Page 68 of The E.M.M.A. Effect
Orlenko’s voice cut through the fog in Gale’s head. He blinked, realizing he’d been standing there like an idiot for who knows how long.
“Yeah,” he managed, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. “I’m coming.”
He followed his teammate into the locker room, the cacophony of pregame rituals washing over him. Guys taping sticks, adjusting pads, trash-talking across the room. It was familiar. Comforting. And right now, it felt like the only solid thing in Gale’s world.
“Going to keep this new streak going?” Comeau called as he entered. “Nothing like a healthy scratch to scare a guy straight, am I right?”
Friendly jabs, usually fuel for his competitive fire, barely registered. He grunted something noncommittal and made his wayto his stall, focusing on the routine of suiting up. Each piece of equipment was a barrier between him and the weight threatening to pull him under.
“Earth to Knight,” Brandon’s voice pierced through his haze. “You good, man? Looking a little sick there.”
Gale forced a smirk. “Just basking in the glow of your ugly mug, Brandy.”
The chirp lacked bite, but it seemed to satisfy the center, who flipped him off with a grin before turning back to his own preparations.
“Alright, listen up!” Coach’s voice boomed through the locker room, snapping Gale’s attention to the front. “We’ve got a chance to climb back into a playoff spot tonight. I need every single one of you giving a hundred and ten percent out there. No passengers. No excuses.”
His eyes locked on Gale. “Knight, you’re back on the second line with Comeau and Orlenko. Don’t fuck it up.”
He nodded, jaw clenched. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Not when the ice was the only place where the world made sense anymore.
As they filed out for warm-ups, Tucker Taylor fell into step beside him.
“Glad you’re back in the saddle,” Tucker said, his voice muffled behind his mask. His head tilted, those sharp eyes taking in more than he wanted to reveal. “You alright, man?”
“Peachy,” Gale bit out, picking up his pace. “Ready to play.”
The familiar rush of cold air as they hit the ice was a relief, clearing some of the fog from his head. He threw himself into warm-ups with a vengeance, as if he could outskate the specters chasing him.
But as the national anthem played and the lights dimmed for player introductions, reality came crashing back. His father wasdead. His mother was dead. Brooke was going to pretend like it was just another day. And Gale? Gale was expected to play the game of his life.
The puck dropped, and chaos erupted.
From the first shift, it was clear this wasn’t going to be a finesse game. The visiting team, the Salt Lake Scorpions, came out swinging, clearly intent on using their physicality over puck handling for a win.
Gale ground his teeth, fighting for every inch of ice. His passes were a hair too hard, his shots just off the mark. With every missed opportunity, frustration built in his chest like a pressure cooker ready to blow. Not again. Not when he was finally back.
“Come on, Knight!” Brandon bellowed, skating past. “Get your head out of your ass!”
The truth was his head was full of ghosts.
Midway through the second period, with the Regals down by two, Gale finally caught a break. Orlenko won a battle along the boards, sending the puck skittering toward center ice. Gale pounced, scooping it up and streaking toward the Scorpions’ net.
The defenseman never stood a chance. Gale deked left, then right, leaving the poor bastard twisted up like a pretzel. He was in alone, nothing between him and glory but six feet of pissed-off goaltender.
Time slowed. In that moment, he saw his father’s face. Not the way it had looked in that final goodbye. No, this was Jim Knight grinning as he showed a young Gale how to roof a backhander. Before leaving. Before the accident that scrambled his brains.
Muscle memory took over. His stick flashed, the puck soaring over the goalie’s shoulder. The red light flashed. The horn blared. The crowd erupted.
And Gale? He felt nothing at all.
His teammates mobbed him, whooping and hollering. He went through the motions, bumping fists, nodding at the congratulations. But inside, he was hollow. Empty.
What was the point of it all if the one person he’d been trying to impress his whole life wasn’t around to see it? If his mom wasn’t in the stands, cheering louder than anyone?
The goal should have been a turning point. Instead, it was like picking a scab. As the third period wore on, his temper frayed.
Five minutes left on the clock. Gale battled for position in front of the Scorpions’ net, jockeying with their burly defenseman. An elbow caught him in the ribs. Once. Twice.
