Chapter 215: Setting the Pace

KNOX’S POV

The team bus rolled down the access road behind Gutterson Fieldhouse just as twilight settled over Burlington.

Outside, the temperature had dropped into the single digits. Wind whipped snow off the metal roofs of the university athletic complex, sending dry white powder skittering across the frozen asphalt.

Inside the bus, the usual pre-game chatter was subdued.

The guys weren’t laughing as loud. Jake wasn’t tossing sunflower seeds, and Bear sat with his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw set in a hard line. Every guy on that bus had a phone, and by four-thirty, every guy had seen the sports blogs blowing up with rumors about corporate donors pulling NHL scouts from the game.

Nobody brought it up to my face. They didn’t have to.

The bus hissed to a stop beside the players’ entrance.

"Twenty minutes to get your gear unpacked and taped," Coach Brennan barked from the front of the bus. "Let’s move."

We grabbed our bags from the luggage bay and hauled them down the concrete tunnel into the visitors’ locker room.

The air inside smelled like cold concrete, wet rubber flooring, and stale sweat from decades of visiting teams. Rows of plain wooden stalls lined the walls beneath exposed heating pipes.

Above us, the distant hum of the arena refrigeration plant vibrated through the floorboards.

I dumped my gear bag onto the rubber mat in front of stall number nineteen, unzipped the canvas, and pulled out my pads.

Bear took the stall to my left. Jake sat on my right, pulling on his compression shorts in silence.

Before anyone could lace a skate, the locker room door clicked shut.

Coach Brennan stepped into the center of the room. He was wearing his purple and silver Briar track jacket, his hands jammed into his pockets, his sharp eyes sweeping over all thirty of us.

The room went dead quiet.

"Listen up," Brennan said, his voice cutting through the hum of the pipes. "I know what’s circulating on the blogs. I know what the beat writers are saying about the scouts from Boston and Montreal."

A few freshmen shifted on their benches, but nobody said a word.

Brennan stepped closer to the middle of the carpet, looking right at me for a split second before addressing the entire room.

"I don’t give a damn who signed a corporate sponsorship, and I don’t give a damn who decided to skip this road trip," Brennan said coldly. "If an NHL front office lets an outside donor dictate who they scout, that’s their loss. Not ours."

Jake nodded slowly, a hard glint in his eye.

"There are four other NHL scouts sitting in that press box tonight," Brennan continued. "Scouts from Detroit, Carolina, and the Rangers drove through a Vermont blizzard because they care about hockey. They didn’t come to watch politics. They came to see if this team has the guts to win in a hostile building."

Brennan jabbed a finger toward the tunnel door.

"Vermont is going to come out hitting. They’re going to chirp your captain, they’re going to try to bait you after the whistle, and they’re going to try to make this about off-ice garbage. You let your play do the talking. We set the pace from the drop. Understood?"

"Yes, Coach," the room echoed in unison.

"Phones in the box," Brennan ordered, pulling a black metal lockbox from under the trainer’s table. "Gear up."

He started down the row of stalls, holding the open box out for each player to drop in their phone.

I sat down on the wooden bench, pulling on my black compression shirt. My phone was resting face-up on the shelf of my locker stall.

Right as Brennan reached Bear’s stall, the screen lit up with a banner notification.

Nora: Just wanted you to see this before you get on ice. Play your game tonight, captain. Priya and I will be watching live. And remember, I’m in your corner, always. I love you.

I stared at the words for three long seconds, feeling warmth spread straight through my chest.

With all the noise swirling around my head, her message was the one clean, steady thing that grounded me. She just reminded me she was there for me.

"Sheridan," Brennan’s voice rumbled beside me.

He was holding the black metal box over my stall, watching me quietly.

"One second, Coach," I said.

I tapped the screen with my thumb and typed a quick reply:

Knox: Watching you watch me. Score one for you tonight, Bookworm. Love you.

I hit send, locked the screen, and dropped the phone into the metal box.

Brennan snapped the latch shut. He gave my shoulder a firm squeeze. "Go lead them, Knox."

"Always, Coach."

I pulled on my shin guards, strapped down my elbow pads, and slid into my white and purple Briar road sweater. The silver-bordered number nineteen and the embroidered crest sat over my chest.

I picked up my composite stick, grabbed a roll of white cloth tape, and wrapped the blade quickly from heel to toe.

Bear finished tying his laces and stood up, banging his gloves together. "You good, Cap?" Bear asked quietly, his eyes steady on mine.

"I’m better than good," I said, grabbing my helmet. "Let’s go take their barn."

We walked down the narrow concrete tunnel toward the ice.

The roar hit us the moment the double doors swung open.

Gutterson Fieldhouse was packed to the rafters. Three thousand fans packed into wooden bleachers beneath a low, arched timber roof, creating a wall of sound that bounced violently off the glass.

Green and gold banners hung from the beams, and the student section behind the visiting bench was already on their feet, screaming insults at our sweaters.

Cold air rushed into my lungs as my blades hit the fresh ice.

I took two hard laps around our zone, cutting deep into my edges to test the surface. The ice was hard, typical for a cold barn in northern Vermont.

Pucks were dumped onto the ice, and we started our warmup passing drills.

I took a pass from Jake at the blue line, walked into the high slot, and snapped a wrist shot. The puck pinged clean off the crossbar and ricocheted into the netting, drawing a chorus of boos from the students pressed against the glass.

"Hey, Sheridan!" a student in a green hoodie yelled, slamming his hand against the glass right above my head. "Heard the Bruins and Canadiens bailed on you! Even your own city won’t come watch you play!"

Beside me, Jake glared up at the glass, gripping his stick. "Ignore them, Knox."

"I don’t hear a thing, Jake," I said calmly. "Line up for three-on-two."

We ran our drills. By the time the horn sounded to clear the ice, my legs were warm, my lungs were open, and all the noise had faded into background static.

We headed back to the tunnel for the ice resurfacing.

When we returned ten minutes later, the arena lights dimmed, the national anthem played, and the starting lineups were announced over the crackling speakers.

I skated out to center ice for the opening faceoff.

The referee stood between the circles, holding the black rubber disc.

Lining up across from me was Vermont’s captain, a senior center named Tyler Mercer. He was stocky, broad-shouldered, and had a reputation for throwing dirty elbows in the corners.

Mercer tapped his stick against mine, smirking under his visor.

"Heard your season is over before it started, Sheridan," Mercer chirped, his voice low over the crowd’s roar. "Bruins bailed, Canadiens bailed. Word is your draft stock is toxic. Just you and a sore neck after I run you through the glass."

I looked Mercer dead in the eyes. I didn’t smile, and I didn’t blink. "Win the draw, Mercer," I said simply. "If you can."

The referee blew the whistle and dropped the puck.

Mercer lunged forward with a hard swipe, trying to tie up my stick with his blade.

I anticipated the move, dropped my shoulder, and wedged my stick under his shaft. With one quick snap of my wrists, I drew the puck clean between his skates, sending it back to Bear at the left point.

"Go!" I yelled, driving forward into the Vermont zone.

Bear fired a hard rim pass around the boards. Jake picked it off on the right half-wall, curling away from an incoming defenseman with slick footwork.

The game exploded into a dead sprint.

Vermont played exactly as Brennan had predicted... hard, aggressive, and physical. Their defensemen pinched at the blue line, trying to trap us in the neutral zone, while their wingers finished every check with extra force.

Four minutes into the shift, I chased a loose puck behind the Vermont net.

A defenseman named Jensen came charging in from the blind side, leaving his feet to drive me into the end boards.

I saw his reflection in the plexiglass, planted my skates, and spun off the hit just as he collided with the glass. His shoulder hit the boards with a loud bang, throwing him off balance.

I scooped up the loose puck, cut out in front of the crease, and fired a quick saucer pass right through the defenseman’s legs to Jake, who was crashing the back post.

Jake’s one-timer caught the goalie’s blocker, ringing off the iron and staying out.

The crowd gasped in collective relief as the referee blew the whistle for a freeze.

Mercer skated up behind me, giving me a hard cross-check to the kidneys after the whistle.

My back flared with sharp pain, but I didn’t retaliate. I turned around slowly, looking him in the eye as Bear skated in, shoving Mercer back with two thick gloves to the chest.

"Touch him again after the whistle and I’ll tear your helmet off," Bear growled.

The referee stepped between them, signaling a minor penalty for Vermont.

"Two minutes, number fourteen, cross-checking!" the ref shouted, pointing Mercer to the penalty box.

Mercer cursed loudly, skating off to a cascade of boos from his own fans.

I skated over to the Briar bench, breathing in deep drafts of cold arena air. Coach Brennan was leaning over the boards, tapping my helmet with his clipboard.

"Power play unit, get out there," Brennan said. "Make them pay for that."

As I stepped back onto the ice for the faceoff, my eyes drifted toward the lower section of seats just behind the penalty box.

Sitting in the third row, wearing a dark gray wool overcoat with a small red and white Detroit Red Wings pin on the lapel, was an older scout with silver hair and a leather notebook open on his knee.

He wasn’t looking at the penalty box.

He was looking right at me, a calm, evaluating gaze fixed on my number nineteen sweater as he wrote a single line in his notebook.

I gripped my stick tight, lined up at the dot, and leaned over the ice.

Garrison thought he could take the world away from me with a few phone calls... he was wrong.