Chapter 139: She's not in her seat
Hayes
The blinding, white-hot halogen lights of the arena cut through the rising mist of the ice, but the only thing I could feel was a freezing, suffocating void opening up in the center of my chest.
Thousands of people were a deafening, earth-shattering wall of continuous noise. The stadium drums thumped violently against the concrete foundation, vibrating straight through the soles of my skates, but the sound felt completely detached, a distant white noise running in the back of my mind.
I stood at the center circle, my fingers gripping the composite shaft of my stick so tightly the tattered leather of my hockey gloves creaked under the pressure. My broad shoulders were squared beneath my jersey, my deep, heavy breaths breathing in the crisp, synthetic winter air of the rink.
The second the referee blew the warning whistle to signal the start of the first period, my head completely left the ice. My eyes snapped upward, cutting past the referee’s shoulder, past the scoreboard, and tracking straight toward the premium VIP glass section directly behind our bench.
The plush, red-leather seat in the front row was completely empty. A sharp, visceral jolt of raw adrenaline shot through my veins, my heart violently hammering against my ribcage. Where the fuck is she? She was supposed to be there before the puck dropped. She was supposed to be wearing my jersey, sitting behind the glass.
Maybe Diablo was giving her a hard time, causing her to be late. That's probably it. That's—
"Hayes! Eyes on the dot!" Jax yelled from the left wing, his gloved hand tapping his stick against the ice to snap me back. "We're live!"
The puck hit the ice. The first period officially began, and my body moved on pure, primitive muscle memory.
The Westwoods were our oldest, most vicious rivals in the conference, a team built on heavy, illegal checks and systematic psychological warfare. And a stupid as fuck man child for a captain.
Miller, a six-foot-three enforcer with a reputation for breaking jaws and running dirty hits when the officials weren't looking. Ive experienced his nonsense from the other game.
Miller skated onto the ice with a smug, arrogant grin, immediately targeting me the second we crossed into the neutral zone.
"Hey, Ashford!" Miller shouted, his skates spraying a wall of fresh ice as he cut right across my line of sight, his shoulder deliberately clipping my vest.
"Heard you got a little situation back at your house. Heard the golden girl is carrying a little souvenir. You're gonna lose your crown before the second period?"
I groan, always the same words. Over and over. The dude can't even be creative with his words. I didn't even turn my head, completely ignoring him as my eyes entirely fixed on the empty glass suite above the boards.
To me, Miller wasn't a threat, he was a fly buzzing around a hurricane. My silence wasn't discipline, it was the flat, clinical detachment of a man who was actively drowning in his own mind.
"Ashford! Pass the fucking rubber!" Druff screamed from the blue line.
I didn't hear him until it was too late. I carried the puck across the center line, my strides long and heavy, but my focus was completely shattered. I was looking up at the concourse tunnel, looking for a glimpse of dark hair in the VIP seats.
My hands, usually precise and lethal, turned completely sloppy. A Westwoods defenseman stepped out of the shadows of the left boards, his stick sweeping in a clean, effortless poke-check. He stripped the puck right off my blade.
"Turnover! Black line is compromised!" the arena announcer’s voice boomed through the high-end sound system.
The Westwoods capitalized on my blinding distraction with absolute, ruthless efficiency. They broke into a high-speed three-on-two rush, the puck zipping across the ice before Miller drilled a hard, heavy slapshot straight past our goalie’s shoulder.
The red siren behind the net exploded into a deafening, continuous whine.
Westwoods: 1. Ice Kings: 0.
The stadium crowd erupted into a mix of shocked groans and rival cheers, the noise rattling the glass barriers. I stood in the high slot, my chest heaving, my eyes burning as I stared back up at the empty VIP seat for the millionth time this night. A terrifying, primeval fury was coiling tightly in my gut. She couldn't have been in danger right? With a psycho still lurking around campus.
"Hayes! Wake the fuck up!" Jax barked, skating up to me and shoving his gloved hand against my chest, his face red with frustration.
"You're skating like an amateur! You just blew the defensive line! What the hell is wrong with you?"
"She's not in her seat, Jax," I whispered, my voice a dark, jagged rasp that left a trail of ice in the humid air between us.
Jax froze, his eyes instantly shifting to the empty glass suite before snapping back to my face, his expression turning grave. "Hayes... you're overthinking it. She's fine. Play the fucking game before they score again."
But the panic was a physical weight, suffocating my lungs. For the next ten minutes, the terrifying, untouchable Captain of the team turned completely feral. I started playing roughly to distract myself from her absence.
Every single check I delivered was reckless, dirty, and driven by a blind, chaotic rage. I slammed a Westwoods winger into the boards with enough force to nearly shatter the plexiglass, landing myself a two-minute minor for boarding.
I sat in the penalty box, my knuckles white around my stick, my breathing ragged as I stared at the concrete floorboards. Right before the first period buzzer sounded, the Westwoods scored their second goal on the power play, a clean wrist shot from the circle that left our defense completely broken.
The horn blared, a long, mocking wail that signaled the end of the first twenty minutes.
Westwoods: 2. Ice Kings: 0.
The moment the buzzer cut off, I didn't wait for the team. I tore across the ice in long, violent strides, my skates cutting deep grooves into the frozen surface as I stormed through the private training tunnel.
I threw the heavy oak double doors of the locker room open, the wood crashing violently against the concrete walls with the force of a gunshot. I have to make sure she's ok.
"What the fuck was that out there?!" Coach roared from the chalkboard, but I didn't even give him a fraction of my attention.
I ripped my helmet off, tossing it heavily against my locker, my face covered in a cold, furious sweat.
Jax stepped up, matching my stance, his face stone-cold as he closed the distance between us. "Your head is in the fucking clouds, Hayes. You're letting Miller and the Westwoods win"
“What should I do?” I sigh frustratedly.
“Focus on the game. I'm sure she'll want you to do that” he says before he empties a bottle of water in his mouth.
“I can't focus because she might be hurt. What if something bad happened to her? She said she'll show up, she's supposed to out there”
“Well we still have time, you can try calling her or her friends to find out where she is…. just fix your shit and be out there looking normal for the next period” he says as he pat my shoulder leaves the locker room.