Chapter 35: The Streak

The first win felt like a breath of fresh air after almost drowning.

We beat them 3-2.

As usual, I set up Cassian’s goals; the second one came on a play we didn’t even rehearse or discuss. It wasn’t even thought through, he cut towards the net and I sent the puck through a seam that didn’t seem to exist until the moment I let go of it, Cassian buried it past the fumbling goalie. After the horn, he found me at center ice, his glove briefly tapping my shin pad as he held my eye for a second.

The second win was 4-1.

He set up my goals this time, it was a pass that threaded through three players, landing on my tape like it belonged there. I scored and skated past him, letting my shoulders brush his, the contact lasted for half a seconds but I felt it all through the game.

The third win was against a team that had beaten us twice already. We played that day like possessed guys; every pass found its mark, every read was perfectly executed. After the final horn, I looked across the ice but his eyes were already on me as he mouthed “Good game.” I nodded once and that was it.

——

Our winning streak hit five and the media noticed.

SportsCenter ran a segment for us called “The Ice Breakers” the graphics showed our stats side by side; they showed my assists to his goals and his feeds to my point shots. The numbers were unbeatable, the chemistry was undeniable.

After the fifth win, we sat in the locker room, pretending not to look at each other. I watched him in my peripheral vision interact with the other teammates. Someone slapped his shoulder, saying something I didn’t hear. He laughed, the sound washing over me; comforting me.

——

By game six, our streak had become national news.

Every shift, every play, every pass between us got replayed on highlight reels. Sports analysts analyzed our chemistry on the rink. Commentators used words like “telepathic”. The broadcast cameras lingered on us during stoppages, waiting for something unexpected.

We scored four goals that night, with three assists from me, the fourth came on a play that started at blue line, it went through both forwards, ending with Cassian in the slot, already waiting for a pass I’d rehearsed. The puck hit his tape and he one-timed it, scoring the shot.

Their goalie threw his stick in frustration as their fans went silent.

Cassian moved towards the blue line to meet me. He passed close enough that his hips bumped mine in a brief contact as he spoke in a low tone. “That was for you.”

I didn’t answer, my throat was clogged.

——

At game seven, our streak was the only story on everyone’s lips.

The arena was sold out, and the crowd was loud. Everytime we touched the puck, the noise increased. We played like we were breathing together, like I knew where he’d be before he even moved and as if he knew what I’d do before I even did it. The passes didn’t require aim neither did the shots require planning, we just existed in the same rhythm and the same breath.

We won 5-3.

He scored two goals, I scored one; and the other two goals came from two guys who’d been struggling all season. After the game, the locker room was wild with excitement. Someone even dumped a cooler of Gatorade over Danton’s head.

I sat in my stall, watching.

Cassian was in the middle with his shirt off, his usual sharp grin on his face as he ran his hands through his hair. He was laughing at something Raffi said, his chest still heaving from the game, his skin still flushed.

He caught me staring.

His grin didn’t falter, but his eyes changed, softening into something unnameable as he stared back.

I looked away first.

But I felt him still looking.

——-

By game eight, the streak was impossible to ignore.

SportsCenter ran another feature on us. “The Ice Breakers: Chemistry on the rink or more?”

The segment showed clips of our goals and our passes. Then it showed the moments between; me watching from the bench, the way we found each other after wins, whispered words; it was harmless but they were looking for a story.

We watched it on the team bus, Cassian was two rows ahead of me, I saw him stiffen when the segment ended. I wanted to go to him, put my hand on his neck to comfort him.

I didn’t move from my seat.

———

The streak came alive by game nine.

It had its own energy now, its own weight. Every win added more pressure. Every game intensified; our fans loved it, the media demanded it, our opponents dreaded it. We played like it was our last day ever to play.

We won 3-0.

All the goals were scored by Cassian. A hat trick was inevitable since the beginning of the game, when he skated past me. He said, “that’s another goal for you.”

I caught up to him at the blue line, our shoulders touched briefly.

“That’s three goals.”

He chuckled. “You’re counting.”

“Always.”

——

Throughout the games and after the games, we always found moments.

A glance across the locker room, a brief touch in the tunnel when the cameras weren’t there, a whispered “Good game, teammate” that really meant ‘I miss you, I can’t wait to be with you alone and I’m terrified of losing you.’

The world saw two players who played in sync.

We knew the truth.

We were something else, something we could not name in public; something we protected in silence.

What we had between us gre stronger with each win, each pass and each moment the cameras couldn’t capture.

By the next week, the streak hit ten. We beat a top team in the division on a last-second goal that started off with a face off win, we went through four players; ending with Cassian battling the puck mid- air; the arena exploded as our bench emptied.

I stayed at the blue line, watching him get mobbed.

When he surfaced from the pile, his eyes found mine and I raised my stick.

He raised his back.

We didn’t talk about what would happen when the streak ended.

We didn’t talk about what would happen when the whole world found out.

We just played, and won.

We held each other when we could.

And we pretended it would last forever.