Page 72 of Depths of Desire
I was a machine built for hockey, and machines didn’t have feelings.
The first period ended 1-1. I skated to the bench feeling like I was watching someone else play in my body.
The second period was when everything started unraveling.
Phoenix scored three minutes in, a gorgeous wrist shot that caught the top corner, all precision and power. He celebrated with his arms raised, grin wide, basking in the roar of the handful of Detroit fans who’d made the trip. Something about his confidence, the way he owned the moment without apology, sent a knife straight through my chest.
Oliver standing on the pool deck, silver medal around his neck, not smiling.
Oliver in my bed, sure hands mapping my skin like he’d been doing it his whole life.
Me walking out my door.
My next shift, I cross-checked Phoenix into the boards after a clean hit. Stupid and reckless.
“Two minutes, cross-checking,” the ref announced, and I skated to the penalty box, feeling like I was drowning.
I sat there, watching the Titans’ power play unit swarm our zone, and all I could see was Oliver’s face when I said I was out of the equation. The way his jaw had tightened. The way he’d reached for me as I walked away.
The puck hit the back of our net twenty seconds later.
3-1 Titans. My fault.
By the third period, we were down 3-2, and something inside me snapped.
Eight minutes left, and I stopped playing hockey and started playing like a man with nothing left to lose. I took hits to make passes. I threw my body into scrums I had no business being in. I played like the ice was on fire and the only way out was through the thick of it.
Four minutes left, I picked Phoenix’s pocket at center ice and carried the puck through all three zones. Two defensemen tried to sandwich me, but I spun between them, kept my feet, and buried a backhand past their goalie’s glove.
3-3.
I didn’t celebrate. I didn’t raise my stick or pump my fist or acknowledge the crowd. I just skated back to center, hollow-eyed and empty, while my teammates mobbed me from behind.
A minute left.
I won the face-off, cycled the puck to Rhett, took a hit that rang my bell, got back up, and parked myself in front of the net. Phoenix was on me immediately, slashing at my hands, talking trash I couldn’t hear over the roar in my ears.
The puck came to me off a weird bounce. I had half a second before Phoenix could tie me up. I didn’t shoot. I couldn’t see the net through the crown. Instead, I dropped it back to Easton, who was crashing the far post.
Tap-in. Game winner.
The team exploded, gloves flew, and helmets came off. Easton buried me in a bear hug that lifted me off my skates,screaming something about the most beautiful pass he’d ever received.
I felt nothing.
Even as they carried me toward the bench, even as the crowd chanted my name, even as Phoenix skated by and tapped my shin guards in grudging respect, I felt like I was watching it all happen to someone else.
We’d won. I’d played the best game of my life.
And Oliver still wasn’t here to see it.
The locker room was chaos, music blasting, guys shouting, equipment flying everywhere in celebration. I sat in my stall, still in full gear, staring down at my skates like they held the secrets of the universe.
Around me, the party raged on. Elio was doing some ridiculous dance. Patrick was filming everything for his Instagram story. Coach was making the rounds, slapping backs and talking about how this win put us in first place in the conference.
I unlaced my skates with mechanical precision, the same way I’d laced them two hours ago. Except now, everything felt different. Somehow heavier.
“Okay, what the hell was that out there?”
