6. Henry

6

Henry

T he ice rink buzzed with electric energy. My skates carved the ice as I coasted into position. The scent of sweat and adrenaline hung heavy in the air, mixing with the faint chill that seeped through my gear. The puck dropped, and a roar erupted from the crowd, a tidal wave of sound crashing against the boards.

I tightened my grip on my stick, the smooth tape familiar under my gloved fingers. The cold bit at my exposed neck, but I welcomed it—it kept me sharp. I watched as our center won the faceoff, sending the puck back to me. The rubber disc slid over the ice, its frictionless glide almost musical.

A forward from Ann Arbor barreled toward me, his eyes predatory. My muscles coiled, ready for impact. He came in hard, shoulder first. Our collision sent vibrations up my arm and echoed through my chest plate. But I held firm, pivoting just enough to keep control of the puck.

I scanned the ice quickly, noting Sawyer breaking free on the right wing. A quick flick of my wrist sent the puck flying toward him, slicing through air and space with a whispering hiss. He caught it cleanly and charged down the ice.

My breath came fast and visible in little clouds as I raced to join the rush. The arena lights glared down, casting stark shadows that danced with our movements. My ears rang with the scrape of blades and the dull thud of bodies against glass.

Then a whistle cut through the chaos—a penalty against them. Relief washed over me like a cool drink of water on a scorching day. We gathered for a quick huddle near our bench, Coach barking orders we all knew by heart but needed to hear.

The ref dropped the puck again for our power play. This time, I hung back near our blue line, watching for any breakaway threats while still engaging in offensive maneuvers when necessary. The puck zipped between sticks like a pinball until it found its way back to me at the point.

I wound up for a slapshot, feeling every muscle in my legs and core tense as I unleashed it. The sound of stick meeting puck was a satisfying crack that echoed around the rink. It soared past their goalie’s glove, clinking off the post before finding twine.

A roar erupted from our bench and echoed from every corner of the stands. Victory was within our grasp; I could almost taste it—sharp and metallic like blood on my lip after taking a high stick.

I skated back to the bench, the thrill of the goal still coursing through my veins. The guys slapped me on the back, their faces split with grins. But as I sat down, my eyes drifted to the stands. Searching.

But no.

Freya wouldn't be here.

I shook my head, trying to banish her from my thoughts. She had no reason to come. And even if she did, why should I care? It wasn't like we knew each other well, even if we were engaged. Besides, she hated me.

Still, my gaze wandered over the sea of faces. The other guys' girlfriends and wives stood out easily, their bright smiles and team jerseys marked with last names proclaiming their loyalty. They cheered, their voices piercing through the crowd noise, a sweet contrast to the roughness of the game.

Seeing them stirred something inside me. A pang I couldn't quite place. I never thought I'd want that—someone in the crowd wearing my name, watching me play, supporting me through wins and losses alike.

The realization hit me like a check into the boards: I wanted that now. More than I ever admitted to myself.

Coach barked my name, snapping me back to reality. I jumped up and grabbed my stick, pushing those thoughts aside. There was still a game to win, after all.

But as I lined up for the next faceoff, Freya's face lingered at the edge of my mind.

The game pressed on, and the energy in the rink ramped up another notch. My focus sharpened to a razor's edge as I positioned myself on defense, eyes locked on the puck. It skated along the boards, bouncing between players like a live wire.

The forward from Ann Arbor streaked toward our net, eyes hungry for a goal. He weaved through our players with practiced ease, his movements fluid and fast. I dug my blades into the ice, pushing off with every ounce of strength, closing the gap between us.

He wound up for a shot just inside the blue line. Time slowed. I saw his eyes narrow; the determination etched in every line of his face. My muscles tensed, ready to spring.

As he let loose a blistering slapshot, I dropped to one knee and extended my stick. The puck hurtled toward me, a black bullet aimed for our net. The impact rattled through my body as it met my stick blade, a jarring shock that numbed my hand.

I watched as the puck deflected off my stick and sailed harmlessly into the corner. The forward's frustration was palpable; he slammed his stick against the ice with a snarl. My teammates cheered from the bench, their voices barely cutting through the adrenaline pounding in my ears.

Morgan shouted encouragement from behind me as I scrambled back to my feet. The play continued without missing a beat—no time to rest or savor small victories.

Liam gave me an appreciative nod as he cleared the puck out of our zone, sending it sailing down the ice where our forwards eagerly chased it down. I took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill my lungs and clear my mind.

But just as quickly as we cleared it, Ann Arbor regrouped and charged back into our zone. I skated hard to cover my man, staying between him and our net like a shadow he couldn't shake.

He tried to maneuver around me, but I anticipated his move and blocked him with my body. He grunted in frustration, jostling for position but finding no way through. The puck whipped around us again—left to right, then back to center ice—each player moving in a well-practiced dance of give and take.

With seconds ticking down on the clock for this period, we dug in deeper. Every stride felt like fire in my legs; every breath burned in my chest. But quitting wasn't an option—this was our ice, our game to win or lose.

And losing wasn't on the table tonight.

The final minutes of the game felt like an eternity. The scoreboard glared down at us, tied 2-2, a constant reminder that victory hung by a thread. My legs screamed with every push, but I tuned out the pain. The crowd’s roars melded into a single, relentless wave of noise.

Ann Arbor controlled the puck in our zone, cycling it with precision. My eyes tracked every pass, my mind running through scenarios. A forward cut across the slot, stick ready for a one-timer. I lunged forward, closing the gap just as he unleashed his shot.

I felt the puck strike my shin pad, a dull thud that reverberated up my leg. It bounced away erratically, but Ann Arbor regained control. They kept pressing, and I could sense our defense fraying at the edges.

Then it happened—a scramble in front of our net. Sticks clashed, bodies tangled. The puck squirted free in slow motion, glistening under the arena lights.

I didn't think; I reacted. I dove forward, my shoulder colliding with an opposing player’s ribs. He went down hard, and the puck skittered out from the melee.

Sawyer was there in a flash. He scooped it up with finesse and bolted down the ice like his skates were on fire. The crowd's roar reached a fever pitch, their excitement almost tangible.

Time slowed as Sawyer closed in on their goalie. He deked left, then right, freezing the goalie just long enough to find an opening. His wrist shot was pure poetry—clean and swift—sending the puck into the back of the net with a resounding thwack.

The horn blew.

The sound filled every corner of the rink, echoing in my ears like a triumphant fanfare. The game was done.

I stumbled to my feet, chest heaving with effort and exhilaration. My teammates rushed onto the ice, engulfing Sawyer in a jubilant embrace. The sheer joy on their faces mirrored my own emotions—a mix of relief and triumph.

As I skated toward them, I let myself savor the moment. We had fought tooth and nail for this win, and now it was ours.

The crowd's cheers washed over us like waves crashing on a shore, each one a testament to our hard-fought victory.

"Final score: Crestwood 3, Ann Arbor 2! Crestwood moves on to the finals!" the announcer's voice boomed through the rink.

The crowd erupted in cheers, a deafening roar of approval. I soaked it in, every clap and shout echoing in my bones. We skated around, celebrating with our fans, our hearts full and light.

Then the announcer's tone shifted. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, a moment of silence for Eren Hawke, whose life was gone too soon. He was a defenseman for the team and would have loved being part of this."

Silence fell like a heavy curtain over the rink. The only sound was the faint hum of the arena lights. My thoughts drifted to Eren—his easy grin, his infectious laugh. A kid who should've had years ahead of him on and off the ice.

I glanced at Michael Carter. He stood apart from us, head bowed, blond hair falling into his eyes like a veil. He always reminded me of a lion—his presence commanding and strong—and even now, he seemed unaffected. But was it all an act? Eren had been his best friend.

What had Eren gotten mixed up in? The question gnawed at me. Eren was just a kid with dreams of making it big in hockey. Now he was gone, leaving a void none of us could fill.

Michael hadn't talked about it much. He'd missed a couple of practices but showed up to games with that same fierce determination. I understood his silence; talking about it would make it too real, too raw.

I sighed as the moment of silence ended, and cheers began again. The noise swelled around us, bringing life back into the arena. We started heading to the locker room, skates slicing through the remnants of celebration.

I patted Michael on the shoulder as we walked off the ice. He gave me a nod, his blue eyes shadowed but resolute. We didn't need words; we were all carrying Eren with us in our own way.

Back in the locker room, we stripped off our gear in silence punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter as we recounted moments from the game. The victory felt bittersweet—an achievement tinged with loss.

As I sat down to unlace my skates, I couldn’t shake thoughts of the Imprinting Ceremony in a couple of hours. But right now, surrounded by my teammates' chatter and camaraderie, I focused on what lay ahead—the finals and honoring Eren's memory with every game we played.

The locker room buzzed with post-game adrenaline, our victory fresh and sweet. The air reeked of sweat and victory, a heady mix that made the room feel alive. My teammates' voices bounced off the walls, recounting every play, every hit.

Coach Morgan strutted in, exuding the same cocky confidence he always had. His swagger was unmistakable—shoulders back, chest out, eyes sharp and calculating. He swung a hockey stick over his shoulder like a bat, and his presence demanded silence.

"All right, listen up!" His voice cut through the chatter like a knife. "One more game. One more game and we're champions."

The room fell silent. Every eye turned to him, hanging on his words.

"We played a hell of a game out there," he continued, pacing back and forth. "But it wasn't perfect. And fucking perfection is what we need to take home that championship."

He stopped in front of us, piercing us with his gaze one by one. "Defense," he growled, "you left too many gaps. You can't let them skate into our zone like they own the place. Tighten up like a virgin's pussy and stay the fuck sharp."

He turned his attention to the forwards. "Offense—great hustle, but you gotta finish those plays. Shit. Too many missed opportunities in front of their net. Close the fucking deal like it's your wife, boys. No excuses."

Morgan slammed the stick down on a bench, the crack echoing through the room. "And for fuck's sake, don't get sloppy with your passes! Precision is key. You mess up a pass in the finals, you hand them the game on a silver platter."

His eyes bore into us again, daring anyone to challenge him. "We fix these mistakes in practice tomorrow. We go over every play until it's second nature because we do not fuck up when it counts."

He paused, letting his words sink in. The weight of our next game pressed on my shoulders like lead.

"You've got what it takes," he said, softer now but no less intense. "Each one of you has proven it time and again this season. One more game and you make history."

The room was electric with determination and focus.

Coach Morgan looked at each of us one last time before turning toward the door. "Rest up tonight," he ordered without looking back. "Tomorrow we work harder than ever."

Morgan headed to his office after that, leaving us alone.

Freya. Her name echoed in my thoughts, uninvited and relentless.

I pushed away from the bench and headed to the showers. I stripped off my tights and rash guard, tossing them into a corner before stepping under the hot stream of water.

As the water cascaded over me, I couldn't help but wonder if I should go to the Imprinting Ceremony. The ritual loomed over me like a storm cloud. Tradition dictated that I had to be there; our family legacy depended on it. My grandfather's father had started this line, and I'd be damned if I embarrassed them by skipping out.

Freya was stubborn enough to show up; that much I knew. She had fire in her veins—an unwavering resolve that matched my own.

If she did come, what then?

And if I showed up, I'd be forced to claim someone, sealing my fate with a decision that wasn't entirely mine.

The thought of claiming someone else left a bitter taste in my mouth. But there was no getting out of it; honor and tradition bound me like chains.

Which meant I'd be there.

And if Freya didn't show up…?

I let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through my wet hair. The water pounded against my back, each drop a reminder of the pressure building within me. I'd worry about that later; right now, I needed to focus on the immediate future—on doing what needed to be done.

I shut off the water and stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel from the rack. As I dried off, I couldn't shake the feeling that everything was spiraling out of control. My life was no longer just about hockey and games; it was about navigating a labyrinth of expectations and traditions that felt increasingly suffocating.

Dressed and somewhat refreshed, I made my way back through the quiet halls of the arena. Each step echoed with a mix of determination and dread.

The Imprinting Ceremony awaited, whether I was ready or not.