Page 45 of The Players We Hate
Wren: I wasn’t planning on it, but… yeah. I’ll be there. A little late, but I’ll be there.
My chest tightened.
I locked the screen, slid the phone into my bag, and stood.
Whatever this was, whatever we were turning into, I was done pretending it wasn’t real.
And tonight, I was going to tell her.
Or at least try.
Chapter Thirteen
Talon
From the moment the puck dropped, it felt different.
There was bite in our play, confidence under the roar of the crowd. Passes snapped, shifts clicked. We weren’t out there for show.
We were playing for each other.
I felt it when Rowdy slapped my pads after a stop. When Kade leveled a winger so hard his helmet slid sideways. When our bench stayed on their feet, yelling through every zone entry and block.
This was what we’d been grinding for since last season.
We barely hit full stride before we were up two. Owen buried a rebound after a battle in front of the crease. Then Kade ripped one from the point that cut through traffic and slammed the back of the net.
The crowd blew up. You could feel it vibrating through the glass.
And we weren’t done.
In the second period, they pushed harder, trying to catch up. We matched them stride for stride. I ate a puck off thehip that dropped me to the ice, pain burning through me, but I got back up. Didn’t matter. The sting would fade, but the win wouldn’t.
Rowdy stood on his head in net, robbing them blind. One breakaway glove save was so quick it looked like the puck vanished. He laughed as he dropped it into the ref’s hand. “Try again, boys.”
By the time we hit the third, you could see the other team breaking down. Their passes got sloppy, their heads dropped, and we didn’t give them room to breathe.
Talon to Kade. Kade to Owen. Goal number three.
We rode that momentum to the finish line. With two minutes left, Owen chipped in one more goal with a backhand off a face-off win.
Four–zero.
And when the final horn blew, the weight of everything we’d built during the preseason finally lifted.
Rowdy was the first to explode, ripping off his mask and firing his gloves into the air as he skated to center ice, grinning like he’d won a championship. I followed with my stick raised, chest pounding with relief and pride.
Because tonight we didn’t just win. We dominated.
We’d been grinding in silence all summer. Before the fans, before the lights. Early morning lifts. Endless drills. Bag skates were so punishing that our legs felt like concrete. Tonight, it was all worth it.
Tonight, it clicked.
Coach didn’t even chew us out in the postgame meeting, which said everything. Just a nod and a rare, “Well done,” before dismissing us. That alone was enough to send guys into stunned laughter.
By the time I hit the showers, the locker room was buzzing. The guys were amped, talking about the big hits, Rowdy’s saves, and the perfect cycle on goal three. One by one, they started peeling off and heading out to celebrate, soaking in the win while it was still fresh.
I barely let the hot water hit my back before I was rinsing off and shutting it down. The ache in my side didn’t matter. Not when I knew who was waiting outside.
