Connor

Connor

There are only three absolute guarantees whenever the Bayview hockey team walks into an opposing arena.

The building will be packed to the rafters, every single seat sold out weeks in advance.

Someone in the student section will start a coordinated, foul-mouthed chant before the puck even drops.

And by the end of the night, twelve thousand people will be screaming my name at the top of their lungs.

Whether those voices are screaming in sheer adulation or pure, unfiltered hatred depends entirely on the color of the jersey hanging in their closet. Tonight, deep in enemy territory at Blackridge, it is overwhelmingly the latter.

The second my skate blades bite into the foreign ice, the arena detonates. The noise crashes over the plexiglass like a tidal wave, a wall of sound and hostility that would make a rookie flinch.

“Hayes is overrated!”

“Send Connor back to Boston!”

A slow, arrogant grin pulls at the corner of my mouth as I glide backward through center ice, taking my sweet time. I raise one gloved hand to my ear, cupping it exaggeratedly.

The student section behind the glass practically loses its collective mind, middle fingers shooting up in unison.

“You’re an absolute menace,” Grant mutters, gliding up beside me with a shake of his head. His dark hair is damp from the pre-game skate, helmet tucked under his arm.

“I know.”

“You’re literally begging for a souvenir beer to the head.”

“They’re just giving Bayview the exact reaction we want,” I say, spinning on my heel.

Grant snorts, a dry sound of disbelief. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that if it helps you sleep at night.”

Before I can fire back, Asher flies past us in a blur of crimson and gold, digging his edges in hard and sending a violent spray of ice chips directly across the toes of my skates.

“They made another sign,” Asher calls over his shoulder, not even bothering to slow down.

I squint toward the glass, adjusting my grip on my stick. “Oh yeah? What does it say this time?”

“‘Connor spends longer doing his hair than practicing faceoffs.’”

I let out an offended puff of air, stopping my glide. “That is objectively ridiculous.”

Nash joins us, skating up with a wide, teasing laugh that shows off his gap-toothed grin. “Is it though? Because you’ve been standing in front of the locker room mirror for three years.”

“I don’t even use product,” I snap defensively, though the lie tastes entirely unconvincing even to me.

Crew drifts over, his blue eyes gleaming with mischief. “He’s lying.”

“I’m absolutely not.”

“You spent ten full minutes fixing your bangs before media day,” Crew points out, ticking the time off on his glove. “We missed the team bus because of your ego.”

“That was an exceptional circumstance.”

Grant shakes his head, a fond, exasperated smile breaking through his captain's stoicism. “Let it go, boys. The captain’s got an image to maintain for the alumni calendar.”

“Damn right I do,” I reply, giving my stick a twirl.

The five of us gather near the blue line while the rest of the roster filters out of the tunnel and onto the ice. It’s been this exact dynamic since the first day of freshman orientation. Five guys from entirely different corners of the country, thrown together into a suffocating pressure cooker of elite collegiate athletics.

Five recruits.

One national championship banner hanging from our rafters.

Two Frozen Four appearances.

Three conference titles.

Every single season, the sports pundits and rival fanbases predict our inevitable collapse. They talk shit on message boards, claim our egos are too big for one locker room, and wait for the cracks to show.

And every single season...

We don't break. We just win.

Coach Mercer’s raspy voice cuts through the ambient roar of the arena as he whistles sharply from the bench. “Quit flirting with the co-eds in the front row and get moving, ladies!”

“Yes, Coach,” I yell back without missing a beat.

The old man points his rolled-up clipboard directly at my chest. “I’m deadly serious, Hayes. Skate.”

“So am I.”

He sighs, a deep, soul-weary sound belonging exclusively to a man who has been tasked with babysitting me for four years. “I am literally counting down the days until you finally graduate and leave my program.”

“No, you’re not.”

He pauses, opening his mouth to argue, before closing it again. “…No, I suppose not.”

The corner of his weathered mouth twitches, betraying him.

“You’ll miss me,” I say, grinning.

“I’ll miss the Ws.”

Grant bumps his shoulder hard against mine as we start our warm-up laps. “He likes you, Hayes. He just hates admitting it.”

“I know he does.”

“He definitely doesn’t,” Asher chimes in from ahead of us, doing backward crossovers with effortless speed. “Coach would legally adopt Connor if the NCAA rulebook allowed it.”

Coach Mercer catches the tail end of the comment as he drops a puck onto the ice. “I can also make all of you skate suicides until sunrise if my blood pressure spikes one more time tonight.”

“We love you too, Coach!” Nash yells innocently, raising his stick in a mock salute.

Up in the press box, the arena announcer’s voice echoes through the cavernous speakers, starting the pre-game ritual of reading the starting lineups. Every single Bayview player introduced is greeted by a chorus of deafening boos, but my name hits the loudspeakers and the arena practically vibrates with hostility.

I love every second of it.

I peel away from the group, skating hard toward center ice for the opening faceoff. My breath comes in steady, measured rhythms as I lean over the dot.

The opposing team’s captain drifts in, his expression tight, jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticks near his ear. He plants his stick across the red line.

“Ready to lose, Hayes?” he sneers, trying to stare me down.

“You practice that one in the mirror all week?”

His eyes narrow. “Are you always this arrogant, or is it just a special occasion?”

“Only when I’m right.”

The referee steps smoothly between us, dropping his hand to his whistle.

In that exact instant, the chaotic noise of the arena seems to mute itself. My heartbeat slows down to a steady, rhythmic thrum in my chest. It’s a strange, miraculous phenomenon. Twelve thousand screaming fans baying for blood, blinding strobe lights sweeping across the ice, a live national television broadcast humming in the background, and half a dozen NHL scouts holding clipboards up behind the benches—none of it matters.

None of it touches me once the puck is about to hit the ice.

This sheet of frozen water is the only place in the entire world that has ever made complete, undeniable sense to me.

The referee raises the puck, holding it at waist height.

I sink lower into my knees, shifting my weight onto my toes, muscles coiled tight like a spring.

Across the cavernous arena, camera shutters click rapidly from the media section, long lenses tracking the movement on the ice.

Just another game.

Just another Friday night in a lifetime of them.

I don’t know it yet, standing there in the glaring lights with my stick pressed flat against the center dot...

But somewhere behind one of those heavy telephoto lenses is the girl who is about to blow my entire world apart.

The referee drops the puck.

And the season finally begins.