Hockey Hearttrob

Chapter 4- Game Day

Anneliese Lang’s POV

The bus smelled faintly of rubber, metal, and the sharp tang of energy drinks that had been cracked open too early. My gloves sat in my lap, helmet tucked under my arm, fingers curling unconsciously around the strap as the road blurred past the window. Nobody really spoke properly. Even Jax’s usual noise had dulled into occasional comments that didn’t fully land anywhere.

First official match.

The words kept repeating in my head like a rhythm I couldn’t break out of. My stomach felt tight in a way I couldn’t fully settle, like my body understood something my thoughts were still trying to catch up with.

Across the aisle, Leo sat forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, helmet beside him. His gloves were already on his lap, stick leaning against the seat. He wasn’t restless. He wasn’t distracted. He looked like someone already inside the game, like the bus was just something carrying him closer to what he had already mentally stepped into.

I looked away.

Our destination appeared as we turned the final corner, rising out of the grey morning like a block of ice and light. The building wasn’t just big, it felt heavy, like it had weight beyond its structure. Even from outside, I could hear it faintly. Distant echoes of skates cutting ice, muffled crowd noise from earlier games or warmups, the low hum of something alive inside.

My grip tightened slightly on my gear.

When we stepped out of the bus, the cold hit immediately. It wasn’t gentle. It cut through fabric, through skin, sharp enough to make breath feel more noticeable. I pulled my jacket tighter around me instinctively, helmet now under my arm, feeling heavier than it should have.

Inside, the arena was louder in a different way.

Not chaotic noise, but layered sound. Metal benches shifting. Skates clicking against concrete. The distant echo of a puck hitting boards somewhere in warmup. The sharp c***k of sticks being tapped against the ice.

The locker room was colder than expected, not in temperature, but in atmosphere. Everyone moved with purpose now. No wasted motion. Helmets were placed carefully on benches, cages adjusted, and chin straps tightened. Gloves were pulled on and checked again, even if they were already fine.

I sat down slowly, setting my helmet beside me. My heart was already beating faster than it should have been.

Coach Reynolds took us all in, jaw muscles working, giving us a pep talk ending with, “Lines are final.”

That alone changed the air. Final meant no guessing anymore. No shifting roles after warmups. No experimental combinations. What you were now was what you were trusted to be. Names, positions, and structure forming in real time.

Coach didn’t linger. He left us with one final look that felt heavier than anything he actually said. “Play clean and think faster than them. Or don’t bother stepping on the ice.” Then he was gone.

Maybe he said more, but I was too nervous to remember.

The tunnel to the rink felt narrower than it should have.

Skates clicked against concrete in uneven rhythm, echoing off walls that seemed to stretch further the closer we got. Helmets were now on, visors catching faint reflections of overhead lights. Everything sounded slightly different inside them. Muffled. Controlled. Like the world had been pulled closer to our ears.

Then we stepped out. The arena opened in front of us like a frozen ocean made of light and sound.

Crowd noise hit immediately. Not words at first, just volume. Hundreds of voices layered together, rising and falling like a living thing. Bright stadium lights reflected off the ice surface so sharply that it almost looked unreal. The boards surrounding the rink stood like barriers between two different worlds.

The puck was already on the ice during warmups, sliding fast across the surface as players tested passes, shots, and movement. The sound of it hitting sticks, boards, and occasionally the net was constant and sharp, like punctuation between everything else.

Blackridge Titans were already on the far side.

They were not loud and boisterous as I expected. That was the first thing I noticed. They looked precise and very much like what was portrayed from what I had heard and seen about them.

Their movements weren’t rushed during warmups. Every pass was controlled. Every shot intentional. Even their skating looked structured, like they were already operating in a system that didn’t allow waste.

My stomach tightened slightly, and I took a seat.

Leo skated past me without looking, adjusting his gloves as he went. Helmet on now, visor down, face partially hidden behind the cage and reflection. But I could still feel his focus shift the moment he stepped onto the ice fully.

This wasn’t practice anymore, I remind myself, and just then the whistle blew.

My heart was already racing before the game even started.

The first shift came fast.

Skates carved into ice immediately, sharp cuts and acceleration, bodies moving in controlled bursts. The puck moved constantly, a small black disk that dictated everything despite its size.

From the bench, I could hear it clearly every time it hit the boards. A hard, flat c***k that echoed through the arena.

Blackridge didn’t chase. They positioned themselves, and that was what made it unsettling.

They didn’t rush into space. They closed it.

Leo was already adjusting his line mid-shift, pointing, communicating, directing movement without needing to shout. His presence on ice wasn’t just physical. It was structural.

Then Blackridge broke through with a clean pass through defensive space. Shot.

Noah Bennett, our goalie, reacted instantly. Gloves up. Save.

We cheered, and the puck rebounded, chaos for half a second near the crease before it was cleared.

My breathing tightened as shifts rotated quickly after that. Players on and off in controlled bursts. Helmets coming off briefly on the bench, then back on. Gloves flexed, sticks gripped tighter.

Then my turn came. “Lang, on!”

My stomach dropped slightly as I stepped onto the ice, pulse high. Cold air hit differently out there. Stronger. Sharper. Even inside the helmet, it felt like the arena had swallowed everything except sound and movement.

The puck was already in play.

Jax skated near me, energy sharp even now. “Don’t think too much,” he called out. “Just move!”

Easy for him to say. They’re all seasoned players. This is my first official game.

A shoulder collided into me mid-ice. My balance shifted, but my skates caught fast enough to recover. Ice scraped under my blades, controlled correction.

The puck came toward me, and I took it. For a moment, everything felt strangely quiet, even with the noise of the arena behind it. Just ice, stick, puck, and space.

I pushed forward before I could think it through. The shot left my stick, and it hit the goalie’s pad and bounced out. Not a goal, but close enough, and my excitement overflowed. Good. That was good, I cheered myself on with.

The crowd reacted immediately, rising in sound, and I skated off on rotation, breath heavier than before.

Leo passed me at the bench, helmet still on, visor reflecting rink lights. He didn’t speak. Just looked at me briefly.

Nothing more.

The second period changed everything because Blackridge scored first.

Leo didn’t react outwardly, but I saw it in how he moved after. Faster decisions and cleaner control. Less tolerance for delay.

Then we equalised. Leo set it up, and Jax finished it.

The third period felt heavier than anything before it. Every movement carried weight. Every pass mattered more than it should have.

Blackridge scored again.

2-1.

We pushed even harder after that. Controlled aggression. Cleaner passing. Faster transitions.

Then I found space. Just enough to see a play in the next three seconds and adrenaline pumping, Leo passed to me, and I passed to Tyler, who then passed the puck back to me, seeing the move I was playing at and-

Shot.

Goal.

The sound hit first. Loud. Explosive. It tore through the rink like something breaking open, the crowd surging all at once, voices crashing over each other in a wave that should have swallowed me whole.

As my eyes took it all in, the sounds dulled. Like everything had been shoved underwater, the noise warping into something distant, unreal, as I stood there, breath caught somewhere between my chest and my throat, stick still in my hands, body frozen in the aftermath of the shot.

I scored.

The thought didn’t land all at once. It came in pieces, slow and disjointed, like my mind couldn’t quite keep up with what had just happened. My first game. My first real game. And the puck had crossed the line because of me.

My heart stuttered, then slammed hard enough to hurt, a sharp, pulsing beat that spread through my ribs, down my arms, into my fingertips still gripping the stick like it might disappear if I let go.

Eyes squinting, I heaved forward and made for the net and the goalie.

I scored?

It rushed through me then, not clean, not steady, but in waves, crashing one after the other. Shock first. Then disbelief. Then something brighter, sharper, almost overwhelming as it flooded my chest and climbed into my throat.

For a second, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe properly. Couldn’t even think past the feeling of it. Because this wasn’t just a goal.

It was proof that I earned the right to be here. I earned my scholarship. I could actually do this- get out, change everything- get my family out of the rut we’re in.

And still, the crowd roared around me, loud and alive and real again, but now it didn’t feel distant.

Don’t go girly on me now, Anne, I tell myself when tears mist my eyes. I fought too hard to get here- fighting against all odds that “girls don’t belong in rinks” and all negative comments- to go crying now.

Nodding my head, I swallow it in as my teammates crash into me before I can even process it, gloves thudding against my helmet and shoulders, sticks knocking as they crowd in, shouting loud enough to shake the moment back into reality.

Someone grabs me, hauling me into the middle of it, and for a second I’m swallowed whole by bodies, noise, and something that feels dangerously close to belonging.

There’s a quick burst of celebration, then a short reset. Players skate back to their positions, the puck gets brought to center ice, and there’s a faceoff to restart the game.

Tie game.

Overtime came like pressure sealing shut.

Sudden death. One goal ends everything.

My hands shook slightly on my stick as I stepped onto the ice for the final shift. Not fear exactly. Awareness.

Faceoff.

Puck dropped, and everything exploded.

Blackridge moved first, fast and controlled, and Leo intercepted. Pass. Jax.

Miss. Rebound. Chaos. Pass, pass, pass- The puck slid loose, and I saw it before I thought about it, moving before I even knew what I was doing, and I took my shot. The net snapped back, then everything crashed in at once.

We won.