Chapter 59: Briar x State

KNOX’S POV

I pulled the black friction tape tight around the wooden blade of my stick, pulling the roll until the fabric snapped.

The bass of the team’s pre-game playlist thudded through the locker room floorboards. Around me, thirty players were lacing up skates, pulling purple home jerseys over shoulder pads, and shouting over the noise.

I didn’t join in.

I sat on the wooden bench in the corner. My jaw was set so tight that the muscle in my cheek throbbed.

My phone vibrated violently against the wood beside my hockey gloves.

The glowing screen displayed a name I hated seeing on game day: Garrison Sheridan.

I picked up the phone, sliding the green icon and placing the receiver against my ear without saying a word.

"Harold just called my office, Knox," my father’s cold voice cut through the background noise of the locker room. "He’s asking why my son’s girlfriend is getting coffee with State’s captain on the eve of the biggest game of your season."

"I’m taping my stick, Dad," I growled, keeping my voice low so Bear and Milo wouldn’t hear. "I don’t give a fuck about Harold Orwell."

"You will give a fuck if you lose tonight," Garrison snarled. "Harold is threatening to pull out of our land deal, and if State walks off your ice with a win tonight, Knox, I pull my corporate endorsement from the NHL draft committee before midnight. You won’t even see the second round."

"I don’t lose."

"Then prove it," he said, ending the call with a loud click.

I stared at the black screen for two seconds before shoving the phone into my gym bag and slamming the locker door shut.

—

The rumble of the arena tunnel echoed around us as we lined up behind the double doors.

Coach Brennan paced the front of the line, his clipboard tucked under his arm. "State plays a tight, disciplined game, men. Do not break formation. Do not take stupid penalties."

I barely heard him. The blood was hammering against my temples like a war drum.

The double doors swung open.

Three thousand Briar fans erupted into a deafening roar as we flooded onto the ice. The smell of freshly Zambonied ice, freezing air, and arena popcorn hit my lungs as my skates cut deep grooves into the surface.

I glided past the home bench, my helmet visor casting a shadow over my eyes as I looked straight up into Section 102.

Row two.

Nora was standing right behind the glass next to Priya.

She wore my purple #19 home sweater, the silver lettering arched across her chest, her dark hair falling over her shoulders as her eyes locked onto mine.

A jolt hit my chest. Mine.

I skated toward center ice for the pre-game captain handshakes, the noise of the crowd swelling to a roar.

Drew Miller glided out from State’s bench, wearing State’s white away jersey with a prominent silver ’C’ stitched onto his chest. He looked calm, collected, and infuriatingly composed.

Drew stopped at the center circle, extending his gloved hand toward me with a polite, genuine smile.

"Good to meet you on the ice, Sheridan," Drew said in an entirely respectful and sportsmanlike manner as we shook hands. "Nora speaks really highly of your dedication."

My jaw clamped shut so hard my teeth clicked.

He wasn’t taunting me. He wasn’t sneering or dropping cheap trash-talk. He was being completely polite, completely professional.

And it drove me absolutely fucking insane.

The casual way he said her name... like he had a right to speak for her, ignited a fire in my gut that burned straight through my self-control.

"Keep your head up tonight, Miller," I growled in a low, gravelly voice, pulling my hand back from his grip. "Or you won’t walk off this rink."

Drew blinked, surprised by the raw hostility in my voice, but he just offered a quiet nod before gliding back to State’s bench.

—

The whistle blew, and the game started.

From the first shift, I abandoned Brennan’s defensive coverage. Every time State crossed the blue line, I didn’t care about the puck; I hunted number eleven.

I slammed Drew into the plexiglass boards four minutes into the first period hard enough to shake the front row. I cut off his passing lanes, threw heavy shoulder checks, and played with a reckless, violent speed that had the home crowd screaming.

"Sheridan! Settle down!" Coach Brennan screamed from the bench as I glided past. "Play the puck, not the man!"

I ignored him.

By the third period, the scoreboard glowed in red neon: BRIAR 3 — STATE 3.

With two minutes left on the clock, State mounted a rush down the right wing. Drew carried the puck across the blue line, fake-pass sliding toward the center lane.

My vision went red.

Instead of playing the defensive puck line, I charged across the ice, raising my elbows and driving my entire six-foot-three frame straight into Drew’s chest long after he released the pass.

Drew crashed hard against the wooden boards, his helmet flying off as he hit the ice.

A shrill referee whistle pierced the arena noise.

The referee sprinted toward me, arm raised high in the air.

"Number nineteen, purple! Two minutes for roughing!" the referee shouted, pointing straight toward the penalty box.

"That was a clean hit!" I roared, stepping into the ref’s face as Bear and Milo grabbed my arms to pull me back.

"Penalty box, Sheridan! Right now!" Coach Brennan yelled, his face turning bright red as he slammed his clipboard against the bench rail.

I shoved past the official, stomping through the ice door and slamming the heavy plexiglass door of the penalty box shut behind me.

I sat on the wooden bench inside the glass box, my heart hammering against my ribs, sweat dripping down my neck.

State took the ice for a 5-on-4 power play with ninety seconds remaining.

Without me on the ice, Briar’s defensive zone fell apart. Drew Miller bounced back onto his skates, taking the center pass, organizing State’s offensive wheel.

With twelve seconds left on the game clock, Drew faked a wrist shot at the blue line, drew our goalie out of position, and ripped a clean slap shot straight into the top right corner of the net.

The red light flashed behind Briar’s net.

The high-pitched State goal horn blared through the rafters.

FINAL: STATE 4 — BRIAR 3.

The entire Briar student section went dead silent as our fans stood frozen in utter shock.

Down on the rink, State players jumped over the boards, screaming and hugging Drew Miller at center ice as they celebrated their upset victory on our home ice.

I sat alone inside the glass penalty box, unable to move.

My gloves were off; my knuckles were raw and bruised, and my jersey collar was torn from the hit against the boards.

Slowly, I raised my head, looking straight through the clear plexiglass of the penalty box into Section 102.

Row two.

Nora was standing at the glass, staring down at me with wide, unblinking eyes.

The realization hit me like a physical punch to the chest.

I had lost the game. I had cost my team the victory. And my dad’s threat was waiting for me the second I walked out of the arena.