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It’s fucking annoying. But I revel in it.
Jealous glances fuel my defiance. They don’t know our story, the late-night talks, the shared dreams, the way his hand fits mine. This is the unexpected love story, the one I never imagined and never expected. Bohdi shattered my defenses, and he claims he knocked on my door and waited for me to let him in.
Little does he know, he kicked the door open long before that moment and forced his way into my heart.
No door was keeping Bohdi out.
When I was warming up, I glanced around the stadium looking for Bohdi, but I couldn’t see him. He told me where he was sitting, in the first row, right next to the benches, which I’m pretty sure Denny was pissed about, but I couldn’t see him. Maybe he was getting a drink. Fucking best be. We came together, so he’s got no excuse why he can’t be here.
I pick up my phone, ready to put my headphones in, but Coach’s voice echoes around the locker room.
“All right, listen up! Before we hit the ice, I need a quick chat with you all.” I toss my phone aside and stand up, heading over to huddle with my teammates.
“This year? Damn, it’s been epic. Feels as if I’ve watched you boys transform from wide-eyed kids to full-grown men in a matter of months. And let me tell you, you’ve made me damn proud, even if some of you raise my blood pressure like it’s their part-time job.” I shoot Tray a look.
“That was definitely aimed at you,” I mutter to him.
“Eat ass,” Tray fires back.
“Already did, twice,” I wink. He bites his lip, trying not to crack up. Tray loves it when I mess with him. Meanwhile, Kal—our resident serious guy—stands across from us, brooding because we’re not hanging on every word coach say.
And that’s why he’s our captain.
“Wayne Gretzky once dropped this wisdom: ‘You miss 100 percent of the shots you don’t take.’ Well, tonight, we’re taking every damn shot. I want your blades digging into the ice like talons, hearts pounding. This rink? It’s our hunting ground. You hear me? You are the Devil Hawks!” The locker room erupts—helmets smacking together, cheers echoing.
“But listen up,” Coach continues. “The best teams? They’re not just a bunch of random folks. They’re a brotherhood. And let me tell you, it makes me damn proud to be your coach. So leave no doubt out there. When that puck drops, we’re not just playing a game; we’re writing our legacy. Now go out there and make history!”
And with that, the locker room explodes, the smell of sweat, the clank of sticks, and the echo of pure determination.
“Let’s do this, Devil Hawks!” Kal shouts, and then everyone's shouting, people bumping into each other. Everyone begins to filter out as I make my way back to my locker.
“Yo, Quake?” Tray’s voice echoes across the locker room.
“Yeah, I’ll catch up with you out there,” I reply. The truth is, I wasn’t expecting a pep talk, so I hadn’t queued up my song. But that song, it’s my ritual. Coach will probably chew me out whenhe realizes I’m not on the ice, but I don’t care. I can’t step onto that frozen surface without hearing it.
I glance around, searching for my phone. “I swear I left it here,” I mutter, eyeing the bench where I was sitting. Panic flares up. “Where the hell is my damn phone?” I sing-song my frustration, scanning the floor. And then there it is—a glimmer of shattered glass.
“Shit.” I reach down, picking up my mangled phone. It must’ve taken a hit during our pre-speech celebration. I press the power button, but the screen remains lifeless. Nothing. Nada.
I check everyone else’s dressing area, no phones. Damn it. What am I going to do? I can’t even text Bohdi. Panic claws its way up my throat. I have no choice. I’ll play the NCAA final without my song. As I walk down the tunnel, the ice smell hits me, and my legs turn to lead.
I’ll fucking mess up. I just know it.
As soon as my skates hit the ice, dread washes over me. I can’t focus on no one, I can’t focus on anything. When I get a bad feeling about something, it’s normally always spot on.
Kal skates over to me, his brows furrowed behind his helmet.
“Put your helmet on. What the fuck is that panic on your face as well? Quake don't panic,” Kal says, skating in circles around me, tapping my pads. He smacks his helmet against mine.
“We’ve got this,” he says, his voice a steady anchor in the whirlwind of nerves. “Relax,” he adds, his frown softening the edges of his determination.
“I’m going to fuck up, Kal,” I confess, my voice trembling with panic. The weight of the game, the pressure to perform, it’s all crashing down on me.
“What are you talking about?” Kal’s eyes search mine, concern etching lines on his face.
“My phone just shattered,” I admit, my fingers still trembling. “I haven’t had a chance to listen to my song.”
Kal’s expression shifts from concern to understanding. He knows what it’s like to play without our ritual, without that familiar melody coursing through our veins. In the last few games, when I wasn’t there, he hesitated on certain shots. Doubt crept in, biting at his confidence.
