T H E O G R A Y

FOUR TIMES. I had called Mum four times.

And no response.

Saturday arrived faster than anyone on the team expected, but now it was finally here-the second round. This game would bring us one step closer to the NHL, one step closer to being noticed.

"Five minutes, guys!" Coach's voice cuts through the tension as he walks into the locker room. "Alright, take a breather. We got this."

We know. But that doesn't stop the weight in the air from settling deep in our bones. Every practice this week has been brutal, and Coach has tweaked our strategies, drilling new plays into our heads.

"Remember what I said," he continues, his sharp gaze sweeping over us. "Stick to what we worked on. Defend yourselves. Play as a team. And if you see an opening-take it. But don't try to do this alone. We are a team! Who are we?!"

"TITANS!" The response comes in unison, energy sparking between us like electricity.

"Again! Who are we?!"

"TITANS!" This time, our voices boom, a force strong enough to shake the walls. The air in the room shifts-excitement, adrenaline, the raw hunger to win.

Coach holds our gaze for a moment, then nods, something flickering in his eyes when they land on me. "Good. I'll be outside. When you hear our name, I want you walking out there with confidence. Sponsors will be watching. They expect the best."

We nod. Then, something rare-Coach smiles. "I wish you all luck." With that, he turns and walks out.

"Damn," Hudson mutters, adjusting his gloves. "Coach must be in a good mood."

Murmurs of agreement ripple through the locker room as we pull on the last of our gear.

"Anyone got family coming?" Sam asks as he laced up his skates.

"My dad, as usual," Jaxon says with a shrug. He doesn't sound excited, but at least his old man shows up. I'm not the jealous type, but when it comes to family bond? That's different. I want that bond with my father, but he doesn't care. He knows about the game, but he wouldn't come.

Mum, though. I hope she would like she promised.

I sent her the address to where we are playing the game and thankfully she replied to the message. But since then? Nothing. No calls. No texts.

I'm worried.

"You know my parents don't live here, but Lydia's already at the rink," Logan grins, adjusting his helmet.

"Lover boy," Jaxon smirks, clapping Logan on the shoulder. "I pray I never fall like you. It looks sickening."

Logan snorts. "People who say that usually end up whipped. Just wait-you'll find someone who gets under your skin."

"I don't want to find her."

"Sure," Sam chuckles. "Keep telling yourself that."

Jaxon rolls his eyes, then turns to me. "What about you? Anyone coming?"

"Uh... yeah," I say, hesitant. "My mum."

"Really?" Logan perks up, eyes lighting with surprise. He's been curious about my mum for years, but I've always made sure they never meet. He's met my father on few occasions, though. Hated him. Never said it outright, but I know. Not that I blame him. I hate my father, too.

"Yeah," I say with a shrug. "No big deal."

It is a big deal. A huge one.

"Liar," Logan nudges me, smirking. "Can't wait to meet her."

"Same here," Jaxon adds, then his smirk deepens. "Oh, is anyone else coming? Maybe a certain blonde with pretty eyes?"

"Soph-" I shut my mouth fast, but it's too late. Jaxon grins like he's won the lottery.

"Ahh," he drags out, wiggling his brows. "So you do think she has pretty eyes."

The prettiest.

"I don't think shit-" I start, but the speakers cut me off, announcing our entrance.

Showtime.

Matthew, our captain, pulls us into a huddle. "Alright, boys. Stick to the plan. Focus on each other. We've got this in the bag."

He puts his hand out, and one by one, we stack ours on top.

"Titans on three."

"One."

"Two."

"Three."

"TITANS!"

With a final clap, we skate toward the tunnel, ready to take the ice. Ready to win.

The roar of the crowd hits me like a brick wall the second we step out.

It's deafening-cheers, chants, the heavy bass of music pulsing through the arena. The flashing lights from cameras and phone screens shimmer in the air, a chaotic storm of white bursts against the deep blue of the rink. The place is packed, bodies stacked in the stands, faces blurred together in a sea of anticipation.

Breathe.

I force air into my lungs, steadying myself as we step onto the ice. The cold rushes up through my skates, grounding me, but my stomach still twists like it's trying to eat itself. I was smart enough to get a strong meal before this, enough protein and carbs to keep me standing, but right now? I feel like puking it all up.

Not an option.

I blink through the haze of noise and flashing lights, gripping my stick tighter as we skate onto the ice as a unit. My legs move on instinct, each stride pushing me further into the familiar rhythm of the game.

That's when I see them.

Green jerseys.

Glacier Bay Hounds.

They're already lined up, stretching and warming up like they own the place. Their captain, a broad-shouldered forward with an arrogant tilt to his head, skates along the blue line, eyes flicking toward us as if he already knows they have this in the bag.

I almost grin.

Yeah, they won on Monday.

Yeah, they caught us off guard.

But after that? We worked harder than ever, sharpening every weak spot, perfecting every line change, grinding through drills until our bodies ached. Coach wasn't even mad that we lost that practice game-hell, he was thrilled. Because now, in their heads, we're weak.

I laugh under my breath.

Let them think that.

The announcer's voice booms through the speakers, rattling the boards. The crowd surges with another wave of cheers, but I tune it out, rolling my shoulders as we glide into position.

The ice feels different under my skates tonight-slicker, faster. Or maybe that's just the nerves talking. Either way, I flex my fingers around my stick, letting the cool air bite at my exposed skin.

I scan the ice, locking onto Green Bridge's starting lineup. Their center, number 17, is already at the faceoff circle, crouched low, rocking on his skates like he's itching to pounce. He's the one I need to watch. Quick hands, aggressive on the draw.

Jaxon lines up beside me, tapping my shin pad with his stick. "Don't psych yourself out."

I scoff. "Not happening."

He smirks. "Sure. That's why you look like you might hurl."

I elbow him lightly, but he's right. The nerves haven't settled yet. The sheer weight of this moment presses into my chest, but I force it down. I've played in big games before. This is just another one.

Except it's not.

This is the second round. One step closer to the NHL.

One step closer to proving I belong here.

The ref skates into the circle, holding the puck up, waiting for us to set. My heartbeat slams against my ribs. I widen my stance, digging my blade into the ice, every muscle in my body coiled and ready.

Breathe.

I meet Number 17's gaze. He grins. Smug. Overconfident.

Good. Let him think he's got me.

The whistle blows. The puck drops.

I lunge.

I explode forward, stick snapping against the ice as I fight for control. Number 17 is quick, just like I expected, but I'm quicker. I angle my blade, cut off his reach, and sweep the puck toward Jaxon before he can react.

A surge of adrenaline floods my veins. I push off, skating hard, my body moving before my brain can catch up. The noise of the crowd is deafening-cheers, whistles, the flash of cameras-but I block it all out.

Focus.

Glacier Bay Hounds isn't wasting time. Their defense closes in fast, but Hudson is already swinging the puck back my way. I grip my stick tighter, tracking the play. Every movement on the ice is a puzzle, shifting and changing by the second.

The game eventually blurs into a chaotic whirlwind of speed, sound, and raw energy. I skate across the ice, muscles burning with every stride, my eyes locked on the puck. Every inch of the rink feels alive, the cold air biting at my skin, the slap of sticks against the puck reverberating in my chest. The crowd roars in the background, but I barely hear it-my focus is unwavering, sharp as a blade.

The Glacier Bay Hounds team presses hard, their center closing in on me, pushing every ounce of pressure my way. But I push back, body meeting body, each hit only making me more determined. I can feel the sweat trickling down my neck, the rhythm of my heart thumping in my ears. We need this. We need to show them we're not the team they think we are.

Jaxon makes a quick pass to me, and I send it flying toward Sam, who is waiting just in front of the net. The opposing goalie reacts, making a diving save-but not quite enough. The puck hits the back of the net, and the crowd erupts. One point down. We've got this. I exhale, not allowing myself to get caught up in the celebration. We still have a long way to go.

The game progresses, back and forth, fast-paced, each moment feeling like it could tip the balance. By the third round, we're neck and neck. The rink feels smaller with every shift of the puck, every opportunity slipping through my fingers. We're all pushing harder, grinding against the pressure.

But where is she? I keep my eyes trained on the stands, hoping for a glimpse of her, that familiar face-my mother. I've been scanning the crowd every time the puck is off my stick, hoping to hear her voice. A shout. A cheer. Anything. But there's nothing. Not a sound.

The feeling stings, like a raw wound that refuses to heal. I swallow the bitter taste of disappointment, shaking it off before it can take root. I don't have time for this. The game's not over. I can't afford to let this distraction pull me down.

But every time I break away from a scramble, every time the puck switches possession, I check again. Nothing.

The final round comes quickly, the tension suffocating. The arena falls into an eerie silence as both teams line up, aware that this is it. The moment that will define everything. Our chance to rise higher, or fall back into the depths.

I take a deep breath, my grip tightening on my stick.

I glide down the rink, feeling the sharp cut of the ice beneath me. The opponent's goalie is waiting, eyes trained on me as I approach with speed, preparing for the shot that could seal our fate. This is it. I see the opening, a sliver of space between his pads.

I wind up-ready to take the shot.

And then it happens. A defender slides across, knocking my shot off course. The puck skitters wide, a chance lost. My heart drops. The crowd groans in unison, the disappointment heavy in the air.

I turn, frustration clawing at my chest, just as Green Bridge rushes to reclaim the puck. Their center skates forward, eyes locked on our net. This could be their moment. I grit my teeth, pushing myself to move faster.

Then, just as quickly as it all slows down, Jaxon's there, seizing the puck, cutting through the defense. He's a blur of motion, and I'm right behind him. The Glacier Bay Hounds goalie is too focused on Jaxon, and he passes it to Sam, who's already making a break for the goal.

This is it.

Sam skates with the grace of a machine, a flash of determination in his eyes as he closes the distance between himself and the goalie. The arena holds its breath.

In that split second, I see it. The opening.

Sam shoots.

The puck slams into the net.

The arena erupts. The crowd goes wild. My teammates pile onto Sam, screaming, laughing, and the weight that's been crushing me for the last few minutes falls away. We've done it. We've won.

My chest burns with relief, a laugh escaping me as I pull my helmet off, looking around at my teammates, at the fans. I let myself breathe for the first time in what feels like forever.

It's done.

We huddle together, arms slung around each other's shoulders, the sheer joy of victory radiating between us. The rush of adrenaline pulses through my veins, making my limbs feel like they're made of pure fire. We did it. We won.

The sound of our name, Titans, bounces off the walls of the arena as the crowd chants it, their voices rising in a powerful chorus. It feels like the entire world is singing our name, and for a moment, I let myself soak in the sound. The energy. The excitement. My heart feels like it's about to explode from the sheer elation of it all.

"Titans!" the crowd bellows again. "Titans!"

We shout it right back, raising our sticks and skating in unison toward the center of the rink, hands in the air, the joy spreading like wildfire between us. The feeling is infectious, the weight of the win and the relief from the tension that had been building for weeks suddenly lifting.

Coach is at the edge of the rink, his face showing something I've never seen before-a wide, proud grin, the kind that makes his eyes shine with approval. He nods at us, as if to say, You did it. It's the kind of rare smile that makes everything we've worked for worth it. His usual no-nonsense demeanor fades for just a second, and I see that glint in his eyes that tells me just how proud he is of us.

We all skate around the rink, our voices loud as we chant Titans one more time, as if the very sound could send our victory into the atmosphere. The lights above us feel brighter, almost too bright, but I don't care. I can't stop smiling. I don't even notice the sweat soaking through my gear, the exhaustion in my legs, or the burn in my lungs.

As we skate off the rink, the fans cheer us on, still chanting, still clapping, and I can feel the rush of excitement sinking in deeper. The real world doesn't matter right now. The only thing that exists is the rink, the victory, and my teammates.

The locker room door swings open, and as we enter, the buzz of the crowd still lingers. But we're not alone for long. The moment we step into the hallway, the swarm of reporters and photographers catches us. Flashbulbs pop, the bright lights stinging my eyes as I hear the rapid-fire questions, asking Matthew and Coach how it feels to being closer to the Final round and almost being accepted by the NHL.

The reporters keep firing questions, their microphones practically shoved into our faces as we try to answer, but it's all a blur of sound now. I can barely focus on anything besides the noise, the bright flashes, the rush of emotions still pumping through me. The excitement is overwhelming, but then, a security guard steps in, clearing them out with a polite but firm request.

"Alright, that's enough. Time to let the boys breathe," he says, his voice cutting through the chaos, and finally, the reporters begin to disperse. We let out a collective sigh of relief as the room settles down, the buzz of excitement turning into laughter and cheers from the team.

The locker room erupts. Everyone's shouting, high-fiving, and jumping around, the weight of the victory finally sinking in. I can't help but laugh, jumping into the chaos of it all, as we celebrate together, arms slung around each other, chanting Titans once more like a victory anthem.

After a few minutes, I pull back from the celebration, needing a moment to myself. I grab my bag from the bench and sit down on the edge of the locker room, pulling out my phone.

The screen lights up with a message from Soph.

I feel myself smiling instantly.

"Oh, um good luck on your game. I know you guys will win!"

I feel a warm flutter in my chest, my fingers hovering over the screen at her former message

Then, I stare at her recent one.

"You guys won! The girls and I can't stop shouting! Glad Sam took the shot. His name is Sam, right? Sorry if I'm too excited! I took a drink Blair gave me to calm my fear of too many crowds, and I feel like shouting!"

So she's drunk. No wonder she's sounding this cute.

I can almost hear her voice in my head, all slurred and playful, and for some reason, it makes my chest tighten. I wonder if she's wearing the jersey from practice.

I know she won't.

I smile at the thought, even though it's bittersweet. It feels like we're stuck in this endless cycle-me, always hoping for a little more from her, a little more from anyone, but never really getting it. She won't remember this, though. I know she won't. And I guess that's why she texted me first. Maybe it's the drink talking, maybe it's not. I can't be sure.

Ever since I pulled that move with her-the one where I finally told her how much I wanted to understand what was going on between us-I thought she would run off like she always does. But she didn't. Or, well, she might still have, if she didn't take whatever drink Blair gave her.

I'm about to reply-something light, something easy-but then my phone buzzes again. I almost don't want to check it. But I do.

It's from Mum.

'So sorry love, I couldn't make it. I promise I will come to your next game. Okay? Please don't be mad. I love you.'

The words hit me like a punch to the gut.

I feel frozen.

My body's motionless, numb. My hands are shaking, and I can feel the panic creeping in. My heart aches. It feels so heavy that I almost can't breathe. I don't know what to do with it. I don't know how to feel.

I hate it. I hate that she promised me and still didn't come.

She swore she would.

I read her message again, hoping maybe I missed something, some kind of reason, but there's nothing. Just the empty apology. My mind screams at me, the urge to laugh, to fake it. To pretend I'm okay, but I can't. Not here. Not with the team celebrating their win and acting like everything's perfect.

I don't want to ruin the mood, but it feels like I'm suffocating.

"She didn't even give me a reason," I whisper to myself. My words hang in the air, too quiet for anyone to hear. Rage is building up in me-raw and boiling-but I shove it down, force it back. I don't want to feel this, not right now.

But I don't know what else to do.

Without thinking, I drop my phone back into my bag, my fingers numb as I grab it. I head for the shower. I don't even care that I'm still in my gear. I don't care if anyone notices. No one asks me if I'm okay. No one questions me. They don't see the way my chest is about to collapse from everything piling up inside of me.

And I'm glad for it. I don't want to explain. I don't want anyone to see this weakness in me.

I can't even tell anyone. What would they say? "She's probably busy."

Busy.

That word. That fucking word.

I've used it my whole life, a shield against the guilt of wanting more, wanting my parents to be there, even just once. So many times, when my teachers asked why my parents didn't show up to my games or parent-teacher meetings, I'd tell them they were busy.

And then I'd lie to myself, over and over. It became easier to believe than admit the truth-that they just didn't care.

But damn it, I'm still hoping. I'm still waiting for the day they show up. And every time, every single time, I feel like I'm letting myself down.

Why am I still hoping?

Why can't I stop?

Why does it still hurt this much?

I feel so alone. Even with the whole team around me, the joy and the celebration, I feel this emptiness that I can't shake. I want someone to hold me, to remind me that maybe I'm not broken, that maybe I'm not alone.

But I can't remember the last time I felt like someone's arms were enough to fill the space inside me.

Gosh. I feel so needy.

I hate it.

"Where's Theo?!" Logan's voice echoes through the locker room and I scramble to pull myself together. I quickly stepping out of the shower and grabbing my clothes, hoping he doesn't walk in on me like this.

"Oh, Logan," I say, my voice calm, too calm. The fake smile slips onto my face, the same one I've worn for years.

He doesn't buy it. His eyes narrow, and a deep frown creases his forehead. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"

I shake my head, forcing the words out. "I'm fine."

He doesn't seem convinced. "You're lying. What's going on?"

I take a breath, my throat tight. I can't tell him the truth. I can't tell him that my mom didn't come, that she promised she would, and now I'm here alone, surrounded by everyone, but still feeling like I'm the only one left in the world. I can't tell him that.

"I'm just... I'm not feeling well," I say, my voice shaky. "My stomach's been hurting, like... like I'm being stabbed."

It's a lie, but it's the only one I can manage. I feel like I'm being stabbed, but not in my stomach. It's my chest, my heart-it feels like it's slowly being ripped out.

Logan's face softens, but the concern quickly shifts to frustration. "Seriously? I keep telling you to eat, but you never listen." His voice rises, irritated. He runs a hand through his hair. "You should go home, man. Get some rest."

"No," I say quickly, my voice too sharp. "I want to be with the guys. Don't tell anyone, okay? I just need to be here with the team for a bit, then I'll go home."

Logan looks at me for a long moment, his expression hard, not buying it. But after a beat, he sighs and nods, his frustration fading into reluctant acceptance. "Fine. But we're heading to a bar after this, and you better not overdo it with the drinks."

I nod, forcing a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. "I will try."