Chapter 92 CHAPTER 92

Chapter 92 CHAPTER 92
Jax’s Pov

The temporary outdoor stadium had been built on the frozen banks of Lake Michigan, surrounded by towering pine trees dusted in heavy white snow and set against the vast, dark expanse of open water.

There were no climate-controlled glass suites or synthetic air systems here. Huge, industrial stadium lights towered over the ice sheet, casting a brilliant white glow across the natural lake ice, illuminating thousands of swirling snowflakes that drifted softly down through the freezing night air.

The stands were packed to capacity with over twelve thousand fans wrapped in heavy wool blankets, wearing thermal caps and oversized parkas. They stomped their boots against the wooden bleachers, creating a low, thunderous rhythm that echoed across the frozen lake, while plumes of white steam rose from thousands of paper cups filled with hot cider and black coffee.

When we stepped out of the makeshift heated trailers and down the wooden boardwalk toward the rink, the raw, sub-zero air hit us like an open refrigerator door.

"Now this is real hockey," I grunted, my breath billowing in heavy white clouds as I adjusted the chin strap of my dark blue Wolverines helmet.

Beside me, Julian was taking a deep, clean breath of the winter air. His face was framed by his dark blue ear guards, his blue eyes bright, clear, and sharp as crushed glass under the stadium floodlights.

"It smells like the pond in Detroit, Jax," Julian whispered, his stick blade clicking lightly against the wooden boards as we waited for the gate to open. "No ceiling. Just the sky."

"And about twelve thousand loud Midwesterners," I added with a smirk.

When our skates hit the sheet, the sound was entirely different from an indoor arena. Lake ice was harder, colder, and denser. Every stride cut into the surface with a loud, sharp CRUNCH, the ice popping under our blades in the bitter cold. The wind blew in off the open water, carrying the sharp scent of freshwater pine and deep winter, fueling that deep, iron engine in my chest.

The opening puck drop against the Grand Rapids Griffins was pure physical warfare complicated by the elements.

Playing outdoor pro hockey meant fighting two opponents at once: the six guys in the opposing jerseys and the freezing wind that whipped across the boards, altering the trajectory of every high clearing pass and turning the black rubber puck into a rock-hard missile.

Coach Vaughan promoted us to the second line for the Classic, slotting Julian and me alongside Kowalski. The game was heavy, physical, and brutal.

Midway through the second period, with the wind picking up from the north and blowing fresh powder across the blue lines, the Griffins tried to pin us in our defensive zone. Their heavy wingers were driving hard into the corners, using their elbows and stick shafts to grind us into the dasher boards.

I took a heavy shoulder check behind our net from a six-foot-three defenseman, the impact rattling my teeth and driving my back hard into the glass.

I didn't give an inch. I planted my heavy leather boots into the frozen sheet, drove my hip straight into his waist, and stripped the puck from his stick with a hard, sweeping poke-check.

Julian was already reading the play.

He didn't wait for a clean breakout pass; he adjusted his stride to the swirling wind, cutting back toward the center red line with that liquid, effortless grace. He absorbed a hard cross-check to his shoulder pads from their trailing defenseman, barely flinching as he kept his balance on the hard, popping ice.

We didn't need set plays. We didn't need the chalk drawings Coach Vaughan made on the whiteboard during intermissions.

We played the unscripted, intuitive hockey we had forged on the dark Detroit river ponds, reading the tilt of each other’s shoulders, feeling the momentum of the ice, and moving as two parts of a single, unstoppable machine.

With three minutes left in the third period and the score deadlocked at 1–1, the Griffins mounted a heavy rush into our neutral zone.

Their lead center tried to chip the puck past our blue line along the right boards. I saw the play developing half a second early. I charged forward, cutting off his angle, and threw my entire two-hundred-pound frame into a crushing, open-ice hip check.

BOOM!

The impact echoed across the open lake. The Griffin center flew backward, his skates flipping out from beneath him as his stick clattered against the ice.

The puck trickled loose near the blue line, spinning in the light snow accumulated along the boards.

Without turning my head, without looking back, and relying entirely on the blind, telepathic synchronization built over three hundred late-night sessions, I reached back with my stick blade and chipped the puck blindly over my shoulder into the center slot.

Julian was already there.

He burst out of the shadow of their defensive pairing like a greyhound breaking off a leash. He caught my blind, backwards chip cleanly on his forehand without dropping an ounce of speed, leaving two Griffins defensemen grasping at empty air behind him.

He closed in on the Griffins goalie, his dark blue jersey flapping against the freezing wind.

He didn't execute a complex, high-society fake. He leaned into his left skate, loaded his stick blade with every ounce of power in his shoulders, and unloosed a lethal, blistering wrist shot straight into the top-left corner of the cage.

THWACK-PING!

The puck struck the iron water bottle sitting on top of the net, sending a shower of frozen ice crystals exploding into the night air.

The goal horn roared, a deep, foghorn blast that rang out across the dark water of Lake Michigan, and the red light behind the glass exploded into a brilliant, fiery glow under the falling snow.

Twelve thousand fans stood on their feet, screaming, throwing thermal hats and wool scarves over the boards onto the snow-covered ice.

Before the goal horn even finished its blast, I sprinted across the sheet and grabbed Julian, lifting him straight into the air.

He threw his arms around my shoulders, his chest gasping for cold air, his helmet knocking against mine with a sharp clack.

When I set his boots back down on the ice, I looked at his face.

His cheeks were flushed a bright, healthy red from the freezing cold, his dark hair was wet with melted snow, and the pale silver line of his cheekbone scar stood out against his skin. But his blue eyes were blazing with a pure, wild, and unburdened happiness that lit up the dark winter night.

He wasn't playing to protect a family name. He wasn't playing to satisfy an athletic trust or avoid an executive's wrath. He was playing because his heart was beating, because his lungs were full of cold air, and because he loved the game with every fiber of his being.

The rest of the team flooded the ice, crowding around us, slapping our shoulders, dumping handfulls of loose snow over our helmets in a loud, roaring celebration.

Julian looked up through the swirling white flakes at the massive, open night sky above the rink, then looked over at me, his hand reaching out to grab my heavy hockey glove, his fingers squeezing tight over the leather.

There were no walls around us, no roof above our heads, and no ceiling on where we were going next. We were playing hockey for the pure, unadulterated love of it, and the ice belonged entirely to us.

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