TYLER:GUYS. The ticket promo is WORKING. We're at 70% sold. SEVENTY PERCENT. We haven't been past 30% all season. JOSIE IS A WIZARD.
I stare at the screen.
Seventy percent.
That's a fucking packed house by the Bear Cave's usual standards.
I set the phone down and grip the steering wheel, and a feeling I haven't had in years uncoils in my chest. It takes me a second to recognize it, because it doesn't belong here, in this place I came to disappear.
Excitement.
And right behind it, hot on its heels…
Fear.
Because a sold-out arena means people. People in seats. People with phones and expectations and a reason to give a damn.
It means the coasting is over.
It means I'm actually going to have to play hockey again.Realhockey, the kind I buried somewhere along the way.
I start the engine, the headlights cutting across the empty lot.
But for once, the fear doesn't feel like a weight.
Because now I've got a reason to give a damn too.
The locker room iselectrictonight.
I've never heard it like this. Usually pre-game is dead quiet around here. A few guys taping sticks, somebody half-asleep in the corner, that flat energy of a team that's already decided how the night's going to go.
Not tonight.
Nofuckingway.
"You hear that?" Beck's bouncing on the balls of his feet, fully geared up, gloves smacking together. "Listen. Justlisten."
We all go quiet.
And there it is.
A low, rolling rumble bleeding through the concrete walls. The noise of a crowd.Ourcrowd. Thousands of voices stacked on top of each other, building, swelling, broken up by the bass thump of the warm-up playlist.
"Holy shit," Mason murmurs. He's lacing his skates, but his hands have gone still. "That's—is that—"
"That's a full house, boys," Coach Pearson says, stepping into the center of the room.
He's in his game-day suit, tie already loosened, and he looks around at all of us with something burning in his eyes I haven't seen since I got here.
"You hear that out there?" He jabs a thumb toward the tunnel. "They are our people who decided, for the first time, that you were worth showing up for." His gaze sweeps the room, landing on each of us in turn. "Now. You can play like you have all season, and you can send every single one of those people home thinking they made a mistake. They'll be disappointed, and never return to see another game again."
The room is dead silent.
"Or you can give them a reason to come back."
Margot, our chef, slips through with a tray of cut oranges, pressing one into my hand without a word. Darcy's in the doorway, tablet tucked under her arm, watching the whole thing with a nervous smile.
I bite into the orange. Sweet juice floods my tongue, sharp and bright, and I watch Coach's words land.
