MasukJaceThe final ruling landed on a Wednesday in December, exactly eleven-fourteen in the morning. I was tucked into the back booth of that crappy east-side coffee shop, poking at some sad thing that had the nerve to call itself a pastry.This time my contact sent the whole document. Three dense pages of council-speak, the kind they save for when it’s really, truly finished.I skimmed it fast at first, just to catch the outline.Then I went back and read every line slow, letting it settle.After that I just sat there, mediocre coffee going cold, pastry still failing at life, staring at the screen. No big moment. No gasp, no triumphant fist in the air. The place was half-empty anyway, and none of that felt right. Not today.So I closed the file, turned my phone face-down, and stayed perfectly still for a minute.The booth had a window. Outside, December was doing its gray, cold routinecompletely uninterested in some council decision two territories away. Just another morning, marching on
SierraThe goal came on a Tuesday night in November against a team we were supposed to beat without breaking a sweat.“Supposed to” changes everything. When winning feels like the default, the pressure doesn’t come from the other bench anymore. It crawls around inside your own team, muttering that the game’s already over before the puck even hits the ice. John had hammered that point home all week.“You play every single second,” she’d snapped during practice. “Not ’cause you might lose. Because every damn second is worth it.”I’d been rolling those words around in my head like a lucky coin.---Play started in our end.Keeper sent a long, high clear. I grabbed it at the red line, already pushing forward. One defender between me and their zone. I’d been in this exact spot twice earlier this season and both times I’d floated wide—same hesitation, same extra half-beat, same dumb habit of leaving the door cracked just in case.Then John ’s voice cut through my skull from three weeks ago
Asher.My dad hadn’t watched me play since I was seventeen.Just the plain truth. Not that he didn’t give a damn he always did but after Mom died the rink turned into this loaded place for him. Somewhere he couldn’t bring himself to go back to. It was only twenty minutes from the pack house, yet he hadn’t set foot inside since her funeral. I understood without anybody explaining it. Kids pick up on that kind of grief shape early, even before they have the words.When I was still playing school hockey he used to ask Jace for reports. I had no clue back then that Jace was the middleman. Found out one random November my first season here, when Jace dropped it with that extra-careful voice people use when they’ve been sitting on something and finally decide it’s time.I didn’t get pissed. Clicked right away.Dad keeping tabs from far off because showing up in person was still too heavy.---He called in October.I was parked at the kitchen table doing my usual half-hearted course reading
SierraThe new coach showed up Monday with this old duffel bag slung over her shoulder, a coffee that had to be her third or fourth already, and a look on her face like she’d already judged all of us and was just waiting for the right moment to say whatever she thought. If she felt like it.Coach John . She mentioned her first name was Dana once, then never again. After that it was just Coach. Period. She’d played six seasons up at the highest college level, coached four more after that, and she had this way about her—like someone who’d been on the ice long enough to sniff out what was real in a player and what was just show. She had zero patience for the show.She stood there on day one watching us all lined up against the boards, eyes moving like she was counting stock or something.Then she skated out to center ice, waved us over, and said flat out, “Tell me what you think you can do.”Not what position you play. Not your stats from last year. Just—what do you actually believe you’
AsherThe roster showed up on a Thursday in September, stuck there like it was no big thing. Harlen didn’t make a fuss, just slapped one wrinkled sheet on the board outside the equipment room. Corners already peeling by the time half the guys dragged themselves over. No email. No text in the group chat. Nothing. You wanted to know if you made it? You walked your ass over and looked.I did.And right at the top, first line, in Harlen’s usual chicken scratch: *Asher Vane.*Not Rayce. Not that fake name Jace had cobbled together with some filing screw-up and two weeks of sweating over paperwork. My real name. Actual, full thing. Sitting there like it had always belonged.I stood frozen for a beat, just staring. Not getting all choked up or anything, but... damn. It landed weird. Good-weird. Like repeating a word until it turns alien, except backwards. My own name suddenly felt fresh again. Same letters I’ve dragged around forever, but now they clicked into place. Like someone shifted the
Sierra.The morning after the championship, nobody got up early.That was weird, honestly. Usually our apartment had its own little groove. Asher up first, always. Then me. Jace rolling out sometime between eight and nine, already over whatever yesterday threw at him. We never set it up that way. It just happened, the way stuff does when you're really living somewhere.But today? The whole place slept in.I woke up gradual, squinting at the light sneaking through the curtains. Late February light—kind of soft and low, like it was trying not to be too much. The city outside was doing its early morning thing, but quiet. I stayed put, just letting it all sink in. No hurry.Asher was still completely out beside me.That almost never happens. The guy’s got some internal clock that drags him up no matter what. Late night or rough game, doesn’t matter. But this morning he was just lying there, breathing slow and even, like the day hadn’t caught up to him yet.I watched him a minute. Not all r
SierraThe rink was already noisy when I came in, the sound of skates ripping across the ice rising in sharp waves into the bleachers, but there was an undercurrent tonight, a tension that felt unfamiliar, as if the building itself was holding its breath. I saw Asher right away, helmet off, hair we
AsherFear had turned the air sour.When I closed the door to Sierra’s dorm room, the clicking noise was final too loud for the tiny space.She was standing there, her back was to the door, breathing as if she had sprinted for a few seconds. Her hands were trembling when she attempted to conceal th
SierraThe first thing I noticed was when my phone went silent.Not a buzz. No message from Asher saying he had made it back to the rink. No update, no reassurance. Just silence that went on for too long.I tried not to read meaning into it. Tried telling myself he was busy, that practice ran late,
AsherI went to the cafe the next day.There was a smell of burnt coffee and sugar. She was already there, sleeves pulled down over her hands, notebook opened but not yet written anything on. When she looked at me, her smile softened and then froze, as if she anticipated something was going to hap







