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Chapter one
Noah
Life always comes down to moments.
I’ve been alive for twenty-eight years. Of those ten-thousand-plus days lived, I can’t remember exact hours or minutes, just the moments.
Like the moment my eyes connected with my future wife’s across the University of Michigan’s quad for the first time freshman year—and the way Quinn’s eyes lit up when she turned around in that same spot one year later and found me down on one knee with an engagement ring.
Of course, there’s the moment when I saw her in her wedding dress for the first time and when she said, “I do.”
There are moments in my hockey career that have defined me. Like my dad lacing up my first pair of skates for Mini-Mites hockey and the first goal I ever made.
The moment my name was announced as a first-draft pick for the Seattle Stormbreakers at eighteen and again when I found out I’d been moved up to the first line after our captain and center Lucas McKnight retired last year.
Like everyone, there are moments I wish I could forget, things I’ve done and said that hurt the people I love—one person in particular who cared about me far more than they should have—and moments that disappointed me and the people who believed in me. Moments I wish I could redo or take back.
The moments—the split seconds—that haunt you for the rest of your life and keep you up at night…
Like this moment replaying on my TV screen, over and over again in an endless loop.
“Ashcroft is going to be thinking about that one for a long time. He’s scored that goal hundreds of times in his life.”
“You’re not wrong about that, Sean. I would hate to be a Stormbreakers fan tonight.”
The announcers’ voices buzz in my ears like a gnat that won’t go away. My skin feels pulled too tight over my bones, and a heavy weight rests on my chest.
“I’ve gotta say, Ray, I did not expect that from Ashcroft. He stepped into Lucas McKnight’s shoes all season long and was expected to carry Seattle to a third straight Cup. To lose it on home ice, on a missed goal like that…”
“Yeah, it’s heartbreaking. You can feel it in the arena. This one’s going to go down in the history books for all the wrong reasons.”
The beer bottle in my grip is warm against my clammy hand, and I stare blankly at the TV screen, at the announcers continuing to talk about my failure. It ends minutes later, and I drink the last of my tepid beer, cringing at the taste and temperature. I’m not a huge drinker, but this past week, I’ve become one.
I set the empty bottle down next to the other two on the coffee table and grab the remote, jumping back to the last minute of the game—Game Five of the Western Conference Finals. Dallas had won two, we’d won two. This game was going to decide if we got a shot to defend our Stanley Cup title for the third year in a row.
I press a button, and the game starts playing on my screen. We were down by one and had pulled the goalie to try to tie it up. Everything looked good after the face-off, and watching it now, I can feel what I felt on the ice: excitement, determination, the hunger to even it up and take it to overtime, to prove to my team I’m the center they can depend on, like I’ve been all season.
The clock ticks down, and the announcer calls ten seconds left. There’s a scramble in front of the net, and the puck bounces to me like the hockey gods placed it there themselves. The goal’s wide open; all I have to do is tap it in.
Confidence wells in my gut like I’m back on the ice, and I envision the puck finding the back of the net. Stormbreakers fans are screaming through the surround sound, anticipating the goal and the blow of the horn.
My stomach bottoms out as the me on screen winds up. I can see what I did now—my aim was off when I hit the puck.
A beat of silence pulses in my head before complete devastation hits. The moment I’m going to think about for the rest of my life.
“Ashcroft missed it! I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it.”
“Dallas can’t, either. They’ve now got a shot to win the Cup for the first time in twenty years thanks to that mistake.”
“Ashcroft is going to be thinking about that one for a long time. He’s scored that goal hundreds of times in his life.”
I thread my fingers through my dark-red hair—or, as Quinn likes to call it, auburn—then over my beard. It’s normally trimmed close to my face, well-kept how I like it, but in the last week, it’s grown unruly. It should disgust me, but I haven’t thought much about how I look.
If I’m not in the theater room watching my failure on repeat, I’m in the gym, sweating out the beers I drank and attempting to maintain some semblance of my life before that final ten seconds.
My phone on the coffee table vibrates, but I ignore it like all the other times it’s gone off. I’ve left the entire world on read after I got home from the arena last Thursday. The only call I answered was from my agent, Aidan, because I was worried that he was calling with bad news.
In the year since I was brought up to the first line for the Stormbreakers, I’ve become the face of the team, the so-called second coming of our retired center and captain, Lucas McKnight. With the attention, I got brand deals and massive love from our fans—I can hardly walk into a Seattle establishment without at least one person knowing who I am. But after losing the game…well, I’m certain my stupid fuckup will cost me.
