Page 39 of Cold Front
Then, the rush of cold air hit as we stepped onto the ice, bright lights flooding my vision. The familiar routine took over—laps, stretches, shots on goal. The sound of skates cutting across the surface, the sharp crack of pucks hitting sticks, the low rumble of the crowd swelling with every pass and shot.
Before I knew it, warm-ups were over. I rolled my shoulders, gripping my stick as the PA announcer ran through the lineups. The crowd was electric, students stomping against the bleachers, chants rolling through the arena like waves.
I breathed it in, the anticipation, the weight of the moment. Then, just as fast, the roar faded into something else. Something quieter.
Three years ago today was a night like this.
First home game of my freshman year. My parents were supposed to be in the stands. Mom never fully got hockey, but she cheered loud enough to make up for it. Dad, though—he lived for it. He wasn’t the loudest fan, not like Mom, but he watched every play like it mattered, nodding at the good ones, exhaling sharp when something didn’t go our way. And yeah, sometimes he swore under his breath—at a bad call, at a missed chance—but never at me. Never at my team. Just at the game itself, the way people did when they cared too much to hold it in.
I remembered looking for them during warm-ups, during the game, even after the final buzzer, glancing toward the section they should have been in.
Every year since, this day followed me. Not like a shadow. Shadows you could shake off, outrun. Grief didn’t work like that.
It settled into my bones, heavier some days than others. But it never kept me from the ice.
I exhaled. Adjusted my gloves. This game is for them.
The ref skated to center ice. The Rebels’ captain met me in the circle.
His eyes locked on mine, sharp, assessing. Didn’t matter. I was already locked in.
The puck dropped.
We controlled possession early. But then, late in the first period, the ice tilted. And the Rebels scored. We’d been here before. One goal down wasn’t a problem. Staying there was.
From the time the puck dropped in the second period, I barely had time to think. The Rebels’ goalie was squared up, reading the play. I faked a snap shot, dragging the puck just enough to shift the angle—then ripped it high, glove side.
The net rippled.
For half a second, everything went silent. Then?—
The goal horn blared. The crowd erupted. My teammates crashed into me, gloves slamming against my helmet, arms around my shoulders.
Game tied.
No time to celebrate. I skated straight to the bench, fist-bumping guys on the way. Hunter grabbed the top of my helmet, shaking my head playfully. “That’s how we do it, Cap.”
Coach AJ gave a sharp nod. “Keep pushing.”
We did.
On the next shift, Nico stepped up and leveled their winger at the blue line, breaking up their rush. The puck kicked free, and Micah was on it, chipping it ahead. We kept the pressure on, swarming them, forcing bad passes, outworking them along the boards.
The game tilted. Momentum was ours.
Midway through the period, we struck again. A battle in front, Hunter screening the goalie, chaos at the crease—Roman jabbed at a loose puck, and it trickled past the goal line.
2-1, Mavericks.
Adrenaline surged. But the job wasn’t done.
I glanced at the scoreboard, then at the clock. Still plenty of hockey left.
Time to lock it down.
For the last ten minutes of the second period, the game was tight. Then, with just three minutes to go, Roman deked the first defender, but the second knocked him off balance. The puck slid free.
I saw my opening.
