Page 52 of Shield
Jackson: Good luck out there, Superman
Luck wasn’t what we needed against New York tonight. They were coming off a seven-game winning streak, their momentum a force to be reckoned with. We needed a miracle.
“We can do this,” Charles summed up at the end of a rousing speech in the locker room, and there was no space for any of us to disagree. If a team went into a game thinking of loss, then it was almost a self-fulfilling prophecy. This was only our first game on this east coast stand; we were also playing the Rebels, the Railers, and Carolina all in their barns. It was intense, and I already missed the girls like a limb.
And Jackson.
“You okay?” Ash asked from my side, as the jumbotron showcased a montage of my years with New York—the saves, the assists, the body checks. The crowd roared for me, a sound that was familiar, but weird given I wasn’t a Nighthawk anymore. A twinge of nostalgia mixed with adrenaline, but I tapped Ash’s calf.
“I’m good.”
“Get out there then. Take a bow!” Ash nearly shoved me through the gate to do a solo lap before the game started. As I took to the ice, acknowledging the cheers with a raised stick, I felt a surge of pride in the city, my old team, and in myself. These were my roots, but I was here to show the fans how much I’d grown. And then, with the roar still echoing in my ears, it was game on.
The puck dropped and instinct took over. We played hard, each of us knowing that against a team of New York’s caliber, there was no room for error. Every pass, every shot, every check was deliberate, intense.
I skated with a ferocity I reserved for games like this. The Nighthawks guys were strong, but we had our own strengths. We were the Storm, and tonight, we would show them that we could be just as formidable.
“Watch Callahan,” Coach warned. “He’s all over Charles.”
“On it, Coach,” Ash and I chorused.
We were in sync, a defensive duo that had grown to anticipate each other’s moves on the ice. Our skates carved deep grooves as we went over the boards and circled our zone, eyes on the Nighthawks forwards, weaving our way. They came at us like a well-oiled machine, their winning streak giving them a ton of confidence.
One of their wingers broke away, puck on his stick, charging toward our goal with the weight of the team behind him. I glanced at Ash, a silent signal passing between us. We tightened our formation, a wall of determination.
As the winger drew back his stick for a shot, I stepped forward. The timing had to be perfect. Too soon, and he’d sidestep me. Too late and the puck would be past our goalie before we could blink. I thrust my stick out, tapping the puck enough to throw off his shot. It skidded away toward the boards, the threat momentarily cleared.
But the Nighthawks were relentless. Another forward snatched up the loose puck, sending it back to their point man. The shot came in hard and fast, a blur headed for the top shelf where grandma hides the cookies, but Ash was there, body first into the line of fire. The puck ricocheted off his pads with a thud, and suddenly, we were turning defense into offense.
I scooped up the puck, adrenaline fueling my charge up the ice. Craig Beaulieu did his whole pirouette-to-avoid-getting-hit thing up against the boards, taking the focus away from Charles and gathering interest from the Nighthawks defense—he used his childhood skills as a figure skater to dazzle even the best defenseman. I know—I’d been on the other side of his antics too many times to mention. Charles was already breaking away, his stick raised in anticipation. I feinted a pass to the left, drawing a defender to me, before sliding the puck across to Charles with a crisp tap.
Our captain’s speed was a blur, his focus absolute. He took the puck in stride, barely breaking form as he approached the Nighthawks’ netminder. With a deke that sent the goalie sprawling the wrong way, Charles flicked the puck into the gaping net, the sound of it hitting the back music to our ears.
The arena erupted, the fans in purple screaming as the red light glared. Charles threw his head back, the relief and triumph clear on his face as we swarmed him, our cheers almost as loud as the crowd’s.
“Goal!” Ash shouted over the din, his glove slapping my shoulder.
“Fuck yes!” I agreed, the grin on my face matching his. This was teamwork, this was the Storm, and we were more than holding our own against the Nighthawks. We were defining ourselves, one goal at a time.
I was fitting in. I was doing things right.
As the game went on, the score see-sawed. They were good, but somehow, we were matching them, play for play, and when the final buzzer sounded, it was our sticks raised in victory. We had pulled off the impossible, defeating a giant. And I knew, as the crowd’s roar filled the arena, that we hadn’t just needed a miracle—wewerethe miracle.
* * *
We landed backat Van Nuys after eight grueling days, two wins, two losses, and the mood in the Storm jet was a mix of exhaustion and relief.
The engines wound down on the Storm’s private jet, and boy, was I glad to be back in LA.
Coach stood at the front of the cabin as the jet taxied to our hangar, his gaze passing over each of us. “Take tomorrow off,” he said, his voice cutting through the murmur of tired conversations. “Rest up, spend time with your families, and forget about hockey for a day. I want you back in the barn on Tuesday, bright and early, ready to work.”
A collective sigh rippled through the team, a mixture of relief and the remnants of fatigue. We had given it our all, every check, every shot, every save, but we were all so damn tired.
I nodded along with my teammates, already thinking of a quiet day ahead. No rink, no gear, just time to recharge and to think about… well, about everything. The thought of Jamie and the girls at the house awaiting me put a spring in my step, and I knew Jackson was coming over as well—he’d messaged he’d be there. As the cabin doors opened, we shuffled out, each man lost in his thoughts. Some had cars waiting, but I was getting a ride with Ash and his girlfriend, and didn’t even register that I had someone there until Scarlett and Daisy threw themselves at me.
“Daddy!” Daisy yelled up at me, and I went to a crouch to gather them close and hug them hard. They smelled of cookies and home, and I’d missed them so much. Jamie stood back from them, grinning, but it was the man next to him who caught my eye.
Jackson was here.
