2. Dylan

Chapter 2

Dylan

March 10

PEAKS FORWARD SHILOH BLAIRE DIES AT 31 YEARS OLD

Fans of the Montana Professional Hockey League (PHL) team, Mountain Peaks, are mourning the loss of their star forward, Shiloh “The Tank” Blaire, after a tragic accident on the ice Saturday afternoon during the final game of the qualifiers. After a forceful check, he was life-flighted to Bethesda Hospital where he was pronounced dead three hours later.

A native of Southeast Alaska, he grew up in Winterhaven, alongside teammate Dylan “The Beast” Savage. He played for Toronto College before being drafted into the PHL at 21. After playing for the Grizzlies for three years, he was traded to the Tornadoes, and was instrumental to their winning the championship game. Leading the PHL in assists, he was expected to help the Peaks take the championship this year.

Friends and family have asked for privacy as they grieve his loss at this time.

The rink was empty. All lights off except the emergency ones.

Everyone would be gathered around Shiloh’s grave.

Everyone except me. I tightened my laces and grabbed the stick Shiloh and I used to play with when we were kids. Pock-marked and taped, the least expensive stick the sports store in Winterhaven had, it still fit in my hand like it was custom made for me.

It was cold without my pads, but sweat soaked my clothes, dripped from my pores. The empty stands flew by as I skated from goal frame to goal frame, volleying the hockey puck from left to right with my stick. Back and forth, the seats blurred. The lines on the ice blurred. The sound of skates cutting against ice blurred.

I could almost pretend it was me and Shiloh against the world again, skating on the frozen-over pond behind my house, calling out plays like we were professional announcers. Cheering like the frozen tree boughs were an adoring crowd. We’d skate until our shaking knees collapsed us into a heap of pure elation, and then stare at the sky and dream.

“You think Lily’s interested in me?” Shiloh had asked once as we lay there, watching gray clouds drift in the sky. We had to have been fourteen or fifteen.

“Dude, that’s my sister.”

“And …”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Then why’d you take the blame when I ruined her coat with the snow machine last week?”

“Because I’m an angel.”

He snorted and tried to get in a quick groin shot with his hockey stick. I grabbed it with a grin and wrestled it away from him, then tossed it as far from us as I could.

“I’ll win her over,” he said with confidence, completely unbothered that he’d have to go search for his stick in the snow later.

I rolled my eyes. “I guess Lily’s going to be with someone eventually, and it might as well be you, dumb nut.”

He turned his head to look at me, too serious in that way he sometimes got. “Thanks, Dyl. You’re the best.” Then he pulled his foot back and kicked me in the side, sending me sliding across the ice, his laughter ringing over the entire park as I scrambled to stand and got ready for another round of hockey.

I skidded to a stop, sending ice shards flying around me, and slammed the memory behind a thick, impenetrable wall. I bent over my knees and heaved in air as an avalanche of grief careened toward me.

No .

I straightened to outskate it, gaining speed as I raced across the ice toward the opposite goal. The puck was lying in the middle of the court, and I swung my stick back to hit the puck as hard as I could toward the goal. All of my energy, aggression, grief, memory of Shiloh went into my swing, wanting to send it all into oblivion.

I over-swung and my skates skidded out from under me. I swore as my back slammed to the ice. The wind was stolen from my lungs.

I sucked in air and stared up at the rafters.

At least I still had this.

Ice.

Hockey.

Winning.

It was the only thing that mattered.