Page 35 of Spring Break with a Slap Shot

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 behindour 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.

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