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CHAPTER 1
Coen
Since the crash,the atmosphere in the Titans’ arena has been nothing short of electric. Now that the playoffs are in full swing and the Titans have earned a spot, the energy output from the fans is almost painful to bear.
Especially since I’m sitting in the upper tier of the arena and watching my team from afar.
I have no fucking clue why I’m here.
I’ve made my position clear—I don’t give a fuck about hockey anymore.
And yet… here I am.
Watching my team.
Or is it still my team since I’m suspended through no one’s fault but my own? In the split second before I attacked that ref, I knew it was the end for me this season. I can’t even claim heat of the moment, because I knew what I was doing. More importantly, I knew what the consequences would be before I did it.
Regardless, no one has recognized me. It’s been three weeks since I was suspended for that attack. I’ve grown my beard, not in solidarity with my teammates who have their playoff scruff blooming, but because I don’t give enough of a fuck to shave.
Plus, living in Stone’s cabin in the deep woods, I’ve got this whole mountain-man thing going on.
I’m wearing a hat pulled low and my glasses, not because I think they offer a disguise, but because I didn’t order my replacement contacts in time.
The whole look allows me to sit up here among the throng of fans too amped up on playoff energy and beer to pay me too much attention. But if someone does happen to recognize me, so be it.
I’m just a regular fan like them now.
It’s game three of this first round of the playoffs. The first two games were played against the New Jersey Wildcats who had home ice advantage. They soundly whipped the Titans’ asses both games.
I by no means think it’s because I wasn’t there to help. Yes, it’s been tough on everyone losing me as well as our primary goalie, Jesper Keane, but I wasn’t contributing all that much to begin with.
Some would argue I was hurting the team with my shitty attitude.
Outside of that, it’s just been hard for a team of players to come together after the tragedy of the crash. It’s unrealistic to expect us to have much in the way of synchronization and connection on the ice. Playoff teams have had months to gel in all the ways needed to play at the highest caliber, and the Titans just haven’t had that.
This isn’t shocking or unexpected.
The team’s chances of amounting to much this season after the crash were incredibly slim, and it’s an amazing accomplishment to have even made the playoffs.
They won’t be here long, though.
Currently down three to zero with only five minutes left in the third period, this is going to go down as another loss, and they’ll only be one game away from elimination.
I’m not sad for me, but I do pity those guys down on the ice who are playing their hearts out, trying to eke out a win for the fans. They’re giving all they’ve got, but it won’t be enough.
I consider heading out and beating the mass exodus once the buzzer sounds. I’ve got a little over a three-and-a-half-hour drive to get back to Stone’s cabin. I moved in the day he gave me the keys, and this is the first time I’ve left the small town of Coudersport.
Still not quite sure what possessed me to come to Pittsburgh to watch this game, but fuck if I could help myself.
It’s nothing but torture.
Self-flagellation.
Making myself watch what I’ve willingly given up.
And I have given it up, even though I’m here. The day Brienne and Callum notified me of the suspension, I told them I was done for good.
I was numb, sitting in Brienne’s office. The cool-as-a-cucumber heiress to the Norcross fortune, and now sole owner of the Titans after her brother’s death in the crash, regarded me not with ice in her eyes, but with a warmth and understanding I hadn’t earned.
