The Golden Boy
1371 Words
EPISODE ONE
There were two versions of Noah Carter.
The first belonged to everyone else.
He smiled from posters plastered across Redwood University's campus, his face printed beside the words CAPTAIN. LEADER. LEGACY.
Children waited after games hoping for an autograph.
Sports reporters called him the future of college hockey.
Students spoke his name like they already knew it would one day echo through professional arenas.
To the world, Noah Carter was the boy who had everything.
The second Noah only existed when no one was looking.
He was the one who sat in silence before every game, tightening the tape around his stick until his fingers ached, convincing himself that if everything was perfect , every pass, every shot, every decision maybe tonight would finally be enough.
The crowd never met that Noah.
Maybe they never would.
The locker room buzzed with the kind of restless energy that only existed before the first home game of the season.
Music blasted from a portable speaker someone had balanced on top of an equipment trunk. The sharp scent of fresh tape mixed with the earthy smell of sharpened steel and muscle rub, while laughter bounced off the concrete walls.
Liam Brooks stood on a wooden bench, using a hockey stick as a microphone.
"Gentlemen," he announced dramatically, "welcome to another year of me carrying this team."
A roll of athletic tape flew across the room.
It struck him squarely in the shoulder.
"You couldn't carry groceries," Mason Hayes called from his stall without looking up from lacing his skates.
The room erupted into laughter.
Liam clutched his chest.
"I am surrounded by jealousy."
"You are surrounded by people with functioning eyesight," another teammate shot back.
Noah couldn't help smiling.
Moments like these were his favorite.
Not the crowds.
Not the interviews.
Not the cameras.
This.
The stupid jokes.
The easy laughter.
The feeling that, for an hour or two, they weren't scholarship athletes carrying expectations on their backs.
They were just a group of friends trying to win a hockey game.
He opened his locker and reached for the silver chain tucked carefully inside.
A tiny hockey skate hung from the end.
The metal had dulled over the years, worn smooth where his thumb rubbed it before every game.
His mother had given it to him on his twelfth birthday.
"For luck," she'd whispered as she fastened it around his neck.
"Luck isn't real," twelve-year-old Noah replied.
She had laughed, brushing his hair away from his forehead.
"Maybe not. But believing someone loves you? That makes people brave."
Eight years later...
He still wore it.
Even though she wasn't here to see it.
"You gonna marry that necklace someday?"
Noah looked up.
Liam had wandered over, already dressed in full gear.
"What?"
"You stare at that thing before every game."
Noah slipped it beneath his compression shirt.
"It helps me focus."
Liam studied him for a second before nodding.
"Whatever works."
He didn't ask another question.
That was one of the things Noah appreciated most about his teammates.
Sometimes friendship means knowing when not to pry.
Coach Reynolds stepped into the room.
The conversations died almost instantly.
"Helmets on."
The coach's voice wasn't loud.
It didn't have to be.
"The Falcons think last season was a fluke."
A few players scoffed.
"They've spent all week telling reporters they're faster."
Another scoff.
"They've forgotten something."
Coach looked around the room until his gaze settled on Noah.
"We're still standing."
Noah rose first.
One by one, the rest of the team followed.
The captain's job wasn't to give long speeches.
It was to set the pace.
He looked around the room.
At Liam.
At Mason.
At Ben Ortiz, the nervous freshman trying to hide how badly his hands were shaking.
Noah remembered being that kid.
Terrified.
Excited.
Certain one mistake would end everything.
He walked over and bumped Ben's shoulder.
"You know what the hardest part is?"
Ben swallowed.
"What?"
"Walking through that tunnel."
Ben frowned.
"Really?"
Noah nodded.
"After that, it's just hockey."
Something in Ben's shoulders loosened.
A tiny smile appeared.
"Thanks, Cap."
Noah smiled back.
"Let's go play."
The roar hit before they even reached the ice.
It rolled through the tunnel like a living thing.
The student section was already on its feet.
Thousands of white towels spun through the air.
The arena lights dimmed until only the ice remained illuminated beneath sweeping beams of crimson and silver.
The announcer's voice thundered through the speakers.
"Ladies and gentlemen..."
Another roar.
"Please welcome..."
One player after another skated onto the ice as their names echoed around the arena.
Then came the captain.
"NUMBER TWENTY-SEVEN..."
The pause seemed to last forever.
"NOAH CARTER!"
The building exploded.
He stepped onto the ice, and the cold rushed beneath his blades.
This was the only place in the world where everything made sense.
Every scrape of steel.
Every sharp turn.
Every breath that fogged inside his visor.
Nothing outside the rink mattered here.
Not expectations.
Not cameras.
Not Richard Carter.
Just hockey.
The referee skated toward center ice.
The puck dropped.
The season had begun.
Noah barely noticed the first shift.
Instinct took over.
His body moved before his mind could catch up.
Stick on the ice.
Head up.
Find the lane.
A defender lunged.
He slipped past him.
Another stepped in.
Noah absorbed the contact, spun away from the boards, and accelerated through the neutral zone.
The crowd rose to its feet.
He crossed the blue line.
One fake.
The goalie committed.
Noah snapped his wrists.
The puck screamed into the top corner.
For a split second...
Silence.
Then twenty thousand voices erupted at once.
His teammates crashed into him against the glass.
Liam grabbed his helmet.
"I hate how good you are."
"You'll get over it."
"Never."
Noah laughed.
It felt genuine.
For the first time that day.
The Wolves won 5-2.
Reporters crowded the tunnel.
Microphones appeared in front of Noah before he had even removed his gloves.
"What does this win mean for your draft stock?"
"How are you handling the pressure?"
"Do you think you're the best player in college hockey?"
Noah smiled the smile he'd perfected years ago.
"The team earned this."
It was the right answer.
It always was.
By the time the interviews ended, the arena had emptied.
The cheers were gone.
The silence returned.
He climbed into his truck and rested both hands on the steering wheel.
He didn't start the engine.
Not yet.
Because the game was over.
Which meant he had to go home.
The Carter estate stood behind wrought-iron gates overlooking the lake, its windows glowing against the dark Minnesota sky.
It looked magnificent in magazine photographs.
To Noah, it had never felt like a home.
Inside, the walls gleamed beneath carefully placed lights.
Crystal.
Marble.
Polished wood.
Everything expensive.
Nothing personal.
No childhood drawings.
No family photographs.
Only trophies.
Awards.
Magazine covers.
Evidence of success.
Richard Carter stood in his study, still wearing the tailored suit he'd worn to the game.
He didn't look up immediately.
He was reading the post game statistics.
"You lost two faceoffs."
Noah set his duffel bag down quietly.
"Good evening to you too."
"You hesitated after the hit in the second period."
"I got back on the ice."
"You hesitated."
The room fell silent.
Richard finally lifted his eyes.
For a moment, Noah thought he saw pride.
It disappeared almost as quickly as it came.
"The sponsors want another interview this week," Richard said.
"I've already scheduled it."
"I have class."
"You'll make time."
Noah nodded.
Because arguing never changed anything.
As he turned to leave, Richard spoke again.
"I covered for you last month."
Noah froze.
The party.
The noise complaint.
The security footage.
His father had made it disappear before the media could catch hold of it.
"You won't always be this lucky."
Noah didn't answer.
He walked upstairs, closed his bedroom door, and finally allowed himself to breathe.
On the nightstand sat the silver hockey skate necklace.
He picked it up, turning it slowly between his fingers.
"I scored tonight," he whispered into the empty room.
He wasn't sure if he was talking to himself...
Or hoping, somewhere, his mother had been watching.
- Writer
