Off The Ice

HARPER I almost fell in love once. Not with Tyler Mercer. Not really. But with the way he made everyone around him feel like they mattered. That’s how it felt, anyway, watching him from the stands. It was the first Friday night hockey game of the season, the one everyone at Westfield Academy turned out for, whether they cared about hockey or not. The atmosphere smelled like cold metal and popcorn, the kind of scent that lingered on your jacket for days after. The student section buzzed with restless energy, bodies pressed against the glass, faces painted blue and white for our team. The cheerleaders clustered near the penalty box, leading chants that half the crowd actually knew. That was Tyler’s world. Mine was somewhere in the nosebleeds, far enough that no one noticed me clutching a notebook I’d been scribbling in between cheers. I’d told myself I was there for ‘research,’ for an essay about school spirit, but that was only half true. From up here, I could still see him. Helmet tucked under his arm, Tyler Mercer was all easy grins and confident swagger as he glided over to his teammates during warm-ups. Even off the ice, his presence was magnetic—not arrogant, not performative, just self-possessed. Tyler wasn’t just Westfield’s golden boy. He was the boy. Captain of the team. The one whose name people chanted like it could will the puck into the net. The one the scouts had already circled in their notebooks, even though he hadn’t turned eighteen yet. And tonight, he looked untouchable. When the buzzer signaled the end of warm-ups, I gathered my things and started weaving my way down toward the concourse, thinking a hot chocolate might keep my fingers from freezing just before the game would start. “Watch it!” The barked voice yanked me out of my thoughts as I nearly collided with a wall of broad shoulders in a varsity jacket coming up the stairs. I muttered an apology, clutching my notebook tighter. Then promptly tripped on the edge of the bleacher. Strong hands caught me before I could faceplant. “You good?” I blinked up, dazed, and there he was. Tyler Mercer, up close, warm hand steadying my elbow. His friends—all in matching jackets, all laughing about something I wasn’t privy to—didn’t even glance back as they kept walking. But he did. “Oh—yeah. I’m fine.” My voice cracked in a way that was definitely not fine. “Sorry about that,” he said, and he meant it. He gave me this small, lopsided grin that made my heart stutter in a way I wasn’t ready for. “You should probably keep your eyes on where you’re going, though. These bleachers are brutal.” And just like that, he was gone, jogging back to his crew before I could come up with anything remotely clever to say. I almost fell in love right then. Not with him—I didn’t know him. But with the fact that someone like him could stop, even for a second, for someone like me. The lights dimmed slightly as the teams were called back out for the opening faceoff. A voice boomed through the speakers, announcing players one by one, the cheers rising with each name. Tyler’s got the loudest, of course. The game started in a blur of chaos—pucks flying, players crashing into the boards, the crowd roaring at every near miss and save. I didn’t even like hockey, but when Tyler had the puck, you couldn’t look away. He was fast, and calculated. The kind of player who made it look like magic instead of work. He didn’t just play; he owned the ice. “Mercer!” someone yelled behind me, and I wasn’t sure if they were cheering for him or praying. By the second period, Westfield was up by one, and the energy in the arena felt electric. Tyler skated backward toward the goal, stick steady, eyes locked on the puck like nothing else existed. He called a play I didn’t understand, passed, pivoted, and by some miracle had the puck back within seconds. The crowd erupted as he shot for the net. Blocked. The other team wasn’t messing around. It got rougher. Players shoved, sticks clattered, bodies slammed into the boards with gut-punching force. Then it happened. One second, Tyler was gliding across the ice like nothing could touch him. The next, he was slammed so hard into the glass that the impact rattled through the stands. I felt it in my chest. He didn’t get up. The roar of the crowd fell into an eerie silence. The ref’s whistle pierced the air as the game screeched to a halt. From my spot halfway up the stands, I gripped my notebook like it could anchor me while trainers swarmed the ice, crouching around him. Even from here, I could tell something was wrong. His helmet was off now, and his head lolled in a way that made my stomach twist. He tried to move, then froze, crumpling back onto the ice. The players circled like a wall, blocking him from view, but I couldn’t look away from the gaps between them. Couldn’t unsee the boy who’d smiled at me like it cost him nothing now lying there like everything had been taken from him. Minutes dragged on like hours until finally, finally, they helped him off the ice. His arm was cradled against his chest, his skates dragging. I caught sight of my mom hurrying down from the stands, weaving through the line of trainers and officials to meet him at the tunnel. The crease between her brows told me more than any scoreboard could. By the time she came back up to where I was sitting, the crowd had already shifted its focus back to the game. “It’s bad,” she murmured, leaning down so only I could hear. “He tore his shoulder—rotator cuff. He’s going to be out for at least four months—maybe longer.” “Four months?” I echoed, the words catching in my throat. In hockey time, that might as well have been forever. I don’t remember who won the game. All I remember is—that moment was the night Tyler Mercer went from Westfield’s golden boy to its biggest what-if. And that night I learned how quickly someone untouchable could fall.