He’s right. There’s nothing I can do about Davis right now, but I can make sure the rest of the team doesn’t spiral.
I take a fortifying breath, square my shoulders, and head back into the locker room. D-Vo follows.
The guys look up when we walk in, and it’s a gut punch to see the uncertainty in their eyes. To know that this time, it’s not driven by the game, but by the fear that something terrible has happened to one of our own.
“Listen up,” I say, my voice cutting through the tension. “I know you’re all worried about Davis. I am too. But right now, we’ve got a job to do.”
I meet each of their gazes, one by one.
“We need to focus on the game and leave everything else in the locker room. We’re not going to let the Flyers embarrass us on our home ice. Not tonight.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then Hardy nods. Boosh taps his stick against the bench, and Fontaine joins in. The quiet, rhythmic tapping grows as one by one the rest of the team follows suit.
“Let’s fucking go,” McGinnis says, leaping to his feet.
The energy in the room shifts.
It’s not the electric buzz we usually bring to the ice, but it’s enough.
We make our way to the tunnel. The sounds of the crowd grow louder with each step, the low rumble of anticipation filling the Treehouse like never before.
The announcer’s voice booms through the arena. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your Atlanta Gliders!”
An attendant opens the dasher door, and just as I’m about to step onto the ice, the lights go out.
The crowd gasps, and for a second, everything is pitch black.
Then blue lights start racing around the upper level of the arena, drawing all eyes skyward. A rock anthem I don’t recognize blasts through the speakers, and flames shoot up in all four corners of the rink.
What the hell?
I watch in disbelief as Chippy ziplines down from the ceiling at the far end of the arena. He glides through the air, arms spread wide like he’s fucking Superman.
Or, well, a flying squirrel.
He lands near our entrance, his new bandit mask on full display, and the crowd loses it.
Chippy takes a victory lap, pumping his fists and waving to the fans. Then the jumbotron lights up, and we all watch as he tiptoes up to the Flyers’ empty bench with large, cartoonish steps.
He turns to the crowd, covering his mouth to signal an exaggerated giggle, and pulls a bottle of spray foam out of his sleeve.
In giant letters, he writes “CRYERS” across the glass closest to the visitors’ bench.
The arena erupts. The noise is deafening, a wall of sound that vibrates through my chest.
And the team? They’re going bonkers too. Rousseau’s doubled over laughing. McGinnis is howling. Even Boosh cracks a grin.
Hardy slaps me on the back, his eyes bright with amusement. “No pressure, Jamesy, but now wehaveto win.”
Yeah. No pressure at all.
We take the ice, and the energy from the crowd is infectious. They’re on their feet, chanting and cheering, and for the first time tonight, things feel right.
The ref positions himself at center ice, and I skate forward to meet the Flyers’ captain, Nelson.
He’s a smug bastard with a reputation for running his mouth, and tonight is no exception.
“Sending your mascot out to do your dirty work now, St. James?” He sneers. “I always knew you were a little bitch.”