He claps his gloves together once, doesn’t look at anyone, and grabs his stick. And that’s it. In response, the guys’ heads dip and stay there, except Theo, who glances up at me like he’s waiting for me to step in.
But I can’t do that.
Not in front of the captain.
We move toward the tunnel, and the Friday-night noise of The Den catches us at the bench door, that wall of sound that usually stitches everyone together in the same second. It still gets me. But the guys around me are flat.
A North Vale State game is supposed to feel like somebody lit a fuse in the corridor: bodies banging into each other, the whole place feral by puck drop. Hell, the seniors still talk about the triple-overtime playoff loss two seasons ago.
But tonight, there’s just nothing.
We push out onto the ice. North Vale State’s already there, lined up clean and synchronized, and their captain is barking athis first line D pair in a voice that couldn’t be more different from Gavin’s.
I take my laps, trying to shake whatever’s hanging over us. Before I know it, I’m taking the opening faceoff. It’s not my usual spot — I’m a winger — but Luca is sore and Dunne’s out with a bad shoulder, so I’m centering the line tonight, and the opening draw falls to me.
North Vale State’s center wins it clean, walks through Gavin’s pairing and buries one.
One-nothing.
The Den goes quiet in a way I’ve never heard it.
I skate back to center for the next faceoff, and Seb catches my eye on the way past. He doesn’t say anything, but we know whose fault that goal was. It’s the guy with the letter, who’s got his head down and isn’t saying anything.
The whistle goes, and I drop into the next faceoff — and for no good reason, my head is back in the doorway at Sterling House the other day. Sloane in a hoodie, hair still damp from the pool, the smallest smile, a quiet “Hi.” Not forgiveness. But not the door in my face either.
But it doesn’t change anything, because I still can’t have her.
The faceoff dot is a terrible place to consider it, so I shake it off and win the draw, and for the next few minutes I play like the game is something I can drag back by force. But every time I glance at the bench — lungs raw, legs heavy — Gavin is unmoved.
And the scoreboard is stuck.
As Coach Franklin’s jaw keeps getting tighter, he calls for adjustments that Gavin should then be relaying down the bench, but he isn’t. So, between shifts, I start passing them along myself.
A few minutes later, Mason drops onto the bench beside me, pulling his gloves off finger by finger. Two seats down, Seb getsup without a word and posts at the rail. Mason glances at the vacated seat and smiles like he won something.
It’s been six days since the party, and they still haven’t traded a word.
Nobody could fault Mason’s game — he’s been sharp all night. That’s the annoying thing about him: he produces enough to make the rest tolerable, although the transaction is getting harder to stomach the more I get to know him.
“Look at you,” he says, not looking at me. “Running the whole show.”
I don’t respond.
“Sloane doing okay tonight?” He spits into the trough and watches the ice.
“Wouldn’t know,” I say, eyes on the play. “Isn’t that your business?”
He scoffs and doesn’t answer.
But the mention of Sloane drags my eyes up to the student section. Ivy’s there, three rows up, in one of her million vintage hoodies and a gray beanie, but the seat next to her is empty.
Then Coach Franklin calls our line and I’m over the boards.
Mason’s voice follows me out there, and under it, uninvited: Sloane, stepping back from my hand at the party, the mask sliding home. It makes me half a second late to the play, and North Vale State breaks out three-on-two that we barely survive.
At the next whistle, Seb glides in beside me. “Where were you on that?”
“Lights must’ve got in my eyes,” I say.
