Chapter 89 Luke

Chapter 89 Luke
Luke

⛸️

The third period felt different the second my blade touched the ice.

Not louder. Not faster.

Heavier.

Like the whole arena had sunk into this tense, suffocating silence beneath the noise—like everyone knew this was where the game would either crown me... or expose me.

4–2.

Twelve minutes to prove I was him.

Or prove I wasn't.

The puck dropped.

I won the face-off clean again—automatic at this point—and immediately took off, cutting through the neutral zone like I was being hunted. Or maybe like I was the one hunting. I couldn't tell anymore.

"Luke!" Mitch called, stick ready on the wing.

I heard him.

I ignored him.

I drove straight into their zone, splitting the defense again, but this time they were ready. Their captain stepped up, shoulder low, and crushed me into the boards. Glass rattled. My helmet smacked hard enough to make my vision spark.

The puck got stripped.

Turnover.

The crowd gasped.

"Get up!" someone shouted.

I pushed off the boards, jaw tight, lungs burning. My shoulder screamed, but I didn't feel it fully. Not really.

All I felt was her voice.

Be the star.

They transitioned fast.

Too fast.

Three-on-two.

Our defense scrambled, sticks down, trying to close lanes. Their winger cut inside, dragging the puck across his body with smooth control. Shot.

Saved.

Rebound.

Chaos.

Bodies crashed into the crease, sticks hacking, skates carving ice into powder. The puck slipped loose—slow, agonizingly slow—right into the slot.

And their captain was there.

He didn't miss.

Red light.

4–3.

The arena shifted.

Not quiet—but nervous now. That confident roar turned into sharp, anxious noise. The kind that cuts instead of lifts.

I skated to the bench, ripping my mouthguard out.

"Lock in!" Coach Barnes barked.

But I wasn't looking at him.

I looked past him.

At her.

Bev stood still, arms crossed, eyes locked on me like she could peel me apart layer by layer. No panic. No encouragement.

Just expectation.

Like the goal didn't matter.

Like nothing mattered...

until I proved I could take control again.

Back on the ice.

Eight minutes left.

Everything got tighter. Faster. Dirtier.

Every inch of ice had to be fought for.

I took a pass at the blue line, cut inside, got hooked—no call. I kept going anyway, dragging the puck through traffic, trying to force something that wasn't there.

Shot.

Blocked.

Pain shot up my shin as it ricocheted off a defender.

"Move it!" Mitch yelled again, wide open for the third time this period.

I didn't.

I couldn't.

Because now it wasn't just about scoring.

It was about proving something.

Five minutes.

They were pressing hard now. Smelling blood.

We iced the puck twice in a row. Couldn't clear clean. Our line got stuck out there too long, legs turning to concrete.

Face-off in our zone.

I bent low, gripping my stick tighter than I needed to.

Win.

We scrambled.

Puck along the boards. I dug it out, took a hit, spun off, and chipped it forward just enough—

Break.

It was me.

Again.

Open ice.

Just me and the goalie.

The world slowed.

Every sound drowned out.

Every thought narrowed.

Shoot.

Be the star.

I skated in, faked forehand, pulled it backhand—

The goalie bit.

Too hard.

I had him.

Empty space.

Game-ending moment.

—

"LUKE!"

Mitch's voice cut through everything.

Sharp.

Desperate.

Alive.

I flicked my eyes—

He was there.

Wide open.

No defender within ten feet.

Empty net.

Guaranteed goal.

Time snapped back into place.

And for the first time all game...

I hesitated.

In that split second, everything collided.

Bev's voice.

The scout.

The goals.

The approval.

The way she looked at me when I scored.

The way the team looked at me when I didn't pass.

The silence in the locker room.

The resentment.

The control.

And then something else.

Something quieter.

But stronger.

This isn't you.

My hands moved before my brain could argue.

I slid the puck across.

Perfect.

Clean.

Unselfish.

Right onto Mitch's tape.

He buried it.

Easy.

4–? No.

5–3.

The horn didn't go off yet—but the arena exploded anyway.

Mitch screamed, slamming into the boards in celebration.

The guys rushed him—rushed us—arms grabbing, helmets knocking together.

Real celebration.

Not forced.

Not for show.

I stood there for half a second longer than I should have.

Heart pounding.

Chest tight.

Because I knew—

Before I even looked—

She was pissed.

I turned slowly toward the bench.

Bev wasn't clapping.

Wasn't smiling.

Wasn't nodding.

She was staring.

And this time...

there was no approval in it.

Only something cold.

Something calculating.

Like I had just ruined something.

Final minute.

They pulled their goalie.

Extra attacker.

Desperation mode.

The ice turned chaotic—scrambles, blocked shots, bodies flying everywhere.

I played defense now.

Real defense.

Breaking passes.

Winning battles.

Clearing pucks.

Doing the things that don't show up on highlight reels.

Ten seconds.

Nine.

Eight.

The puck got dumped deep into our zone one last time.

I chased it down, pinned it against the boards, burning the clock.

Three.

Two.

One.

Horn.

Game over.

5–3.

We won.

The arena erupted, louder than anything before.

Gloves flew.

Sticks raised.

Guys shouting, tackling each other in celebration.

Mitch grabbed me, shaking me hard. "THAT'S HOW WE DO IT!"

But I wasn't celebrating.

Not really. 

Because across the ice...

standing near the bench...

Bev didn't move.

Didn't cheer.

Didn't come toward us.

She just watched me.

And somehow...

even after the biggest win of my career...

it didn't feel like I'd actually won anything at all.

⛸️

The line forms like it always does.

Automatic. Ritual.

Win or lose—you show respect.

I skate up, breathing still heavy, sweat cooling against my skin under the gear. The other team lines up across from us, faces flushed, some pissed, some blank.

Gloves tap.

"Good game."

"Yeah."

"Hell of a shot."

I nod, barely making eye contact, moving down the line one by one. Their captain—the same guy who'd been hacking at me all night—stops for half a second longer. His grip is tighter.

"Not bad," he mutters.

I just stare at him, then move on.

We break off, turning back toward our end.

Our goalie is already there, mask half-lifted, sweat dripping, chest heaving. He carried us through parts of that game—we all know it.

I skate up first.

Tap helmets.

"Hell of a game," I tell him, knocking my glove lightly against his mask.

"Yeah, you too, Cap," he says, voice tired but proud.

The rest of the guys crowd in—sticks tapping his pads, gloves hitting his shoulders, everyone giving him his moment.

That part feels real.

That part always does.

Then we're off the ice.

Tunnel.

Concrete.

The noise of the arena fading behind us like a door closing on something bigger than just a game.

The locker room explodes the second we walk in.

Yelling.

Laughing.

Gear hitting the floor.

Someone blasts music from a speaker—too loud, bass rattling through the room.

"LET'S GO!"

"Big win, boys!"

Water bottles get sprayed, towels thrown, someone shoves Mitch into a locker and he shoves back, both of them laughing like idiots.

It's chaos.

Good chaos.

The kind that means something.

I drop down onto the bench in front of my stall, chest still rising and falling, hands moving on autopilot.

Gloves off.

Helmet off.

I yank my jersey over my head, peeling it off slow, sweat sticking to the fabric. It comes free, and I toss it into the pile beside me.

Now I'm just in the black compression layer, it clinging to me, damp, my muscles still tight from the game.

I lean forward, undoing my skates, fingers working the laces loose.

Mitch drops down next to me again, still buzzing.

"Dude," he says, shaking his head like he still can't believe it. "That was insane. That pass? And then the earlier goal? Nah—you were different tonight."

I huff out a quiet breath, pulling one skate off.

"Nah," I say, keeping my tone even. "We all did great."

He nudges me with his shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah... humble captain speech," he laughs. "But still."

Around us, the celebration keeps going.

Guys reliving plays.

"Did you SEE that hit?"

"Bro, I thought you were dead on that one."

Coach Barnes is talking to a couple of the defensemen, actually smiling for once.

Everything feels... right.

Like how it's supposed to be.

But then—

The door opens.

It's subtle at first.

Just the shift.

The energy dips—not dead, not silent—but enough.

Enough that I feel it before I even look up.

She's there.

Bev.

Standing in the doorway.

Watching.

The music keeps playing.

Guys are still laughing.

But it's like there's a second layer now.

Tension underneath the celebration.

My hands slow on the laces of my second skate.

Mitch doesn't notice.

No one really does.

But I do.

Because she's not looking at the team.

She's looking at me. 

"Luke."

Her voice cuts clean through everything.

Not loud.

But it doesn't need to be. 

I glance up.

She's standing in the doorway, eyes locked on me.

"Come here."

I finish unlacing my second skate, slower than I need to, buying myself a second to breathe. Then I pull it off, stand up, and drop it beside the first.

"I'll be back," I mutter to Mitch.

He just nods, still riding the high.

I follow her out.

The door shuts behind us, muffling the chaos instantly. The hallway feels colder, quieter—like stepping into a different world.

She doesn't stop until we're farther down, tucked into a private stretch of concrete where no one's around.

Then she turns.

"That," she says, her voice low, controlled, "was a great game."

My chest tightens just a little.

"I'm glad we won."

There's a pause.

And then—

"But."

There it is.

Always.

"You should've had all of those goals," she continues, stepping closer. "I wanted a hat trick for you tonight, Luke. That's what the scout remembers. That's what separates you."

The words hit harder than I expect.

Because now...

I see it.

The headlines. The attention. The moment.

I swallow, nodding slightly.

"Yeah... I get that."

But something pushes back in me.

Quiet.

Still there.

"But... we're a team too," I say, my voice steady, even if it feels like I'm stepping somewhere risky. "I wanted Mitch to shine as well."

Her eyes sharpen on me.

For a second, I think she's going to snap.

But she doesn't.

"That's fine," she says smoothly. Too smoothly. "There's nothing wrong with that."

She steps closer.

Close enough that I can feel the pressure of it.

"But never let anyone outshine you."

Her voice drops.

Firm.

Final.

"Ever."

I nod.

"Yeah... okay."

She studies my face for a second longer, like she's making sure the message actually landed.

Then just like that—shift.

Back to composed.

Back to focused.

"Go take a shower," she says. "And wear the outfit I picked out for you. It's in your bag."

My head lifts slightly.

"And then come meet me out here."

A beat.

"So we can talk to the scout."

Everything in me sharpens instantly.

This is it.

"Yes, ma'am."

I turn and head back down the hall, pushing the locker room door open again.

The noise hits me all over.

Music.

Laughter.

Life.

I don't stop this time.

I head straight to the showers, turning the water on full blast. Hot. Fast. Efficient.

I don't linger.

Just enough to wash the sweat, the game, the pressure off my skin.

Or at least try to.

I towel off quickly, running it through my hair, drying it just enough so it's not dripping.

Then I move to my bag.

Unzip.

Pause.

Yeah.

She picked this.

Of course she did.

I change fast.

Clean.

Sharp.

Put together in a way that doesn't feel accidental.

When I step back out—

The room notices.

"Damn."

"Alright, Luke..."

"Man's looking like a whole pro already."

Mitch grins. "Okayyy, I see you."

I ignore it.

All of it.

Because this isn't about them right now.

I grab my stuff, toss what I need into my bag, and head for the door again.

Heart steady.

Focused.

I step out into the hallway.

And she's already there.

Waiting.

Bev looks me over, slow and deliberate.

A small, satisfied look crosses her face.

"This is it," she says quietly.

And for a second—

everything else fades.

The game.

The noise.

The doubts.

This is the moment we worked for.

Or at least...

the moment she built me for.

We walk side by side down the hallway.

My footsteps echo against the concrete, steady—but my heart isn't.

It's louder than the arena was.

Faster.

Tighter.

This is it.

Bev doesn't say much as we walk. She doesn't need to. Her presence alone keeps me locked in, shoulders back, chin level, every movement controlled.

We turn a corner, and I see him.

The man in the suit.

Same one from the stands.

Tablet in hand. Calm. Observant.

Waiting.

He looks up as we approach.

And his eyes go straight to me.

"Here he is," Bev says smoothly, her tone shifting—professional, polished. "Luke Holman."

She gestures toward me slightly, like she's presenting something she built.

"My captain."

I step forward, extending my hand.

"Sir."

He shakes it firmly.

Not too hard.

Not too soft.

Measured.

"I've been watching you all night," he says, his voice even, experienced. The kind of voice that's seen hundreds of players... and decided who mattered.

I hold his gaze.

Don't look away.

He nods slightly.

"You're talented."

A pause.

Then—

"Very talented."

Something in my chest lifts.

But I stay still.

Controlled.

"You play fast, but it's not just speed," he continues, glancing briefly at his tablet before looking back at me. "It's awareness. You read the ice well. You create opportunities—even under pressure."

Another pause.

"And you finish."

Bev stays quiet beside me.

Letting him talk.

Letting it land.

He tilts his head slightly.

"I can see why you're the captain."

That one hits different.

"Leadership isn't just a letter," he adds. "It's presence. And you've got that."

I nod once.

"Thank you, sir." 

He studies me for another second.

Then—

"I'll be honest with you."

My focus sharpens.

"I'm very interested."

There it is.

"You're exactly the kind of player we look at as a serious draft prospect."

Everything in me locks in tighter.

Not excitement.

Not yet.

Something sharper.

More dangerous.

"I'd like to keep an eye on your development," he continues. "But if you keep performing like that..."

A small nod.

"You're going to go far."

Silence hangs for a second.

Heavy.

Important.

Bev finally steps in, just slightly.

"I told you," she says, a hint of satisfaction in her voice. "He delivers."

The scout gives a small, knowing smile.

"He does."

I stand there, shoulders squared, trying to keep everything steady.

But inside—

Everything is shifting.

Because this isn't just a moment anymore.

This is real.

And as I glance at Bev—

Just for a second—

I see it in her eyes.

Not pride.

Not relief.

Ownership.

Like this...

All of it...

Belongs to her.

The scout reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out a sleek card.

He doesn't hand it to me.

He hands it to her. 

"I'll be in touch," he says, looking between us—but mostly at Bev. "We'll discuss things further. Keep tracking his progress."

A small pause.

Then his eyes land back on me.

"Until then... keep training with her."

I nod immediately.

"Yes, sir."

He gives one last approving look—measured, final—then turns and walks down the hall, disappearing around the corner like the moment just... seals itself behind him.

Silence.

Just for a second.

Then—

Bev turns to me.

And for the first time all night—

She smiles.

"See?" she says.

I don't even think.

My hand comes up, and she meets it—

smack.

A sharp high-five that echoes slightly in the hallway.

Then she steps forward—

And pulls me into a hug.

It's quick.

But close.

Close enough that I feel it in my chest.

"Thank you," I say, low, real. Not controlled. Not calculated.

Just honest.

She pulls back slightly, looking up at me.

"I told you," she says.

And there it is again.

That certainty.

Like this was never a possibility to her.

It was a guarantee.

Then she steps back fully, shifting gears like always.

"Now go get your stuff," she says. "We're celebrating tonight."

I blink slightly.

"Uh... I actually have a team dinner tonight," I say. "The guys are wanting to celebrate."

Her expression doesn't change much.

But something in it hardens.

Just a little.

"Skip it."

The word lands flat.

Not aggressive.

Not loud.

Just... decided.

"I want to celebrate with you."

There's no smile now.

No suggestion.

Just expectation.

And suddenly—

It doesn't feel like a choice.