Page 76 of Arrogant Puck

“Got it,” I say, the words automatic.

That’s all I can manage. Two words. Because if I try to say more, I might break apart completely.

The guys exchange glances, but they know better than to push. I’ve played with some of these guys for years, and they’ve learned to recognize when I’m in this headspace. When the grief turns me into something else entirely.

On the ice for warm-ups, everything else fades away. It’s just me, my team, and that fucking net at the other end. This is where I belong, where Archer and I were supposed to be together. Every stride, every shot, every hit is for him.

When the puck drops, I do everything I need to do to make sure it gets into that net.

Thirty seconds in, I steal the puck from their center and fire it cross-ice to Henderson, who buries it top shelf. The goal horn blares, and Henderson skates over to smack my back.

“You’re not listening to the plays, man,” he says as we head back to center ice.

“Still made the shot,” I reply.

Because that’s all that matters. Results. Wins. Making sure Milwaukee knows they made a mistake putting us on their ice.

When play resumes, I spot their right wing getting too comfortable near our blue line. I line him up and slam him into the boards with everything I have, the impact echoing through the arena. The crowd erupts, but the ref’s arm goes up.

Boarding. Two minutes.

I skate to the penalty box without argument, my hip burning like someone stuck a knife in it. But my mind is louder than the pain, drowning out everything except the need to hit someone, to make them feel a fraction of what I carry every day.

When I get back on the ice, I’m hungrier than before. Their defenseman tries to clear the puck, so I slam him into the glass. Their center gets too close to our goalie, so I introduce him to the ice. Each hit gets my teammates fired up, slapping my helmet and shoulders as we skate past each other.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Davis shouts after I level another Milwaukee player.

This is who I am without Archer. This is what his absence turned me into—a weapon on skates, channeling grief into violence because it’s the only way I know how to cope.

And for forty-seven minutes, it works. The pain in my hip becomes background noise. The emptiness in my chest gets filled with the satisfaction of watching Milwaukee players hesitate before coming into the corners.

This is my therapy. This is my religion.

This is how I honor my brother—by being the player he’ll never get to be.

Chapter 29

I’ve never seen anything like Slater on the ice today. The violence was something else—raw, primal, like he was channeling something much darker than hockey strategy. He dominated every shift, throwing players into the boards with hits that echoed through the entire arena. What struck me most was how the rest of the team fed off his energy. Even when he wasn’t running the correct plays, they followed his lead, matching his intensity shift after shift.

The coach was screaming at them from the bench for the first period, trying to get them back on strategy, but eventually even he seemed to realize that whatever Slater was doing was working. The team looked unstoppable, like they could take on anyone.

But I was mostly in the back of the training area, helping guys who’d been slammed into the boards and taking notes ontheir minor injuries. Bruised ribs, tweaked shoulders, the usual aftermath of a game that physical. My job was to assess and plan their recovery, not to watch Slater demolish Milwaukee’s entire roster.

Still, I couldn’t help but notice the way he moved like he was fighting demons instead of hockey players.

Now, back at the hotel, everything’s different. Slater didn’t ask for a keycard to my room this time. He’s kept his head down, stayed with the team, hasn’t looked at me once since we got off the bus. I tell myself it doesn’t bother me—he owes me nothing, after all. We’re friends, right? That’s what I told him.

But it does bother me, more than I want to admit.

Maybe he feels secure in whatever this temporary relationship is because all my belongings are at his place. Maybe he doesn’t feel the need to chase me anymore because he knows I have nowhere else to go. The thought makes my stomach churn with something that feels dangerously close to dependence.

I want his attention, and I hate that I want it.

So, I decide to disappear.

Instead of going to my room, I leave the hotel and walk down the street. I turn around once to see if he took the bait, if he’s following me. He’s not. The sidewalk behind me is empty, and I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved.

I find a bar a few blocks away and slide onto a barstool, ordering a vodka tonic that I probably shouldn’t afford. The bartender is friendly enough, and the place is quiet for a weekend.

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