Page 125 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
The difference is, I’m not the same player I was the last time we played. I’m better. Stronger. The team knows I have their back, and I’m going to have to trust that they have mine.
I promise myself that this game will be different.
I glide through warm-ups, my mind clear and focused. The anger’s still there; it always will be, but it’s controlled now. Channeled. I’m not a bomb waiting to explode anymore. I’m a weapon that knows when and how to strike.
“You good?” Jett asks as he skates past, his golden hair catching the arena lights.
“Yeah,” I tell him, and I mean it. “I’m good.”
Silas appears on my other side, silent as always, but I can feel his presence like an anchor. My brothers. My constants. No matter how fucked up everything else gets, they’re there.
“Kane’s been chirping our rookies during warm-ups,” Silas says quietly.
I look over at the other team’s bench. Sure enough, Kane’s running his mouth at Connor and some of the other young guys. Their faces are tight, nervous.
If this were the last month, I would have skated over there and introduced Kane’s face to the glass. Tonight, I have an alternate plan. I’m gonna trust my boys more to protect themselves. Not to jump the fucking gun and come in slinging fists.
“Let him chirp,” I say. “We’ll answer on the scoreboard.”
Silas gives me a look that might be surprise, might be approval. With my brother, it’s always been hard to tell what he’s thinking.
The anthem plays and we line up on the blue line. I stand between my brothers, feeling that familiar pre-game buzz building in my chest. Not rage this time. Anticipation.
Coach Cross and Coach Ryan have been working us hard, drilling the same systems over and over until they become instinct. Pass, support, move. Trust your line mates. Play as a team.
It’s clicking. Finally.
The puck drops and we’re off.
First shift, I’m out there with Thorne and Grayson. We forecheck hard but smart, forcing turnovers without taking stupid penalties. When their defenseman tries to clear the puck up the boards, I’m there to cut him off. But instead of crushing him into the glass like I normally would, I just take the puck away and feed it to Thorne for a quick shot.
No unnecessary contact. No wasted energy. Just hockey.
“Nice play,” Thorne mutters as we skate back for the line change.
I grunt in acknowledgment. It was a nice play. Clean and effective.
Kane tries his first move eight minutes into the period. A late hit after the whistle, nothing the refs will call but enough to get my attention. He grins at me, waiting for the explosion.
I just skate away.
His face twists with confusion and annoyance. Good. Let him wonder what’s changed.
We’re outshooting them two to one by the midway point of the first. Our forechecking is relentless but disciplined. When they try to make plays, we’re there to break them up. When we have the puck, we’re flying, making them chase.
We’re going to crush this game and grind them into dust.
Grayson scores first on a beautiful feed from Thorne, burying a one-timer that the goalie never sees. The crowd explodes; I genuinely smile as we celebrate. Not the savage grin of violence, but actual joy.
Playing well feelsgood. I’d almost forgotten.
By the end of the first period, we’re up 2-0. Jett added another goal on a power play where our puck movement was so crisp it looked choreographed. Even Beck’s barking orders with something that sounds like pride in his voice.
“That’s hockey!” Coach Cross shouts in the locker room during intermission. “That’s what happens when you trust each other! When you play as a team!”
He’s right. This feels different from our usual wins. Those were grinding affairs, ugly victories built on individual efforts and lucky bounces. This feels earned. Collective.
In the second period is where Kane gets desperate.
