Chapter 88 Luke

Chapter 88 Luke
Luke   

⛸️

Game day. The most important one of my career.

I stood in front of Bev's bathroom mirror, the sleek, modern space a reflection of the new me. My reflection was calm, focused. The old Luke would have been a nervous wreck, but this Luke was built for this moment.

Bev came up behind me, her arms wrapping around my waist. She pressed a soft kiss to the side of my neck, and I smiled, leaning back into her. "Today's the day," she murmured, her voice a low, confident purr. "The scout will be in the stands. You're ready, Luke."

I met her eyes in the mirror and nodded. Because I was.

We got to the rink, the familiar scent of ice and Zamboni fluid filling my senses. Good thing it was a home game. The energy was electric, a full house buzzing with anticipation. Our team filed in, the clatter of our gear on the concrete floor a familiar rhythm. I gathered them in the center of the locker room, my voice low and steady as I gave them the pep talk. It wasn't about winning; it was about domination. About leaving no doubt.

We skated out onto the ice, the roar of the crowd washing over us. The other team followed, their faces grim with determination. I glanced to the side. There was Coach Barnes, the old guard, and beside him, Bev. She was watching me, her expression unreadable but intense. I gave her a sharp, decisive nod. She nodded back. We were in sync.

My eyes scanned the crowd, and I found him. A man in a sharp suit, holding a tablet, his gaze fixed on the ice. NHL official. That's right. Let's lock the fuck in, Luke.

We did our warmups, my body moving through the drills with an effortless precision. Mitch skated up beside me, a grin on his face. "Hey, man, those one-on-one sessions with Bev actually worked. I feel faster."

"That's great, man," I said, forcing a smile. Inside, I rolled my eyes. Bev had to really sell our excuse, which meant she had to actually take some time away from me and get some one-on-one sessions with him. It had been annoying, a necessary evil to keep Mitch off the scent. But it was over with, so that was good.

Warmups ended. The lights dimmed for the anthem, the familiar swell of music filling the arena. After the final note, it was face-off time. First period.

I played center. I was captain. I took my position, tapping my stick on the ice, and faced off against the rival center captain. He glared at me, all brute force and intimidation. I just stared back, empty and calm.

The puck dropped.

And I was on fire.

The puck hit the ice, and in that split second, my world narrowed to a single point of focus. My stick blade connected with the rubber disk with a sharp crack, a perfect, clean win on the face-off. I swept it back to my defenseman, my eyes already scanning the ice, reading the play before it even unfolded. The first five minutes were a blur of motion, a chaotic dance of blades and bodies. We were going back and forth with the other team, a stalemate of skill and will.

Mitch was a phantom on my wing, his movements mirroring my own, a silent communication passing between us that we'd honed in those grueling, secret sessions. I saw the opening a split second before it appeared. Their defensemen were overcommitted, pinching in to try and cut off my passing lane to Mitch. It was a rookie mistake. I could have made the easy pass, set him up for the shot, and taken the assist. It was the play the old Luke would have made, the team player.

But I wasn't the old Luke. I was the one the scout was here to see.

I deked, my body dropping low as if to pass, then exploded forward, the puck a blur on my stick. I split the two defenders, a burst of speed that left them grasping at air. The goalie's eyes widened as I bore down on him, a one-on-one showdown. I faked a shot to his glove side, his body flinching just enough, and then I snapped a wicked wrister top-shelf on the blocker side. The red light flashed. The horn blared. Goal.

The arena erupted. I threw my hands in the air, letting out a roar of triumph as my teammates mobbed me, their gloved hands pounding on my helmet. It was my moment. I started my celly, a practiced, arrogant glide in front of their bench, my chin held high. And that's when I saw them.

Up in the stands, a few rows back, were Mercedes and Brianna. Their faces were a mixture of shock and something else I couldn't read. A cold sweat pricked at the back of my neck, a sudden, unwelcome jolt of anxiety that had nothing to do with the game. Why were they here? Why now? Whatever. I shook it off, pushing the image from my mind. I had a job to do. I'd ignore them.

We reset at center ice, the tie score forgotten, my focus absolute. The puck dropped again, and the battle resumed. This time, they were angrier, more physical. The hits were harder, the sticks more intrusive. We were going back and forth again, a brutal war of attrition in the corner behind their net. I was battling their biggest defenseman, a brute who smelled like sweat and cheap chewing tobacco. I fought for the puck, my muscles burning, using my leverage and speed to keep him at bay.

I managed to kick the puck out to Mitch, who was streaking up the boards. He passed it to our other winger, who carried it into the neutral zone. We were setting up the play, moving with fluid precision. But then, a mistake. A lazy pass from our winger, a telegraphed attempt to cross the ice that their center read like a book. He intercepted it, and just like that, they were on a breakaway.

Our defense scrambled back, but it was too late. Their left wing, a fast, shifty player with a wicked shot, was bearing down on our goalie. I was back-checking as fast as I could, my lungs burning, but I was a step too late. He let the shot go, a laser that seemed to bend around our goalie's glove. The puck was in the back of our net before he could even react.

The red light flashed on their end. The horn blared. Tied 1-1.

I skated to the bench, my chest heaving, my stick tapping the ice in frustration. I glanced over at Bev. Her face was a mask of cold fury, her eyes boring into me. She wasn't mad that they scored. She was mad that I had let my focus slip. I knew what she was thinking. I had let them get to me. I looked away, my jaw clenched. This game wasn't just about winning anymore. It was about proving her right. It was about proving to myself, and to the scout, that I was in control.

⛸️

Twelve minutes left in the period. I was tapped back over the boards, my legs feeling heavy but my mind sharp. The ice was a battlefield, and every shift was a grueling war. We were going back and forth, a series of frantic, end-to-end rushes that left the crowd gasping. I was playing with a controlled aggression, my hits clean and hard, my stick work precise. But the other team was getting desperate, and their captain, the same brute I'd faced off against, was playing dirty.

He was hooking me, holding me, slashing at my stick every chance he got. The ref was letting it go, swallowing his whistle. Finally, on a breakaway, he wrapped his stick around my waist, hauling me down from behind. I went sprawling onto the ice, the puck sliding harmlessly into the corner. To my absolute shock, the ref's arm went up. He called the other guy for tripping. But then, as I was getting up, the captain said something to the ref, and he pointed his arm at me. Hooking. On me. The crowd booed, but the call stood. I was thrown in the penalty box.

Great. Just great. Two minutes in the box. A power play for them.

I watched from my glass prison, my jaw clenched in frustration, as our penalty-killing unit took the ice. They were a wall, blocking shots, diving in front of pucks, but the other team was just too good. They moved the puck with a surgeon's precision, a series of quick, one-touch passes that left our defenders scrambling. The final pass came from the point, a perfect feed to their winger in the slot, and he one-timed it past our goalie's glove. The red light flashed. 2-1. They had scored.

The two minutes felt like an eternity. As soon as the penalty expired, I burst out of the box, my legs fresh, my anger a burning fuel. I was skating like a man possessed, hungry for redemption. The puck was deep in our zone, and our defenseman chipped it off the glass, sending it fluttering down the boards. It was a race to the puck, and I was going to win it.

I beat their defenseman to it, using my body to shield the puck as I turned up ice. I saw Mitch streaking down the far side, a blur of motion. I could have taken it myself, tried to go end-to-end, but I saw the play. I saw the trust. I fired a perfect saucer pass over a defender's stick, landing right on Mitch's tape. He took it in stride, his eyes locking with mine for a split second. Instead of shooting, he did the unexpected. He dropped it back to me, a no-look, between-the-legs pass that left their entire team frozen. I was cruising in, all alone.

I didn't hesitate. I wound up and unleashed a cannon of a shot, a slapshot that ripped the twine of the net with a sickening thwack. Goal. The most badass thing I'd ever done. The arena exploded, the sound deafening. I let out a primal scream, my arms outstretched, soaking in the adoration. I did another celly, a slow, deliberate circle, my eyes scanning the crowd. I didn't see Mercedes and Brianna this time. All I saw was the scout, nodding slowly, a look of approval on his face. Now it was 2-2.

We reset, the energy in the building electric. The last few minutes of the period were a blur of end-to-end action, a desperate, back-and-forth battle with both teams refusing to yield. The horn blared, signaling the end of the first period. I skated to the locker room, my chest heaving, my body aching, but my mind was clear. We were tied. The game was far from over. And I was just getting started.

⛸️

The locker room was a chaotic symphony of clanging pads, shouted conversations, and the hiss of water bottles. I sat on the bench in front of my stall, toweling off my hair, my body thrumming with the leftover adrenaline from the first period. Guys were laughing, rehashing plays, and complaining about the refs. It was normal. It was familiar.

Mitch plopped down beside me, his energy still high. "Dude, you're on fire out there," he said, nudging my shoulder with his. "And me! That drop pass... did you see that? We're unstoppable."

I managed a tight smile. "Yeah, man. We're playing well."

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a more serious, conspiratorial tone. "Hey, look... I'm sorry I ever doubted Coach Bev." My blood ran ice cold. "I actually thought she was this... I don't know, this bad monster who might've been preying on you or something." He let out a short, self-deprecating laugh. "But she has actually been doing her job. She's a total pro."

My heart hammered against my ribs. Monster? Preying on me? What the fuck made him think that? Did he know something? Was he onto us, onto her? Or was this just him parroting back the suspicions Mercedes and Brianna had probably filled his head with? I had to play this cool. I had to shut it down.

I shook my head, forcing a casual, dismissive laugh. "Uhm, yeah bro, no she's the best coach." I looked him dead in the eye, channeling the calm confidence Bev had drilled into me. "The scout in the stands looking pleased is all that matters."

Mitch seemed to accept it, nodding his head. "Yeah, you're right. It's just... she has this whole fake name thing going on and it's weird."

"She's probably just private," I said with a shrug, turning away to grab my water bottle. Fake name? What's he talking about? Whatever. I don't have time for this when she's done a lot for me. The conversation was over.

Just then, the locker room door swung open and Bev strode in. The chatter died down instantly. All eyes were on her. She wasn't smiling. Her gaze swept across the room, landing on me with an intensity that made my stomach clench.

"Good first period," she said, her voice sharp and cutting through the silence. "But it's not enough." She started pacing in front of the lockers, her movements sleek and predatory. "They're exploiting your hesitation. You score, then you let them walk all over you. You're playing their game."

She stopped in front of me, her eyes boring into mine. "This next period, you don't pass. You don't assist. You don't think. You see the net, you put the puck in the net. Do you understand me? The scout wants to see a leader. A predator. Not a team player. He wants to see a star. Be the star, Luke."

I nodded, my jaw tight. "Yes, Coach."

She looked around at the rest of the team. "And you," she said, her gaze sweeping over them. "Your only job is to get him the puck. Create the lanes. Take the hits. Clear the path. He does the rest. Got it?"

A few guys mumbled in agreement, but I could see the confusion and resentment in their eyes. This wasn't a team speech. This was a direct order.

"Good," she said, turning on her heel and walking out without another word.

The locker room was silent for a moment after she left. Then the whispers started. I just sat there, staring at my locker, her words echoing in my head. Be the star, Luke. That's all that mattered.

⛸️

The second period started, the roar of the crowd washing over us as we took the ice. The face-off was a repeat of the first, my stick connecting with the puck, sweeping it back. But this time, the dynamic was different. The team was doing exactly what Bev had ordered. They were creating lanes, taking the hits, their sole purpose to funnel the puck to me.

I could feel it in every shift. Mitch would get the puck on the wing, and instead of driving to the net, he'd look for me, forcing a pass that wasn't really there. Our other winger would carry it into the zone, only to dump it into the corner for me to chase. It was unnatural. It was selfish. And it was starting to piss me off.

I had three clear opportunities to pass for a guaranteed goal. Three times, I saw a wide-open teammate, a perfect, tape-to-tape pass waiting to be made. And three times, I ignored it, opting to take a low-percentage shot myself, just as Bev commanded. The puck clanged off the post. The goalie made an easy glove save. I could feel the frustration building, not just in me, but in the rhythm of the entire team. We were losing our flow.

We were on a power play, a crucial opportunity. The puck was on my stick in the high slot. I faked a shot, pulling the goalie out of position just a fraction. Mitch was wide open on the back door, an empty net staring him in the face. It was the easiest goal of his life. Bev's voice was screaming in my head: Shoot! Be the star!

But I couldn't do it. It was wrong.

In a split-second decision that felt both like a betrayal and a liberation, I threaded the needle. The puck slid past a defender's skate, landing perfectly on Mitch's blade. He didn't even have to look. He just one-timed it into the back of the net. The red light flashed. 3-2.

The guys mobbed me, their cheers genuine this time, a celebration of a true team goal. But I wasn't looking at them. My eyes were fixed on the bench. I looked directly at Bev. She wasn't celebrating. She was leaning forward, her hands on her knees, her face a mask of pure, unadulterated annoyance. She slowly shook her head, a single, deliberate movement that said it all: You disobeyed me.

A wave of guilt washed over me, so strong it almost made me sick. I'd let her down. I'd failed her.

I had to make it right.

The very next play, I was a man possessed. I took a pass at center ice and flew down the ice, blowing past their defenseman. I was in alone, the goalie coming out to challenge me. I didn't even think about passing. I wound up and fired a slapshot, putting everything I had into it. The puck sailed wide, clanging off the glass with a disappointing thud. I cursed under my breath, my frustration mounting.

I skated back to the bench, my head down. Bev didn't even look at me. I could feel her disappointment like a physical weight.

But I got another chance. The puck came to me in the corner. I fought off a check, spun around, and drove hard to the net. This time, I didn't miss. I snapped a wicked wrist shot, top corner, glove side. The puck was in the net before the goalie could even move. The red light flashed. 4-2. I did a quick, sharp fist pump, my eyes immediately finding Bev's. This time, she gave me a short, sharp nod of approval. The guilt vanished, replaced by a rush of validation. I had done it. I had been the star.

The second period finally ground to a halt, the horn blaring through the arena. We were up 4-2, but the mood in the locker room was anything but celebratory. It was heavy, thick with unspoken tension. Guys moved quietly, stripping off their gear, avoiding eye contact. The easy camaraderie from the first period was gone, replaced by a resentful silence. I could feel their eyes on me, a mix of envy and frustration. I was the star, just like Bev wanted. And I was completely alone.

As I sat on the bench, lacing up my skates for the third period, the locker room door swung open. Bev strode in, her gaze sweeping over the silent players before landing squarely on me. "Luke," she said, her voice clipped and authoritative. "A word."

I stood up, my stomach clenching. I followed her out of the locker room and into the quiet, concrete hallway, the sounds of the arena muffled behind the heavy door. She didn't stop, pulling me further down the hall, away from any prying eyes.

She turned to face me, her expression intense, her eyes burning with a feverish light. "That's what I'm talking about," she said, her voice a low, urgent hiss. "That last goal. That's the Luke the scout needs to see. You need to be the star, Luke. You're doing great."

She took a step closer, her voice dropping even lower. "This is a fun, dramatic, edge-of-your-seat game. That's perfect. It shows resilience. It shows you can carry a team on your back." A small, predatory smile touched her lips. "And after the game, we're going to talk to the scout."

My heart leaped into my throat. This was it.

"But," she continued, her voice hardening, her smile vanishing. "We have to win. There's no room for error. We don't talk to that scout after losing a game. Do you understand me? Losing is not an option."

Her words were a branding iron on my brain. Winning wasn't just about the game anymore. It was about my future. It was about her. It was about everything.

"Yes, ma'am," I said, my voice firm and unwavering.

She gave me a sharp, approving nod. "Good. Now get back in there and finish it."