I grip my stick tighter as I skate onto the ice, the roar of the crowd washing over me like a wave I can't quite ride. Playoff game three and I'm fucked six ways to Sunday – head not in the game, body going through the motions. Two nights of no sleep thinking about those green eyes, that sharp tongue, and the way Harmony Baker walked away from me like I was just another weather system passing through. The guys can tell something's off. Hell, I can tell something's off. The Charleston Renegades need Lucky Miles tonight, but all they've got is this hollow version of me wondering how I managed to screw up the one thing that actually mattered.
"Miles! Get your head in the game!" Coach bellows from the bench as I circle during warm-ups.
I nod, but the motion feels disconnected from my brain. The arena lights seem too bright tonight, the ice too slick, my gear too heavy. Everything's a little off-center, just like me.
Asher skates up beside me, bumping my shoulder. "You good, man?"
"Peachy," I mutter, twirling my stick in my hands.
"Bullshit," he says, but doesn't push. That's the thing about Ash – he knows when to back off. "Just remember, we need you tonight. Whatever's going on in that thick skull of yours, shelve it for three periods."
Easy for him to say. Elle's probably in the stands right now, watching him with those adoring eyes. Not all of us get the fairytale, bro.
The buzzer sounds. Game time.
First shift, and I'm already a step behind. Their center wins the face-off clean, sending the puck back to their defenseman who rifles a shot toward our net. I'm supposed to be blocking the lane, but my reaction time is molasses. The puck whistles past my ear, and only our goalie's quick glove keeps us from going down early.
"Lucky! Come on!" Ryder shouts as we reset.
Luck. What a joke of a nickname right now. Nothing lucky about the way I fumble the puck at the blue line five minutes in, creating a breakaway that puts us down 1-0. Nothing lucky about the way I drift out of position in our defensive zone, leaving a man wide open for a one-timer. 2-0.
My brain's a traitor, hijacked by a weather girl with storm-cloud eyes and a smile that hit me like lightning. I see her face when I blink, hear her laugh when the crowd roars, feel the ghost of her fingertips along my jaw telling me I'm not the man she thought I was.
"Miles! Bench!" Coach bellows after I miss another assignment.
I skate over, legs burning with shame more than exertion, and drop onto the bench. Coach doesn't even look at me, just stares at the ice like I'm not worth the oxygen it would take to chew me out. That hurts worse than any screaming ever could.
The first period ends 3-0, us getting absolutely dominated. The locker room is a funeral parlor. Guys with thousand-yard stares, silent except for the occasional curse or clink of equipment being adjusted.
Coach walks in, clipboard in hand, jaw clenched. He looks at all of us, then zeroes in on me.
"I don't know what kind of game you think you're playing, Miles, but it sure as hell isn't hockey," he says, voice low and dangerous. "You want to throw away your season, fine. But you're taking nineteen other guys down with you."
He turns to address the whole room, but his words are still aimed at me like heat-seeking missiles. "This is the playoffs, gentlemen. Everything you've worked for all season. Right now, ask yourselves if you're giving everything. If the answer's no, then why the hell are you even here?"
The words hit like body checks, but I can't argue. I'm not here. Not really. I'm stuck in a loop of Harmony's last words to me: "I thought you were different." The disappointment in her eyes when she realized I was exactly who everyone said I was – just another player, on and off the ice.
Second period starts marginally better. I manage not to actively hurt the team, but I'm nowhere near helping either. We get a power play opportunity, and I'm out with the first unit. The puck comes to me at the point, a perfect setup for the one-timer I've scored on a dozen times this season.
I hesitate. Overthink it. My shot goes wide, deflecting out of the zone.
"Fuck, Miles!" Kaleb shouts as we recover.
My cheeks burn under my helmet. I scan the crowd, a habit formed from years of playing to the audience. The arena's packed, a sea of red and black Renegades jerseys pulsing with frustrated energy. I'm letting them all down.
Then – a flash of familiar chestnut hair, greying gracefully at the temples. A soft, round face I know from Sunday dinners at coach’s house. Grace MacIntyre sits ten rows up, directly behind our bench, wearing a Renegades jersey with my number and Coach on the back. Coach Mac’s wife – watching me play like absolute garbage.
My stomach drops to my skates. Mrs. MacIntyre has practically adopted our whole damn team. She and Coach, treating us to home-cooked meals, asking about our lives, caring in that genuine way that reminds us all of what family should be. And now Grace is watching me throw away everything I've worked for.
She catches my eye and, instead of the disappointment I expect, she smiles. Warm, encouraging, like nothing's wrong. Like she believes in me regardless.
Something shifts in my chest. A memory surfaces – Grace in her kitchen last month, flour on her cheeks as she taught me how to make her famous chocolate chip cookies.
"You know, Dakota," she'd said, kneading dough with practiced hands, "my Marcus almost didn't ask me out. Too scared of rejection."
"No way," I'd laughed, trying to mimic her folding technique and making a mess. "Coach Mac doesn't seem like he'd be scared of anything."
"Oh, honey." She'd patted my cheek, leaving a smudge of flour. "The things worth having are always a little scary. That's how you know they matter."
The things worth having.
My hands are numb from gripping my stick too tight, but I feel a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as something deeper than guilt. It's clarity.
I've spent my entire adult life avoiding things that matter. Keeping it casual, keeping it light, keeping everyone at arm's length. But Harmony Baker slipped right past those defenses, and now I'm terrified because she matters. She fucking matters, and I let her walk away because that was easier than admitting it.
The whistle blows. Back to the face-off circle.
I bend down across from their center, a stocky guy with a patchy playoff beard. For the first time tonight, I feel fully present. The ice beneath my skates. The weight of my stick. The rhythm of my breath inside my helmet.
"You're mine," I mutter to the opposing center.
The ref drops the puck. I sweep it cleanly back to Asher, then burst forward, skating harder than I have all night. Something's unlocked in me. I'm not just going through the motions anymore – I'm back in my body, back in the game.
Three quick passes and the puck returns to me with a lane to the net. I fire a wrist shot, top corner. The lamp lights.
3-1.
The crowd erupts, and our bench comes alive. I circle back, bumping gloves with my linemates.
"There he is," Asher grins. "Welcome back, Lucky."
The momentum shifts like someone flipped a switch. We're faster, hungrier, more connected. I steal the puck at center ice, dance past a defenseman, and slide a perfect pass to Ryder who buries it.
3-2.
Between second and third periods, Coach doesn't give a speech. He just points at the scoreboard. "That's what happens when you play like you give a damn."
I glance up at where Grace sits. She gives me a thumbs up, and I nod back. Message received, Mrs. MacIntyre. The things worth having are worth fighting for.
Third period. We're relentless. I'm everywhere – forechecking, backchecking, winning battles in the corners. My body's moving on instinct now, brain finally clear of everything except this moment, this game.
Seven minutes in, Kaleb ties it up on a rebound.
3-3.
The crowd's on their feet, the noise deafening. I catch Grace clapping wildly.
With four minutes left, Coach taps my line. "Go win this thing, Miles."
I hop over the boards, hungry for it now. We cycle the puck in their zone, wearing down their defense. Asher works it free along the boards, finds me in the slot. Time slows down. I see the goalie shift his weight slightly to his right, opening up the left side of the net.
I fire.
The puck hits the back of the net with a sound I swear I can hear over the explosion of the crowd.
4-3.
My teammates mob me, a tangle of arms and sticks and raw joy. But my eyes find Grace in the stands, on her feet. She’s beaming like I'm their own son who just scored.
We hold on for the final minutes, every blocked shot and cleared puck bringing us closer to the win. When the final buzzer sounds, the relief and triumph surge through me like electricity. We've taken a 2-1 lead in the series, coming back from certain defeat.
The customary handshake line, media interviews, locker room celebration – I go through it all in a happy daze. But there's an urgency building inside me that has nothing to do with hockey.
"Epic comeback, Lucky!" A reporter shoves a microphone in my face. "What changed in the second period?"
I could give the standard answer about teamwork and resilience. Instead, I hear myself say, "I remembered what matters."
Later, showered and changed, I step out of the arena's player exit. A small group of fans wait for autographs. I sign jerseys and pucks, pose for photos, but my mind's already racing ahead.
Grace is waiting at the edge of the crowd. I make my way over to them.
"Hi, Mrs. MacIntyre," I say, hugging her.
"Seemed like you found your way back to yourself out there," Grace says with that knowing look moms somehow perfect.
"Thanks to you," I admit. "That talk we had about things worth having... it hit home tonight."
"Sometimes we need a reminder of what's important."
"Right. I've got to go," I tell her, sudden urgency rushing through me. "There's somewhere I need to be."
Grace's eyes twinkle. "Would this somewhere happen to involve a certain meteorologist?"
I feel a smile spreading across my face – not my practiced camera-ready one, but something real and a little vulnerable. "If I'm lucky."
"Luck's got nothing to do with it," she says. "Just be honest with her."
I nod, already backing toward the parking lot where my Porsche waits. "I will. Thank you – for coming tonight, for everything."