Page 24 of Fly

No goal.

But we skated back onside together, lungs burning, boards rattling under our gloves as we changed. Becks flashed me a grin as he jumped the bench. Mules gave a single nod. It wasn’t pretty, but it was real hockey, and for the first time all night, it felt like we were playing the same game.

Next shift, New Jersey upped their defensive game against our line—maybe they’d seen the threat? Whatever, they came out mean. The first hit came on Becks before he even finished his turn—shoulder through chest, legal enough, loud enough to send a message. The second was on Mules in front of the net, cross-check into the numbers while the puck was already gone. The refs let it go. Of course they did. On the back check, one of their Ds clipped my skates just enough to throw me off balance. I stayed up, but his stick rode up into my ribs, a quick, sharp jab that stole my breath.

“Your dad was a prick—but at least he could play,” he muttered as we tangled, glove gripping my jersey. If he thought that was going to get a rise out of me, then he knew nothing. I shoved him off and chased the play instead. That was the test. Get mad. Get stupid. Break the rhythm we’d just found.

Mules took another hit behind the net, and this time he gave it back, hard, boards rattling. Becks circled, stick down, eyes up—waiting. Trusting I’d be there. I was. I slid into the lane, took the pass clean, and chipped it deep instead of forcing something heroic. Becks was on it immediately. Mules planted himself at the top of the crease. We didn’t generate much—just pressure, just time—but it mattered. New Jersey had to work for it. Had to lean on us instead of running us over.

It put them on the back foot, and when Trick's line climbed over the boards, it was twenty seconds in, and they scored.

Yeah, we ended up with a five-one loss, but I had to hope I'd put on a good enough show to start proving I belonged on this line.

After the final horn, I sat in my cubby staring at the floor while the room filled back up with noise—music, voices, the scrape of gear. Cap walked past, tapped his stick lightly against my shin.

“Nice,” he said, as if it was nothing more than a routine thing, then he was gone toward the cameras, already shifting into captain mode.

I was still pulling my jersey off when Coach stopped in front of me. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t soften it either.

“You’re up,” he said, jerking his chin toward the semicircle of reporters gathering around Cap. Fuck! For real? “Answer the questions. Don’t overthink it.”

Easy for him to say.

I walked over, heart thudding harder than it ever did on the ice. The mics came up immediately.

“Tough night,” someone said. “You got booed heavily in warm-ups. How did that feel?”

It felt awful, it felt like shit, it was the worst thing to know that so many people hated me… but I’m used to it.

I swallowed, but I knew what to say and how to pretend it didn’t matter. “Fans are passionate,” I said, which sounded rehearsed even to my own ears. “I get it. They want wins. They want effort, and I owe them that.”

Another voice cut in. “Do you think your father’s reputation played into what happened? He wasn’t exactly loved in this building.”

There it was.

I shifted my weight, suddenly very aware of the cameras, the lights, the way everyone leaned in just a fraction closer. “My dad had his own career,” I said slowly. “People are entitled to their opinions about him, but I’m not him.”

“And you?” the reporter pressed. “How are you feeling after a game like this?”

I thought about the boos. About New Jersey players attempting to rattle me. About the one clean shift that actually worked.

“I’m frustrated we lost,” I said. “But I’m settling in. I’m learning my way. That takes reps, and I hope that I get the chance to take this into the next pre-seasons, and hopefully into the season itself.”

The reporter sneered—honest to god sneered at my words—but didn’t have the balls to say that he imagined I’d be heading down to the AHL. I stared right back at him, even as I began to crumble inside.

A pause. Then the question I’d been waiting for without wanting it.

“Do you worry you’ll always be compared to the man who nearly killed generational talent Tennant Rowe?”

How many times did I need to say this? I looked straight ahead, jaw tight, and repeated the only thing that felt honest tonight.

“I’m not my father.”