunts the Chicago forward who hit him. I know that body slam had to hurt, but Deck isn’t going to let anyone see his pain. I don’t think I’ve ever heard the guy complain once.

Deck’s heart inspires me. His courage makes me feel like I need to fight with my team, not against it. I shouldn’t be thinking like that. I’m playing with fire even entertaining the thought of not throwing the game. I can almost feel Luca’s hands on my windpipe, squeezing. Luca made it clear that I’m supposed to miss passes. Take bad angles. Waste opportunities. I’m supposed to do all that bullshit and make it look accidental. Like I’m just having a bad night or something.

The game continues and I watch Noah robbing their top scorer on a breakaway, somehow getting his blocker on a shot that looked impossible to stop. I watch Torres take a puck to the chin and barely flinch, too focused on clearing the zone. Jackson stands up to a guy with six inches and forty pounds on him because that’s what the team needs.

Watching my team fight ignites a fire in my veins. I know what Luca wants me to do. His angry eyes and the venom in his voice are still burned into my memory. But instead of sabotaging my team, I’m battling along the boards, digging pucks free, and setting up chances. Each shift, I tell myself the next one is when I’ll start throwing the game. Each time my line hits the ice, I promise myself now is when I’ll follow through with what Luca wants.

Before I know it the first period ends. We didn’t score, but neither did Chicago. There’s electricity in the room during intermission. We can win this. Everyone feels it.

“Good energy out there,” Coach Baker says, locking eyes with each of us. “Stay focused. Stay hungry. This is our game to lose. You’ve heard people saying Chicago is going to kick our ass tonight. Well, I say screw that. We’re going to win and get into the motherfucking playoffs.”

The team goes nuts clapping and yelling. Everyone is flushed and starving for victory. I can’t help but feel the same as them. My gut churns because I know Luca is probably going to kill me and Noah if I disobey. But I can’t seem to squash the pride and fire inside me. We’re so close to getting in the playoffs. I don’t know what the hell I should do.

The second period starts even faster. Chicago scores first, a rocket from the point through traffic that even Noah can’t see. But instead of deflating us, it fires everyone up. Mills and Torres shut down their top line on three straight shifts. Deck throws a hit that has their captain thinking twice about crossing center ice.

And then, with five minutes left in the period, I see it developing. Torres pins their defenseman along the boards, kicks the puck free to Jackson. Jackson looks up, sees me cutting through center ice. The pass is perfect.

The puck hits my stick.

I could easily fumble it, waste the chance, and help us inch closer to losing.

I see Noah at the far end of the rink, on his feet, watching. See Torres pushing himself up from the boards, still fighting. See Deck and Mills on the bench, leaning forward. See Coach Baker’s intense focus. See all of them believing, in the game, in each other, in me.

The Chicago goalie challenges, cutting down the angle.

I shoot.

The puck hits the back of the net before he can move.

The arena erupts. My teammates mob me, their joy pure and uncomplicated. Torres taps his helmet against mine, grinning through his cage. “We’re not dead yet, Cap.”

As we skate off the ice to rest before third period, I catch sight of Luca in the owner’s box. Even from this distance, I can read the tension in his posture. I swear his eyes look like red demon eyes from where I stand. It’s no surprise he’s furious. I’m surprised the glass windows aren’t melting from the rage I’m sure he’s feeling. I’ve disobeyed him. I haven’t done as he commanded.

But there’s still another period. We can still lose. I have time to redeem myself.

When the third period starts, it’s war. Chicago is done playing around. They score again on a power play, but Jackson ties it up three minutes later off a feed from Mills. Noah makes save after impossible save, keeping us in it. Every shift feels like overtime, every puck battle like it could decide the season. It’s brutal. My muscles are burning. We’re all covered in sweat and breathing like race horses.

With two minutes left, Torres blocks a shot that has him limping to the bench. But he waves off the trainer, watching the game with fierce intensity. “We got this,” he says to no one in particular. “We fucking got this.”

Chicago pulls their goalie with a minute left. Six on five. Pulling their goalie off the ice is a big risk, but it shows Chicago is desperate to tie the game. That move gives them an extra skater, meaning they now have six players on the ice while the we still have five. It’s an all-or-nothing move to increase their chances of scoring, but it leaves their net completely unguarded. That makes it easier for us to score if we can gain control of the puck. It’s a high-stakes gamble that shows how much the game means to them. But the game means just as much to us, if not more.

I lose a defensive zone face-off, but Deck somehow gets his stick in the passing lane, deflecting the puck to Noah. Noah gloves the puck and launches a breakout pass up the middle, catching Mills in stride. Mills, who everyone said was too small for the NHL, turns on the jets.

The empty net beckons.

Two Chicago players converge on him. Mills could dump it in, play it safe. By sending the puck deep into Chicago’s zone, Mills could move the play far away from our team’s defensive area, where Chicago can more easily score. This buys us time to regroup. By dumping the puck in Chicago’s zone that means their players have to skate back to retrieve it. This forces them to start their attack from scratch, which takes time and effort. But instead of doing that, Mills spots me trailing the play and slots a backhand pass through their defense.

The puck lands flat on my stick.

Fuck.

Time slows. I’m so stressed about what to do, I feel like my brain is short-circuiting. I could miss. I should miss. I could shoot wide. The pressure I’m under is crushing. Anyone could miss under these circumstances. Sure, my team will be gutted, but they won’t suspect I fucked up on purpose. I could follow Luca’s plan and keep Noah safe. It won’t be the two goal lead Luca wanted, but at least Chicago would win. Maybe that would be enough for him to show Noah mercy.

I look at my team, battered, exhausted. They’ve got almost nothing left in the tank, but still they’re fighting as hard as they can. I’m afraid of Luca. Terrified of what he’ll do to Noah and me. I remember the black rage I saw in his eyes when I was in his office. I’ve never felt evil like that. If I put my team first, this might be my last day on earth. My eyes meet Deck’s. The hope I see in his eyes rips my heart out. This could be his last season. You never know. He’s older than most of the team. Being in the playoffs means everything to him.

I can’t do it. I can’t turn on my brothers.

The shot leaves my stick before I even fully decide to take it.

Game over. Ice Hawks win 3-2.

The roar of the crowd is deafening. My teammates flood the ice, shouting, laughing, pounding each other on the back. Deck grabs me first, his gloves still on as he pulls me into a rough, exhilarated hug. Jackson jumps into the huddle next, helmet askew, his grin stretching ear to ear. The rest of the team piles in, a mess of arms, sticks, and pure adrenaline. Noah skates out from his crease, shaking his head in disbelief, his face split with a grin as he claps me on the shoulder.

I allow myself to feel the pure, unfiltered joy of this win. I bathe myself in my teammates ecstasy. But as we skate off the ice toward the tunnel, I can’t help glancing up. Luca’s silhouette is there like a black cloud. I can feel his rage all the way down on the ice. Fear curls in my gut at the intensity of his stare.

I have to talk to him right away. I need to make some excuse and go see him. I don’t have time to celebrate with the team. I need to get my gear off, and go to Luca immediately .

Before he has time to go after Noah.

I don’t know what I’m going to say. I have no idea how to calm him down or make this right. I only know that when push came to shove, I couldn’t turn on my team. I just couldn’t do it. I’d rather die than purposely keep them from their dreams.

And that might well be what is about to happen.