Family Matters

Holden

The drama off the ice is as heated as the game on it. Amidst locker room banter and the buzz of the crowd, Holden, our local Express, navigates the slippery slope of a romance that everyone's watching. As the game unfolds, so does my quirky charm, reminding us that sometimes, the real action isn't just about scoring goals, but finding a place—and maybe a person—to call home.

Playlist: "Hit The Road, Fitz… er… Jack" by Ray Charles

"Seriously?" Britt asks. She stops in her tracks when she sees Fitz in the stands talking to Tierney. Like he fucking belongs there. "What's he doing here?"

"The Brothers Foster didn't want him alone in their house," I explain.

She nudges me with her shoulder. "Understandable."

"Did you know he almost started a fire trying to iron his underwear?" Brogan asks.

Britt pivots toward him. "Really?"

The story's already been making the rounds, but this must be the first time Heath's hearing it because he looks stunned. "Is that really a thing?"

"Unfortunately." Bennett rubs the wrinkle between his eyebrows. "He went on this whole rant about how he doesn't like it when the wrinkles in his boxers chafe his balls, but that tighty whities affect your sperm count."

Heath shakes his head. "Someone needs to tell that poor young fool about ball hammocks."

"Someone needs to tell that fool that sperm count only matters if anyone can tolerate you long enough to have sex with you." Britt groans and cradles her head in her hands.

"Your dad really wants you to marry a guy who irons his boxers?" I ask, picturing Britt's overbearing father as an older version of Fitz.

Seeing Fitz here, still clawing for space in Britt's world, grates on me. We've got so little time, and every moment she spends even thinking about him feels like a theft. I watch him laugh with Tierney, acting like he's supposed to be here, and something dark twists in my stomach. I want to yell, to tell him just to disappear, to stop clouding up her day. I'm normally the guy who gets along with everyone, but damn, I wish the weather was good enough for him to just drive away.

Newsflash, Fitz: You're not wanted.

"I doubt my dad knows about that. But I suspect he'd approve of Fitz's forward thinking." Britt shudders and turns to me. "And that's officially enough talk about Fitz's balls for one lifetime. I think it's time for your good luck kiss."

"If you insist." I bend down to kiss her. I know that she wasn't serious when she told her dad that she'd rather marry me than give Fitz another shot. Now that I've met him, I can see how low that bar is. But, just for a moment, I let myself pretend that she sees a future with me, here, in Sorrowville. That I'm not the only one who thinks we've got something special here.

When we part, Britt's cheeks are bright pink. "Go get ‘em, Express," she tells me, before hustling off to the stands.

* * *

The roar of the crowd seeps into my veins as I skate onto the ice, the sharp, cold scent of it mingling with the warm aroma of popcorn from the stands. The lights overhead are harsh, spotlighting the slick surface that stretches out like a battlefield before me. My skates carve into the cold surface, each stroke sending a spray of frost into the air, my heart pounding in rhythm with the echoing drums from the crowd.

As I line up for the face-off, the puck sits at center ice like a prize to be won, its black surface a stark contrast against the white. Everything else fades away—the buzz of the crowd, the glare of the lights, even the weight of Fitz's unexpected presence in the stands. Right now, it's just me, my team, and the game. Maybe one girl that I want to impress. I grip my stick tighter, the rough tape biting into my gloves, and as the referee's whistle pierces the air, I lunge forward with all the force I can muster.

The game ratchets up quickly, and I'm right in the thick of it, darting across the ice with my focus locked on the puck. It skitters toward the opponent's net, and I'm on its tail, feeling the burn in my thighs as I push harder. I catch it on my stick, feel the slight vibration as it settles, and look up to see the goalie bracing, wide and intimidating in the crease.

A quick glance gives me my angle—tight, but not impossible. I can hear my breath, see it puffing out in the chilled air, a rhythm set to the thundering of my pulse. This shot is tricky, a little dicey, but that's never stopped me before. With a grunt, I flick my wrists, sending the puck flying with a crisp snap. It cuts through the air, a sleek black blur aiming for the sliver of space between the goalie's elbow and the post.

The crowd goes silent for a heartbeat as the puck slams against the post with a resounding clang, the kind that echoes down your spine. My heart sinks for a split second—then rebounds as the puck ricochets in, not out. The red light blares, and the sound that erupts from the stands is deafening.

I throw my head back, letting out a triumphant yell as my teammates pile on me, their gloves thumping my helmet, their shouts mixing with the roar of the crowd. Fitz is up there in the stands, and I catch a glimpse of his surprised face, mouth agape, as if he's never seen a puck find the net before. Maybe in his world, goals are something you discuss in boardrooms, not something you score on the ice.

As I skate back to the bench, my eyes find Britt. She's on her feet, cheering, her smile so bright it outshines the arena lights. Her presence, vibrant and real, makes this game, this moment, feel like the first time hockey ever truly mattered.

After a few shifts on the bench where I can catch my breath, Coach Duff taps me on the shoulder, and I step over the sill and back out onto the ice. With the game back in motion, adrenaline surges through my veins like high-octane fuel. I steal the puck from an opposing winger, dodging a check that would've sent me sprawling. Each stride pushes me faster toward their goal.

The opposing goalie squares up, his eyes tracking my every move. I feint left, pull back right, and just when he commits, I flick the puck—it skims past his glove and taps the net. Goal! A double tonight, and each feels sweeter with Britt watching.

Skating back to tap gloves with everyone on the bench, I throw a glance toward the stands, catching Fitz's eye. There's a begrudging respect there, maybe even envy. He's seeing what being part of a team, part of this town, really means. It's not just about showing up; it's about showing up for each other. And right now, this is where I belong—on this ice, in this game, with her in the stands.

She's mine. And despite his piles of money and fancy clothes, he can back the fuck off. I have what Britt really needs. And before long, she'll realize it.

The last minutes of the game are a blur of shouts, sticks clashing, and the puck zipping across the ice. Tonight, the Slammers have electric energy, our movements synchronized like some high-speed dance. I'm everywhere, blocking shots, passing with precision, feeling that deep, communal rush of striving for a shared victory.

As the final buzzer sounds, triumph fills the air. It's another inspired Slammer victory, and it's not just the score that tells the story—it's the looks on our faces, the way the crowd roars, and how Britt's cheers meld with the others. As I skate off the ice, my teammates slap my helmet, echoing the crowd's excitement.

We know how hard it was for them to get to the arena tonight to support us in this weather, and we're grateful.

Fitz finally stands up, clapping slowly—looks like he's starting to get what this town and this team are all about. Catching Britt's look, all lit up and proud, nails it for me. There's nowhere else I'd rather be. This win isn't just for the Slammers; it feels like we're scoring one for the whole of Sorrowville.

As the team starts to head off the ice toward the locker room, I'm held back along with Declyn and Shep since we've been selected as the three stars of the game.

The announcer's voice cuts through the noise, bringing the arena back into sharp focus. "And tonight's number one star of the game... Holden ‘Express' Travers!" The crowd erupts again as I skate out to center ice, lifting my stick in a salute to the fans who are still on their feet, their cheers washing over me like a victory shower. I scan the stands, locking eyes with Britt for a moment, and her grin widens, boosting my spirits even higher.

I can't wait to get her home and peel that jersey off of her.

As the rink slowly empties and the lights dim, I head back to the sanctuary of the locker room. The adrenaline is still pumping through me as I push through the doors, greeted by the clatter of gear and the laughter of my teammates.

"Let's hear it for Holden!" Boone slams into me and slaps my back so hard that I can feel my lungs come loose. "The man scored off the ice. The man scored on the ice…"

"Thanks," I wheeze. "Good game, guys."

Bennett slams the door of his locker. "Let's not hear it for Fitz. The man has got to go."

"You pulled the car out," I remind him. "The plows have scraped off the roads. Get him to the bar before noon and he'll have no excuse to stay."

"I'll dump him at the bar tonight if it will ensure he makes it out of town." All the Fosters look alike, but Bennett's the only one who inherited their mom's soul-piercing glare.

"It's not my fault he's here. But I promise you, he's going." At least, he better be. I don't want him hanging around anymore than they do. I believe Britt when she says they never dated, but I won't be sorry to bid him goodbye for good.