Page 21 of Checks & Bonds

Silence fell like a heavy curtain over the rink. The only sound was the faint hum of the arena lights. My thoughts drifted to Eren—his easy grin, his infectious laugh. A kid who should've had years ahead of him on and off the ice.

I glanced at Michael Carter. He stood apart from us, head bowed, blond hair falling into his eyes like a veil. He always reminded me of a lion—his presence commanding and strong—and even now, he seemed unaffected. But was it all an act? Eren had been his best friend.

What had Eren gotten mixed up in? The question gnawed at me. Eren was just a kid with dreams of making it big in hockey. Now he was gone, leaving a void none of us could fill.

Michael hadn't talked about it much. He'd missed a couple of practices but showed up to games with that same fierce determination. I understood his silence; talking about it would make it too real, too raw.

I sighed as the moment of silence ended, and cheers began again. The noise swelled around us, bringing life back into the arena. We started heading to the locker room, skates slicing through the remnants of celebration.

I patted Michael on the shoulder as we walked off the ice. He gave me a nod, his blue eyes shadowed but resolute. We didn't need words; we were all carrying Eren with us in our own way.

Back in the locker room, we stripped off our gear in silence punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter as we recounted moments from the game. The victory felt bittersweet—an achievement tinged with loss.

As I sat down to unlace my skates, I couldn’t shake thoughts of the Imprinting Ceremony in a couple of hours. But right now, surrounded by my teammates' chatter and camaraderie, I focused on what lay ahead—the finals and honoring Eren's memory with every game we played.

The locker room buzzed with post-game adrenaline, our victory fresh and sweet. The air reeked of sweat and victory, a heady mix that made the room feel alive. My teammates' voices bounced off the walls, recounting every play, every hit.

Coach Morgan strutted in, exuding the same cocky confidence he always had. His swagger was unmistakable—shoulders back, chest out, eyes sharp and calculating. He swung a hockey stick over his shoulder like a bat, and his presence demanded silence.

"All right, listen up!" His voice cut through the chatter like a knife. "One more game. One more game and we're champions."

The room fell silent. Every eye turned to him, hanging on his words.

"We played a hell of a game out there," he continued, pacing back and forth. "But it wasn't perfect. And fucking perfection is what we need to take home that championship."

He stopped in front of us, piercing us with his gaze one by one. "Defense," he growled, "you left too many gaps. You can't let them skate into our zone like they own the place. Tighten up like a virgin's pussy and stay the fuck sharp."

He turned his attention to the forwards. "Offense—great hustle, but you gotta finish those plays. Shit. Too many missed opportunities in front of their net. Close the fucking deal like it's your wife, boys. No excuses."

Morgan slammed the stick down on a bench, the crack echoing through the room. "And for fuck's sake, don't get sloppy with your passes! Precision is key. You mess up a pass in the finals, you hand them the game on a silver platter."

His eyes bore into us again, daring anyone to challenge him. "We fix these mistakes in practice tomorrow. We go over every play until it's second nature because we do not fuck up when it counts."

He paused, letting his words sink in. The weight of our next game pressed on my shoulders like lead.

"You've got what it takes," he said, softer now but no less intense. "Each one of you has proven it time and again this season. One more game and you make history."

The room was electric with determination and focus.

Coach Morgan looked at each of us one last time before turning toward the door. "Rest up tonight," he ordered without looking back. "Tomorrow we work harder than ever."

Morgan headed to his office after that, leaving us alone.

Freya. Her name echoed in my thoughts, uninvited and relentless.

I pushed away from the bench and headed to the showers. I stripped off my tights and rash guard, tossing them into a corner before stepping under the hot stream of water.

As the water cascaded over me, I couldn't help but wonder if I should go to the Imprinting Ceremony. The ritual loomed over me like a storm cloud. Tradition dictated that I had to be there; our family legacy depended on it. My grandfather's father had started this line, and I'd be damned if I embarrassed them by skipping out.

Freya was stubborn enough to show up; that much I knew. She had fire in her veins—an unwavering resolve that matched my own.

If she did come, what then?

And if I showed up, I'd be forced to claim someone, sealing my fate with a decision that wasn't entirely mine.

The thought of claiming someone else left a bitter taste in my mouth. But there was no getting out of it; honor and tradition bound me like chains.

Which meant I'd be there.

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