12. Game Day

Fridays always hit different. Especially game days.

My alarm blares at 5:30 AM, but I'm already awake. Adrenaline hums under my skin, my body wired before my feet even hit the floor. Today isn't just another day—it's a chance to dominate. To remind everyone why the Lakehurst Sirens run this league.

I throw on my workout gear, grab a protein bar, and head downstairs. My parents are still asleep, but I don't need an audience for this. The gym in the basement is all I need—bench press, squats, core circuits. The weight of the bar, the burn in my muscles—it all clears my head, sharpens my focus. By the time I'm done, I'm dripping sweat and grinning.

After a quick shower and a shake, I head to the rink. The team's already there, just like every game day morning.

"'Bout time, Cap," Vince smirks, leaning on his stick.

"Some of us don't roll out of bed five minutes before practice," I shoot back, shoving past him.

Warm-ups. Shooting drills. Defensive plays. It's not an official practice, but we don't take it easy. The puck flies, bodies collide, the tension thick in the air. Everyone's locked in. We know what's at stake tonight.

By the time we finish, my legs are loose, my hands sharp. I shower again, change into my hoodie and jeans, then head to school.

Showtime's getting closer.

Homeroom is uneventful, which is the best I can hope for. Alexis is next to me, scrolling through something on her phone, and I rest my head against my hand, half-asleep.

"You look thrilled to be here," she whispers.

"I live for it," I deadpan.

Luke leans over from the table behind, Vince sat next to him with an AirPod in, not caring that our home room teacher had already asked him to put it away.

"Grumpy today Callie? It suits you." Luke kicked but winced when Vince kicked him under the table, "dude what the fuck?" Luke winced.

"Coaches daughter man, you can't be mean to her." Vince shrugged and I laughed, turns out being Chris's daughter isn't such a bad thing after all, got some power over these idiots.

First period drags. And it doesn't help that Mr. Hendricks, our physics teacher, gives me the creeps. His eyes linger too long, and his 'innocent' questions feel anything but.

"You're new here, right?" He says, as I pack up.

I nod, forcing a polite smile.

"Well, if you need help catching up, I'm available after school," he adds, his smile too wide.

I mumble something about figuring it out and bolt before he can say more.

At break, things go from bad to worse.

I barely step into the hallway before a group of girls block my path. I recognize one—Ava Whitmore. Queen of fake smiles and whispered rumors.

"So," Ava purrs, tilting her head. "You're Coach Brooks' daughter."

I don't react. I know better.

She steps closer, voice dropping. "Don't think for a second that gets you special treatment. You don't belong here."

I snort. "Right. 'Cause I'm dying to be part of your little fan club."

Her smile falters. "Just stay out of our way."

She shoves past me, her friends giggling as they follow.

But I grab her by the upper arm to stop her, her head swings back to look at me and I feel the smirk on my face.

"Trust me princess, you don't want to get in my way." I mock her high pitch voice and prissy threats.

She scoffs and hurries away.

Great. Another thing to deal with.

By lunch, I'm done with the day. I'm thinking about eating in the parking lot just for some peace when Alexis links her arm through mine.

"Please tell me you're not about to eat alone like some brooding main character," she says, giving me a look.

"I might be."

"No. Absolutely not. You're sitting with me today," she insists, pulling me toward the cafeteria.

I raise a brow. "Oh? And why the sudden interest in where I eat?"

She hesitates. I narrow my eyes, then smirk. "Wait a second—do you like someone?"

"What? No!" Her voice is too high.

I stop walking, crossing my arms. "Liar. Spill."

Alexis shifts on her feet. "I just... I might think one of the hockey guys is cute."

Bingo.

"Which one?" I press, grinning. "Vince? Jax? Luke?.... Grayson?"

She groans. "I hate you."

"I know," I say. "But tell me anyway."

She mumbles something under her breath.

"Speak up, shy girl."

She sighs. "Fine. Vince."

Ah. The forward.

"Not bad," I say. "He's quiet, but he doesn't seem like a complete idiot."

"Yeah, thanks," she mutters. "So, will you sit with me? Please? I just... I don't wanna look weird going over there alone, plus they literally love you!"

"No they don't?" I raise a eyebrow, genuinely confused, those boys don't give a flying fuck about anything but damn hockey sticks.

"From the second you arrived they have been all over you, like yesterday, talking about how you went to their practice!" She says all wide eyes and smiles.

But that's only because I'm there hockey coaches daughter who they never knew existed, "That's just because they want to annoy me." I exhale dramatically. "Fine we'll sit with them. But if they start acting like morons, I'm leaving."

"Deal."

We make our way to the hockey table, where chaos is already unfolding. Jax and Vince are in a heated debate over some fantasy league, Mason is stealing Riley's fries, and Grayson—of course—is watching everything like he owns the place.

I barely sit down before my phone buzzes.

Tess: Trying to convince my dad to send me to Lakehurst. Stay alive until then, okay?

I smirk.

Good luck with that.

Another text pops up.

Jonah: Some kid was running his mouth about you. So I handled it.

I sigh. I already know what that means.

Hope you made it worth it. Next time, remind them why my name still holds weight.

Grayson notices. "Who's that?" He looked confused and concerned all at once, this boy is way to innocent.

"No one," I say quickly, locking my phone.

His stare lingers, but he doesn't push.

Yet.

Instead, he leans back. "You ready for tonight?" He grinned.

I shrug. "Depends. How bad are you gonna lose?"

He grins. "Cocky."

I just smirk. Let him think whatever he wants.

The locker room hums with energy. It always does before a game.

It's the steady rhythm of skates scraping against the rubber flooring, the sharp click of helmets being fastened, the deep breaths before battle. The air is thick with the scent of sweat, sharpened blades, and the distinct sting of menthol from someone's muscle rub.

"Boys," Jax calls, stretching his arms above his head. "This is gonna be a bloodbath."

"Damn right it is," Vince grins, taping his stick. "They don't stand a chance."

Mason slams his gloves together, hyping himself up. "Gonna run straight through these guys."

I smirk, rolling my shoulders. The energy in the room is electric, charging through each of us like a live wire. Everyone's locked in, laser-focused. This is what we live for.

Coach steps in, his presence enough to quiet the noise. He doesn't give long-winded speeches. He doesn't need to.

"They think they can walk into our house and push us around," he says, voice steady, controlled. "Show them they're wrong."

That's all we need.

We stand, one by one, tapping our sticks against the floor in a steady rhythm. A battle cry.

I pull on my helmet, adjusting the chin strap, feeling the familiar weight settle.

Time to make Lakehurst proud.

We hit the tunnel, lined up in two rows, waiting for the signal to take the ice. The roar of the crowd is deafening, echoing through the walls. The arena lights are bright, reflecting off the freshly resurfaced ice, a smooth sheet of glass waiting to be shattered.

I steal a glance at the stands, scanning for familiar faces.

And there she is.

Calliope Brooks, sitting near the glass, arms crossed, looking unimpressed as ever. But she's here. She stayed.

The ref skates to the center, motioning for us. The opposing team is already out there, circling like vultures.

The second we get the green light, we explode onto the ice.

The cold air hits like a slap, sharp and crisp. Skates cut deep, ice spraying as we pick up speed. The boards shake as we collide against them, warming up, getting our feet under us.

The refs are already positioned, one near the penalty box, another at center ice. The linesmen pace, watching everything.

I skate to the faceoff circle, meeting the opposing captain's stare. His smirk is cocky, full of confidence.

I don't break eye contact.

The ref drops the puck.

Game on.

Hockey is chaos. Controlled, brutal, and electrifying.

It's more than just speed or skill—it's instinct, aggression, a war fought with skates and sticks instead of fists. And right now, the Lakehurst Sirens are dominating.

The game against the Rivermont Titans started fast, and it hasn't slowed down since.

Grayson wins the opening faceoff clean, snapping the puck back to Jax, who immediately fires it along the boards. Vince bursts forward, dodging a hit from a defenseman twice his size, and hooks around the net like he's got all the time in the world.

Then, with a sharp pivot, he snaps the puck out in front.

Grayson is already there.

His stick swings, a deadly one-timer, and the sound of it meeting the puck is like a gunshot. It rockets past the Titans' goalie before he even has a chance to react.

The red light flashes. The goal horn screams.

The crowd erupts.

Grayson skates toward the bench, slamming his fist into his teammates' gloves, his grin sharp and cocky. But the Titans don't take that well.

They start playing dirty.

The next shift is a battlefield. The hits get harder, the shoves get more aggressive, and the chirping between players turns venomous. The refs barely call anything, letting them get away with almost murder.

I watch as Mason nearly obliterates a Titan forward at the blue line, sending him sprawling onto the ice. The guy scrambles up, shoving Mace hard, but Mace just laughs.

Another play—Dylan takes a pass at center ice, but before he can even move, a Rivermont player slams into him shoulder-first. He crashes into the boards, his helmet bouncing against the glass.

I wince, but Dylan just grits his teeth and gets up.

This is hockey.

It's brutal. Unforgiving. And no one—no one—is backing down.

The second period starts, and the Titans are desperate. They're down by one, and they hate it.

The pace is relentless.

The Sirens fire off another shot—blocked. Then another. The Titans barely clear it out of their zone before Jax snatches the puck at the blue line, stopping their breakout before it even starts. He dumps it back in, forcing them to scramble.

The Titans finally manage to push forward, gaining speed as they cross center ice. A clean pass gets them into the Sirens' zone.

Then I see him.

Their biggest forward.

He's a tank on skates, and he's not slowing down. He doesn't care about the puck. He doesn't even try to take a shot.

He's aiming for Luke.

It happens too fast.

The puck is barely near the net before the guy lowers his shoulder and charges.

Luke doesn't have time to move.

The collision is brutal—full speed, full weight, and Luke is launched backward.

His helmet flies off as he slams into the glass—right in front of me.

I scream.

A sickening crack echoes through the arena, silencing the crowd for half a second before gasps and shouts ripple through the stands.

"Alexis did you hear that? That was a crack right?!" I grab onto Alexis and she looks just as worried as I do.

Luke crumples to the ice. He doesn't move.

"It's okay Callie, I'm sure it's okay." Alexis says after a brief moment, and I'm not sure if she's trying to convince me or herself.

The Titans' forward barely has time to blink before the Sirens are on him.

Mason gets to him first, grabbing his jersey and yanking him backward. Vince throws the first punch, his glove ripping off mid-swing. The guy stumbles, but then Jax is there, shoving him hard enough to send him crashing to the ice.

The refs go insane, whistles shrieking, but no one is stopping.

Grayson lunges at another Titan who dares to step in, grabbing his collar and slamming him against the boards. The guy swings, but Grayson ducks, landing a solid shot to his ribs before the refs finally tear them apart.

"CHRIS? WHATS HAPPENING?" I hit May hands on the glass, my dad stood in the players bench area and he didn't listen to me, his focus was on shouting at the refs to do something.

The crowd is on its feet, screaming, booing, cheering—no one knows what to do.

But all I can focus on is Luke.

He's still down.

And he's not getting up.

——————

A/N: AHHH, sorry I just loved this one too much, anywaysss hope u enjoy hehe!

Words: 2235