Page 18 of Blitz
“Sure,” I said.
My cell buzzed with so many messages when we headed to the bus, thankfully only my real phone, because I’d left my Pastor-Cole phone at home for the first time. Why? Because I didn’t want to hear his voice. Didn’t want the weight of his words poisoning this fresh start. Leaving that phone behind felt like dropping a chain. It was defiance, yeah—but also relief—and I could breathe.
Noah ended up next to me on the bus, too, still chattering about lines and plays as if we hadn’t just spent a flight together. I couldn’t check my messages, since we were heading straight to the arena, but I finally got a moment to look when we arrived and sat back in my stall. At least, that way, I could hide the screen. Seeing Tom’s name made me buzz with…
Excitement?
Nerves?
Idiot Ball Chaser: Have you adopted Wink yet?
Idiot Ball Chaser: Also—good luck with the game.
Idiot Ball Chaser: One more thing—I’m guessing you’re staying behind when the team goes back
Idiot Ball Chaser: For the final BoltFuel shoot, I mean
Idiot Ball Chaser: Maybe I could show you around a bit after. Local spots, best food, stuff tourists don’t know about. Unless you’ve got plans. Just say the word.
Idiot Ball Chaser: Also, weirdest Philly moment for me so far: a guy roller-skating down Broad Street wearing nothing but a Forge cape… I mean… nothing!
Idiot Ball Chaser: Hockey fans are wild, right?
Idiot Ball Chaser: Someone tried to sell me a cheesesteak from a cooler in a Target parking lot. Said it was “artisanal.” It wasn’t.
Idiot Ball Chaser: And I saw a dog on the subway. Not *with* anyone. Just… commuting. Philly’s wild.
Idiot Ball Chaser: Anyway, if that doesn’t convince you to let me show you around, I don’t know what will.
I read it all twice,the corner of my mouth twitching before I caught myself. The part about showing me around? I didn’t hate the idea.
Then, I sent him a GIF of a hockey fan painted entirely in Philadelphia Forge colors, belly-flopping into a fountain outside the arena. Philly fans didn’t do anything halfway—love, rage, or shirtless chaos. It seemed fitting.
“Okay, heads up.”
I turned off my cell and shoved it into my bag, giving my full attention to Coach Morin. He gave us the usual pre-season talk about testing lines, building chemistry, and not worrying too much about the scoreboard. Then, he turned to the lineup.
“First line,” Coach Morin called. “Center—Harrington. Gunny, I want to try you on Trick’s right wing. Petrov, you’ve got left.”
Noah perked up at that, straightening as if he’d been offered the keys to the kingdom. I didn’t react, he simply nodded, but something electric flickered in my chest. First line. Let’s see what we do with it. I knew Noah was a center, fourth line last season, but moving him to wing? That would be a challenge. I exchanged glances with him, and he offered a fist, which I bumped. A center trying on my wing.
What could go wrong?
Everything.
Because I was the one holding this line together. Because Noah was trying so damn hard—wide-eyed and eager, skating as if his life depended on it—and that meant the pressure was on me to make it work. To set the tone. To be steady. And I was anything but. Four to one, the Forge had us scrapping for leftovers with only five minutes on the clock. Coach called a time out, and we huddled around him.
Coach barked at us to tighten up, play smart, cut off the angles—same stuff every coach says when you’re behind. But when we broke and huddled by the bench, he stepped in front of me and Noah.
“Fix your shit and fucking pass to your wings!” he snapped at me. Short. Sharp. Loud enough for me to hear over the cheers of the home team crowd. Noah and Petrov had grown more irritable with me as the game went on, pushing hard, skating harder, trying to force a spark where we had none. That was onme. I was the veteran here. I was the one who was supposed to pull this line into something that clicked.
I gave a single nod. No more words. Just get on the ice and fix it.
“It’s okay,” Noah said encouragingly. But it wasn’t okay. Gunny could be as nice as possible, and I would still be out there fucking up.
We hit the ice again with four minutes left and a chip on our collective shoulders. The Forge crowd was loud, jeering, and it only made the ice feel tighter beneath my blades. I’d missed a couple of good looks earlier—tried to do it all myself—and now I needed to change that.
Puck drop. I won it clean and kicked it back to Petrov, who sent it across to our defenseman. We cycled fast, tighter this time, and when I got it back, I didn’t overthink.
