Push (Colorado Storm Hockey #3)

Chapter 28

28

HUX

The locker room buzzes with nervous energy as I tape my stick, the familiar rhythm doing little to calm my racing thoughts. This could be it. My last game. The culmination of everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve sacrificed.

I glance around at my teammates, each lost in their own pre-game rituals. We’re so close to the Cup I can almost taste it. One more win. That’s all we need. But then what?

I don’t dwell too much longer and allow my mind to drift to Ada. Is she here yet? The thought of her in the stands, cheering me on, sends a jolt through me. Last year, no one was in the stands cheering me on, and definitely not Debbie. I had no one there just for me. But I celebrated with my teammates, the only genuine family I could depend on over all these years. Now, everything feels different. Ada is different.

I shake my head, trying to focus. I can’t afford distractions, not now. But as I lace up my skates, memories flood in, unbidden.

You’ll never make it, boy. You’re wasting your time. My father’s voice was harsh and cutting.

I grit my teeth, pushing the memories away. I made it. I proved him wrong. But now, on the brink of retirement, his words echo in my head. What are you without hockey, huh? Nothing. You’re nothing.

I think back to how I got into hockey in the first place. My best friend was a nice kid named Spencer, who came from an even nicer family with two loving parents and a younger brother. We met in grade seven. Spencer invited me over to his house one day after school.

The moment I stepped into their home, I was in awe. Hockey memorabilia covered every wall—signed jerseys, pucks, and sticks from various players. Growing up in Ontario, hockey was everything, but I’d never seen anything like this before.

Spencer’s dad, Mr. Thompson, noticed my wide-eyed amazement and started telling me about each piece. I was hanging on every word. When he asked if I played, I had to admit I didn’t.

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Mr. Thompson said with a warm smile. “How about you join Spencer and his brother in their league? We’re already driving them to practices and games. It’d be no trouble to bring you along, too.”

I was hesitant, knowing my dad wouldn’t want to spend money on equipment. But Mr. Thompson waved away my concerns. “We’ve got spare gear you can use. Don’t worry about that.”

That weekend, Mr. Thompson spoke to my dad. To my surprise, he agreed, probably because he wanted me out of the house. And so, at 12 years old, I stepped onto the ice as a hockey player for the first time.

It wasn’t easy at first. I was older than most kids starting out, and I felt clumsy and out of place. But Mr. Thompson was patient, spending extra time with me after practice to help me improve. Spencer and his brother cheered me on, never making me feel like I was holding them back .

As the weeks went by, something clicked. On the ice, I felt free. All the tension and fear I carried at home melted away when I laced up my skates. For the first time in my life, I found something I was good at, something that made me feel strong and capable.

Mr. Thompson saw my potential and pushed me to be better. He became the father figure I’d always longed for, offering encouragement and support both on and off the ice.

Looking back now, I realize how much those early days shaped me. Hockey wasn’t just a sport—it was my lifeline and, ultimately, my future. And it all started with a friend’s invitation and a family kind enough to take a chance on a kid from a troubled home down the street. After tonight, I may have to put it all in the rearview mirror.

Coach Bliss’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Alright, boys. This is it. Everything we’ve worked for comes down to tonight.”

I listen to his speech, the words registering, but inside, a nagging doubt grows. What am I without hockey? Who am I if not Nikolas Huxley, defenseman for the Colorado Storm?

As we make our way to the ice, I push these thoughts aside. There’s no room for doubt now. Only the game matters.

The roar of the crowd hits me as we step onto the ice. My eyes scan the stands, searching. And there she is. My wife, sitting next to her brother, her face lit up with excitement. Our eyes meet for a brief moment, and everything else fades away.

Then the puck drops and instinct takes over.

The game is intense from the start. We’re playing with everything we have, knowing that a loss means going back to Florida for Game 7. I’m hyperaware of every player’s position and every potential threat.

As the game goes on, the tension in the arena is palpable. We remain tied through the second period, every save and every near-miss eliciting gasps and cheers from the crowd .

In the third period, we finally break through with a goal. The arena erupts, and I join the celebration on the ice, my heart pounding with adrenaline and joy.

But it’s far from over. With only a minute left, there’s a breakaway by Florida’s star player, Lavigne. Everything seems to slow down as he draws back his stick, elevating the puck towards our net.

I watch, helpless, as Hawkins lifts his glove, thinking Lavigne is going the other way. But in a split second, Hawk shifts right, splitting his legs, and blocks the puck with his right shoulder.

Lavigne is there for the rebound, but I’m already moving. I throw myself forward, every muscle straining, giving my very best this one last time as I clear the puck out, saving our lead. The crowd goes wild, but I barely hear it over the pounding of my own heart.

The last seconds tick down, and as the buzzer sounds, the world explodes into chaos. We’ve done it. We’ve won the Cup for a second time.

I’m mobbed by my teammates, hugging and shouting, but through it all, my eyes search for Ada. When I find her in the crowd, her face shining with tears and joy, something shifts inside me.

The ice is a chaos of blue and white jerseys, bodies colliding in jubilant celebration. I’m in the middle of it all. My teammates’ joy is infectious, but a bittersweet ache is growing in my chest. This is it. My last moments on this ice as a player.

As the initial frenzy subsides, we line up on the blue line. The Cup, gleaming under the arena lights, is carried onto the ice. The commissioner’s voice echoes through the arena, but I barely hear him over the blood rushing in my ears. “...to present the Cup to the captain of the Colorado Storm...”

Mac steps forward and accepts the Cup, lifting it high above his head. The roar of the crowd is deafening. He had such a rough start to the season that this is especially sweet to him. I can’t help but grin, pride swelling in my chest for my friend and captain.

Mac doesn’t hold on to it for long. He skates directly to me, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “You’re next, old man,” he shouts over the noise, passing me the Cup.

The weight of it never fails to surprise me as I take it in my hands. Yet somehow, it always feels right. Like it belongs in my grasp.

As I skate, the Cup held aloft, memories flash through my mind. First, I think of the Thompsons again, then my host family when I was in Juniors. The countless early mornings, the brutal practices, the injuries, the sacrifices. Every struggle, every doubt, every moment of pain—it was all for this.

I complete my lap, my teammates patting my back as I pass. My eyes scan the crowd, searching for Ada again. She’s moved down closer to the ice, standing next to Mark. Her face is beaming with pride. I can’t wait to talk to her.

As I pass the Cup to Hawk, our eyes meet in silent understanding. We did it. We really did it.

The Cup continues its journey around the team, each player taking their turn to lift it high. I stand back, watching, trying to commit every detail to memory.

This is it.

This is my last time as part of this. My last time as one of the boys. The realization hits me hard and a complex mix of emotions threatens to overwhelm me.

But for now, I push it all aside. There will be time for reflection later. Right now, it’s time to celebrate. As the team comes together for photos, the Cup at our center, I allow myself to be fully present in this moment of ultimate victory.

We are champions. And no matter what comes next, no one can ever take this away from us.

After the photo, I skate over to Ada and press my hands against the glass. She mirrors the gesture, her palm flat against the barrier between us.

“You did it!” she shouts, her voice muffled through the plexiglass.

I nod, a lump forming in my throat. “We did it,” I manage to say.

Her smile falters slightly, sensing the conflict in my eyes. “Are you okay?”

I force a grin. “Never better,” I lie, the weight of finality settling over me like a heavy blanket.

“Congratulations, Hux,” Mark chimes in.

“Thanks, man,” I reply and then give Ada a wink. “Talk later.”

“Talk later,” she says with a beaming smile.

Back in the locker room, amidst the champagne spray and raucous cheers, I check my phone. Much like last year, there are texts and calls from pretty much everyone in my contact list, plus some from numbers I don’t know. It doesn’t take long to understand they’re from Ada’s family. Even Kyla has sent over some pictures from their watch party.

Of all of them, I reply first to one from that old friend of mine, Spencer Thompson. “Dad would have loved to see you hoist the Cup. Congratulations bro!”

Spencer never made much out of hockey. He went on to have his own family and work as an insurance sales agent.

“Thanks, brother. You and your family have been on my mind all day. I wouldn’t be here without you guys,” I tell him, letting myself be open enough to express my genuine gratitude.

I keep looking through everything and then I see it. Three missed calls and a voicemail from an unknown number in Ontario.

My gut tightens as the worst feeling comes over me. I tap to listen to the voicemail and put it up to my ear. It’s impossible to hear over my teammates celebrating. I step out of the locker room and play it again.

“Nikolas, it’s your aunt, Rebecca. Debbie gave me your number. Your father is in the hospital. It’s liver failure and it’s bad. I know you two have your differences, but... you should come home. Soon. I don’t think he’s going to make it. Please call me as soon as you can.”

My world tilts on its axis.

The celebration in the nearby locker room fades to white noise. My father, the man I had to escape, the man I’ve spent my entire career trying to prove wrong, is dying.

I can’t deal with this. Not now. Not when everything I’ve known is ending.

There’s no chance in hell I would go back to that town. No chance in hell I would see that man.

I’ve got to get out of here. I have to clear my head. It’s all too much, too fucking much.

I send a quick text to Ada. Gonna be stuck with all these guys all night. I’ll call you tomorrow.

The lie tastes bitter, but I can’t face her right now. I can’t face anyone.

I slip out of the arena, avoiding the press and my teammates. I sit in my Jeep, my phone heavy in my hand. The player lot is still full because most of my teammates are still celebrating inside. I should be in there with them, but I can’t. Not now.

With a deep breath, I call my aunt.

“Nikolas?” Her voice is thin. “Oh, thank God. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I know. I just got your message. ”

There’s a pause. “Are you coming home?”

The word ‘home’ feels like a slap. “No. I can’t.”

“Nikolas, please. My brother is asking for you.”

I laugh bitterly. “Now he wants to see me? After all these years?”

“He’s changed, Nikolas. The illness?—”

“Don’t,” I cut her off. “Don’t make excuses for him.”

She sighs, a sound heavy with years of weariness. “I’m not making excuses. I’m just asking you to come see your dying father.”

“He’s not my father,” I spit out. “A father is supposed to care for his child. He let me go hungry. He hit me. He fucked with my self-worth.”

The silence on the other end of the line is deafening. “He was grieving,” he finally says.

“Not acceptable,” I reply. “And it’s rich that you’re calling me now when you knew what he was like. You never tried to help when I was living under his roof. You all were his family, my family. And you did nothing.”

“I couldn’t, Nikolas. You have to understand, it wasn’t that simple.”

“You all could have tried harder,” I insist, but the fight is leaving me. “You could have tried to protect me.”

“I know,” she says, and I hear the tears in her voice. “I know we failed you, and I’m sorry. But I promise he’s changed.”

“I can’t come home,” I finally say. “I’m sorry, but I can’t face him. It’s too late.”

She sighs, a sound of resignation. “I understand. Just…think about it, okay? He might not have much time left.”

“Okay,” I agree, though we both know it’s an empty promise.

As I hang up, I rest my forehead against the steering wheel, feeling drained and hollow.

I start the engine, the conversation with my aunt still haunting me. As I drive home, my mind races with conflicting thoughts. The triumph of winning the Cup, the fear of what comes next, the pain of my past—it all swirls together into a storm I’m not sure I can weather.

One thing is clear. I need to be alone. I need time to process, to figure out who I am now that hockey is over and my past is knocking at the door. I just need to disappear for a while.