Page 64 of The One Night Dash
I eat it up.
My blades cut the ice as we flood the rink for warmups. The chill air burns my lungs in a good way; sweat is already breaking out under the gear. Same ritual, even on enemy ice: three warm-up laps counterclockwise before switching. Stretch the legs, loosen the shoulders. Then it’s pucks—low glove, high blocker, quick snap shots to feel the release.
Koa grins as he sails past me, flicking one top shelf. “Wake up, Sterling.”
“Already up,” I mutter, chasing a rebound, sliding it cross-crease for Rivera. He taps it back—clean, sharp. That’s our line: Rivera at center, Koa left wing, me on the right. Killer and Faulker hold the blue line, Deacon between the pipes.
We tic-tac-toe across the ice, simple drills to find the rhythm. A couple of one-timers, and Deacon robs me with his glove, flashing leather like he’s already in midseason form. I don’t give him shit for doing so. I love it. If he’s hot, we’re good tonight.
The buzzer ends warmup, and we file back into the tunnel.
We’rejammed shoulder-to-shoulder in the visitor’s locker room, gear squeaking, blades clinking against the floor. The air smells like tape, sweat, and adrenaline.
And then Coach D steps into the middle of the room, and everything else goes silent.
Dylan Daniels-Giulietti. First female head coach in the league. Lincoln U legend. Number one D1 women’s hockey player in her time, and still the only person who can outskate half this roster. She’s married to Bass, but she’s nobody’s plus one. She’s the storm that drives the ship.
Her gaze sweeps us, sharp as a skate edge. “They’re going to test you tonight,” she says, voice even, calm, but carrying that steel undercurrent that makes rookies sit straighter on the bench. “Detroit doesn’t play hockey. They play war. They want mud, elbows, scrums. They want you off your game, chasing blood instead of the puck.”
She paces a bit as she continues, “So, here’s what you do. You stay disciplined. You skate faster. You hit harder, but clean. And you remind them what real hockey looks like. They can’t score if you don’t give them the puck. They can’t break you if you don’t hand them the hammer.”
She stops dead in the middle of the room, eyes narrowing. “You’re the Brooklyn Bears. And you don’t just survive on enemy ice—you own it. Every pass, every shift, every finish. You don’t let them dictate a goddamn second. You dominate every one of them.”
She points at Bass across the room, her voice sharp enough to slice the air. “And if anyone thinks I go soft because I’mmarried to one of you? Let me remind you: I’ll bench his ass first.”
The boys roar, slamming gloves to pads, a mix of laughter and fire. Bass just smirks, shaking his head like he loves her more for it.
But then her eyes lock on me.
The room hums, but for me, it’s dead quiet.
“Sterling,” she says, tone lower now, aimed like a dart. “For the shit you pulled? You shouldn’t see the ice for the first period. Maybe not at all.”
Heat crawls up my neck, but I keep my face neutral.
She takes a step closer, her voice still calm but razor-edged. “But we need you tonight. So here’s your leash.” She hands me … absolutely nothing, but I take it and fight back the natural urge to let loose a bark, or worse—lick her face. “You fuck this up by costing us discipline and focus, you’ll be sitting next game. At home. In Brooklyn. Where Noelle Pembrooke will more than likely be in a box, watching you.”
My jaw tightens. She’s not bluffing, not even a little.
“Got it?”
I nod once. “Got it.”
Her eyes narrow for another beat, and then she turns back to the room, clapping her hands once. “Now, go take their ice. And when the buzzer sounds, make damn sure it’s their crowd going home quiet.”
The room erupts again—sticks banging, guys shouting, energy sparking like a live wire.
Me? My pulse is thundering. Not from nerves. From her words. From Noelle’s name in my coach’s mouth, tethering me tighter than any system or playbook ever could.
And I swear, I won’t fuck it up.
The anthem plays,lights sweeping the crowd while Diesel fans bellow like they’re revving engines.
Leo Stone centers up, calm and steady, captain to the bone. Evan Smith crouches on the right wing, jawing with their guy before the linesman even leans in. Bass Giulietti on the left—pure strength and muscle, itching to flatten the first Diesel jersey dumb enough to cut across his lane.
The draw’s messy, Diesel wins it back, and it’s suddenly chaos. Sticks clatter, gloves jab, the puck bouncing. Giulietti plants a defenseman against the glass hard enough the boards shudder, but their winger recovers, sending it the other way. Smith digs it loose, threads a pass to Leo, but Diesel collapses fast. No clean looks, just bodies piling in the slot, hacking, jabbing, everyone playing for the whistle.
Sixty brutal seconds later, it’s still. 0–0. A grinder’s shift.
