Page 70 of Playing Rough

Two minutes left and I knock the puck away from one of their wingers, sending it straight to London. He burns a trail towards the goal. The wingers try to block him, but Knight appears from nowhere to lay them out with a bone-rattling check. London winds up and shoots.

I hold my breath. I think we all do.

The buzzer blares as London's shot hits home. Their goalie rips his helmet off and slams it against the goal post in frustration. We're up by two with barely any time left—not enough for them to rally back.

The bench explodes, and the team is going crazy, hugging and crushing each other. My pulse is hammering, the trophy within reach now. Everything we endured this year has led to this moment.

The next sixty seconds bleed by in a blur. I can hardly suck air into my burning lungs, but I keep pushing, keep churning my legs. The Enforcers have nothing left, their hits weak as kittens against our iron defense.

Then the final buzzer screams. Silence falls for a beat before the arena just erupts. We fucking did it—battled through injuries, adversity, every goddamn obstacle and landed on top. There’s not a force on earth that can touch us now.

Elation hits me like a truck, almost putting me on my ass. But London's there, slamming into me, both of us clutching each other like the world's collapsing around us, my number twenty-nine across his back and his seventeen across mine. And in a way it is—the world we knew is gone, and we're the damn champions standing on the smoldering remains.

"Holy shit, Golden Boy, we did it!" His voice breaks as he grabs my face and kisses me right on the ice, in front of the crowds and cameras and everyone. But I don't give a single fuck who sees and neither does he.

We're whooping and losing our shit as the boys swarm us, piling on until I can barely stay on my skates. But damn if this isn't the most alive I've ever felt.

Deck drags me and London into a crushing hug, grinning wide as the sun. "Holy crap, you did it, you lunatics!" He's bursting with joy.

As the Enforcers skate by, their glares are pure venom. Their captain spits on the ice, muttering his hateful bullshit. My fists clench, blood pounding for retaliation. But I force it down and turn away—we've got nothing left to prove to them. We left it all on the ice.

The NCAA rep steps out holding that gleaming trophy as the crowd chants our name. When he passes it over to Deck, the cheers get deafening. We pass that beauty around, voices cracking from screaming, tasting victory sweeter than any damn thing on earth. Well, except London. He’s my favorite flavor.

In this moment, with the team that's become my family crushing me in celebration, I know one truth deep in my bones—all the hell I walked through this season to get here was worth it for this single moment of absolute triumph. There’s no sweeter thrill than standing on top of the heap at the end, brothers-in-arms at your side. This one's gonna be on replay even when we’re old and gray.

Doing it with London makes it perfect.

I lift that heavy trophy high, meeting London's eyes across the chaos. Everything we survived to make it here flashes through my mind—the brutal practices, the clashes, the shit with my dad. But here we stand, out and goddamn unstoppable together.

We earned this, every brother bleeding and sacrificing for it. But it means more than just a title. It's proof that we stood tall against bullies and haters and came out on top. Proof that no one can tell us who deserves to be here or who we give our hearts to.

The team crushes us in, rowdy as hell, celebrating the win. But all I see is London—his wild smile, his eyes lit up with that brutal passion I fell for. We didn't just win a championship tonight—we opened the damn door for others like us who've been told they don't belong. And this? This is just the start.

27

DECK

The bittersweet scentof sweat and celebration still lingers in the locker room air. We're all riding the high of our big win, but there's an undercurrent of sadness too. This is it - the very last time we'll suit up together as a team.

Next year there’ll be a different set of guys and we’ll start the climb all over again.

I drag my bag out of my locker, empty now except for a few abandoned rolls of tape and a sock I was too lazy to pick up. Strange how a place that started out so unfamiliar now feels more like home than my dorm room. We've shed blood and tears on this concrete floor, fought and bonded within these four walls. It's gonna be hard to leave it all behind.

Across the room, Tris is regaling some of the younger guys with the story of how he scored the winning goal against Davidson College with a broken thumb. Their awed faces remind me this is still all new for the freshmen. The nostalgia and sadness haven't sunk in yet.

Riot's neatly folding all his sweaters and stacking them in his bag. That man runs on order and routine—probably already has next season's schedule color coded and memorized. The thought makes me smile.

Beside him, London laughs and flicks a balled up piece of tape at Riot's head. Riot scowls, but there's no heat there anymore. Hard to believe those two started out ready to tear each other's throats out last fall. Now they gravitate into each other's space like binary stars.

My eyes catch on Knight across the room, silently shoving gear into his bag. He's been moody and standoffish all week, ever since Riot and London came out to the team. I thought he was getting over the initial shock, but now...

Now I'm not so sure. There's an edge to him lately that makes my teeth grind. And the way he avoids looking at me for more than a few seconds? That stings more than I'd ever admit out loud.

Water streams in the shower stalls as guys start rinsing off the remnants of our celebratory night—champagne, confetti, rooftop shenanigans. We closed the bar and partied until sunrise. But we made it to the team banquet on two hours’ sleep, still giddy as kids on Christmas morning.

Coach's speech got more than a few of us choked up. I'm not too proud to say I teared up at the end when he pulled out a bag of orange slices like the ones they used to hand out after grueling Juniors practices. It was a bittersweet bookend to a hell of a journey.

But one person was conspicuously absent from all the festivities. Knight slipped away early and brushed off my questions with terse excuses. Shutting me out and killing the friendship we once shared once and for all.

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