Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Minneapolis, Minnesota

October, 2006

Anne Josten passed away in the early hours of January 19, on a rainy night, in room 273 of the Abbott Kerrigan Medical Center, just a few miles from downtown Minneapolis. Neil could almost catch the sharp sting of hospital disinfectants in the air, threaded with the faint, fruity trace of his mom’s beloved fifty-dollar English pear lotion, always lingering after her evening baths.

She lay there on the stretcher, propped up against a stack of pillows, her clothes hanging off her thinning frame. Her pale skin was stretched taut over her prominent cheekbones, her lips cracked. He couldn’t remember if it was Bach or Chopin playing that night or if the nurses had brought her jello or peach yogurt for dinner.

Three months of treatment had led to this moment. She was gone. And it was the same night he turned eighteen. The timing was cruel, yet in a strange way, it also felt like closure. A shiver ran up his spine.

In the car, Neil shifted in the passenger seat, leaning his elbow against the window as he stared out at the rain streaking the glass. His brown hair clung damply to his forehead, and the dim lights accentuated the pallor of his freckled face. He wondered — not for the first time — if his mom could see him somehow. God, he hoped not.

Andrew drove in silence, drumming his long fingers on the steering wheel in sync with the Blake Shelton song playing on the radio. His thick blonde hair was still damp from the rain earlier, curling slightly at the edges, and the stubble on his strong jaw. Andrew possessed a kind of dangerous charm — a wicked smile and a stunning face that could undoubtedly ruin your life.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

Neil didn’t move, his gaze fixed on the window.

“I’m good, thanks.”

Andrew muttered something under his breath, then spoke louder.

“Sometimes, you’re so fucking boring. And other times, I swear there’s something under the surface. You barely talk about yourself for someone who never shuts up.”

Neil turned his head just enough to catch Andrew’s smirk.

“Do you hate silence, or do you just love hearing yourself talk?”

Andrew let out a short laugh.

“Funny. Nice try, Josten, but you still annoy the hell out of me.”

“Great. I’ll take it.”

“And I still can’t figure you out. It pisses me off.” Andrew shot him a quick glance, then focused back on the road. “Because I’m good at this, you know? Reading people. Always have been.”

Neil sighed, crossing his arms.

“I was too humble to assume your greatest skill was keeping pucks out of the net?”

“You’re… complicated,” Andrew said, ignoring the jab. “I’ve been thinking about you more than I should, trying to figure you out. You’re either the biggest idiot I’ve ever met, with zero brain cells firing, or you’re a compulsive liar.”

Neil raised an eyebrow.

“Which one are you rooting for?”

“With you living under my roof? I’m praying for the first.”

Neil shook his head, his frustration growing.

“Why are you like this? It’s three in the morning, Minyard. Just enjoy your bad music and save the interrogation for someone else tomorrow.”

Andrew grinned, clearly enjoying himself.

“You’re my favorite, you know. My new pet project.”

Neil groaned and turned back to the window, catching sight of the college sign glowing in the headlights. The rain made the blue lights from the police cars shimmer on the wet asphalt, creating halos. Andrew instinctively slowed down, frowning.

“What the fuck’s going on?”

Up ahead, two squad cars blocked the road leading to the Sigma Epsilon Theta fraternity house. A few students stood huddled together under umbrellas or jackets, their faces dimly lit by phone screens and flashlights. Muddy footprints and blood smeared the ground. Forensics teams moved methodically under bright floodlights, collecting evidence. A black tarp flapped in the wind, briefly revealing pale skin underneath before an officer rushed to adjust it.

“Police officers?” Kevin grumbled from the backseat, squinting at the flashing lights, his jet-black hair disheveled with sleep. "What the hell just happened?”

Neil leaned forward, popped open the glove compartment, and pulled out a cap, tugging it low over his face.

“No idea. Andrew, pull over.”

Andrew gave a nervous laugh but kept driving.

“No way. Fuck. I didn’t bust my ass to stay out of juvie just to deal with cops again. We’re going home.”

“Andrew, if you don’t stop, I’m opening the door.”

“Whatever,” Andrew muttered, cursing under his breath but easing the car onto the shoulder.

Neil jumped out before Andrew could protest further. The icy rain soaked through his hoodie instantly, but he barely noticed. The faint metallic tang of blood mingled with the earthy petrichor of the wet ground.

A cop standing near the perimeter gave him a sharp look, silently warning him not to get any closer. Neil stopped a few feet from the yellow tape, ready to ask what was going on, when a familiar voice cut through the chaos.

“Where the hell is Day?”

He turned to see Allison Reynolds storming toward him, barefoot, her pink satin robe plastered to her skin from the rain. Her big blue eyes burned with fury, though they were red and swollen from crying. Her soaked blonde hair clung to her face as she marched forward.

“He’s in the car,” Neil said, nodding toward the vehicle parked behind him.

Allison didn’t respond. She shoved past him, water splashing with each step. A few bystanders raised their phones, recording the scene.

Kevin stepped out of the car, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He barely had time to react before Allison´s hand slapped across his face.

“This is all your fault!” she screamed, her voice breaking. “He’s dead because of you!”

“Reynolds, don’t ...” Andrew started, but she ignored him, jabbing a finger into Kevin’s chest.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Her voice cracked as sobs overtook her. “Seth’s dead!”

For a moment, everything went still. Seth? Dead? Neil could still see him just a few hours ago, laughing, celebrating, a beer in hand, his arm around his teammates. The nausea came fast.

And then the whispers around him broke through, faint but clear.

Seth Gordon had killed himself.

Not too long ago, he barely recognized his own reflection. Funny how things change, isn’t it? He thought as he stared into the mirror. His hair was now the dullest shade of brown imaginable — dead rat brown, if he had to name it. The most inconspicuous option he could find on any drugstore shelf. He touched up the dye as soon as the roots started to show or whenever the color lost its luster, just like his mother had taught him. Contacts and hair dye — an addiction he couldn't shake, like an oxy addict always chasing the next fix to stay safe. He didn’t have the luxury of being careless.

He studied himself as a brunette, looking plain, unremarkable. No one noticed him in a crowd, no one remembered his face. And that’s how he stayed alive, drifting like a ghost among the living.

Damn.

He felt miserable, regret morphing into anger. Everything he had planned, everything he had risked — it was all for nothing, all for a game. No matter how smart you think you are, there’s always something that’ll make you screw up. For months, he buried his grief, focused on something so blinding he knew he didn’t deserve it. He trained and trained until every movement triggered a sharp, unbearable pain. No one on that rink had fought harder than him. And yet, he lost. No one had more to lose than him.

This was his last game. Time to say goodbye to hockey, pack up, and move to California with what was left of his mother’s money to fulfill her final wish.

Bargaining, anger, depression. Now, he had reached acceptance. It was time to move on, shed the skin of Neil Josten, and become someone new. No longer the Minnesota boy playing hockey like his life depended on it. He would survive.

He pulled on a pair of worn-out jeans and a navy hoodie in the locker room, slipped on his sunglasses. It was a shame, really, leaving behind the childhood home where he grew up with his mother. The white picket fences, the framed pictures, all of it now stuffed into cardboard boxes in the attic. Soon, another family would move in. The rent would be paid. Well, technically, Neil would be the one getting it.

That’s just how things were. He had no right to complain, not after everything his mother had done for him.

Since this was his last time at the rink, he sat in the bleachers, taking in the scent of the ice, the bright arena lights, the adrenaline in the air. He thought about lighting a cigarette for his mother — one last tribute — when the door creaked open behind him. Coach Hernandez stepped out of the locker room and took a seat beside him.

"Expected to see your aunt at the game today," Hernandez said, casually.

Neil shrugged.

"She couldn’t make it. She’s out of town."

Hernandez nodded, looking unconvinced but didn’t push.

"As usual."

It was always like this. Neil had his excuses ready: "Working," "Traveling," "Too busy." No one ever questioned it. Who wouldn’t understand a woman who lost her sister to cancer and suddenly had to raise an eighteen-year-old nephew?

Of course, no one had ever met Aunt Karen. Because she didn’t exist.

Minneapolis was big enough to keep secrets like that. At a run-down public school, no one noticed if a kid slept in his car and showered in the locker rooms. What mattered was that he showed up to practice.

"Thought she’d show up for this one, you know? For once."

Neil didn’t reply. Hernandez sighed.

This wasn’t supposed to be the last game.

Tonight’s loss had knocked them out of the state championship — one game before the finals. So close. So far. The season was over. The seniors had already said their goodbyes. Some were heading to college. Others weren’t good enough or didn’t care enough. But Neil? He cared. And he was good. Damn good.

Hockey. He loved it. The ice slicing under his skates, the speed. It was the one piece of his childhood he still clung to. He couldn’t let go. Old habits die screaming.

"I’ll talk to her later," he said, just to end the conversation. "She’s a good person. Just works a lot."

Hernandez looked at him, serious. "Your mom would be proud of you."

No, she wouldn’t. She’d be furious, yelling about how he risked everything for nothing.

"Sure," he said, without conviction.

He stood up, but Hernandez caught his arm.

"Not yet, Josten. Someone came to see you play tonight."

Oh no. There was no one Neil wanted to see. He had no one. After spending half his life lying, hearing those words felt like a nightmare. He slung his bag over his shoulder, grabbed his skates, and searched for the nearest exit. His footsteps echoed against the floor, a giveaway of his urgency, but it was too late to run. He turned to face the stranger standing in the entrance.

The guy’s polo shirt stretched over broad shoulders. One hand tucked into his slacks, the other clutching a folder. Casual posture, sharp dark eyes. At first, Neil didn’t recognize him, but there was something familiar — the jawline, the cheekbones. Maybe. He didn’t want to admit it, but it made his mind race for an answer, a chill crawling up his spine, making his fingers tremble.

He didn’t look like he belonged here. No one in Minnesota had that kind of tan.

"I don’t know you," Neil said flatly.

"He’s a scout. Came to watch you play," Hernandez explained before the man could respond.

Neil turned to his coach, incredulous.

"No way. No one recruits this late in the season."

"Sometimes our star freshman gets injured. The backup signs with another school, thinking he won’t get a shot. And that leaves me scrambling for a right-winger with potential who’s still available."

Hernandez shot Neil a warning look before getting up and shaking the man’s hand.

"Mr. Wymach is here because I sent him your file and footage. Thought it was worth a shot. Didn’t tell you because it could’ve gone nowhere. Didn’t want to get your hopes up just to crush them."

Neil’s stomach tightened. He stared at his coach in disbelief.

"You did what?"

"Tried reaching your aunt, but she never called back. Then you said she’d be here tonight."

"She couldn’t come," Neil said, avoiding his gaze.

"I don’t have time to wait," Wymack said, impatient. "Kid, it’s now or never. You don’t have a college offer, and I need a right-winger. You’re good enough to be molded, and you care about the game. That’s all that matters."

Neil dropped his head, the words hitting him like a punch.

"This has to be a joke."

Wymack tossed the folder onto the bleachers with a flick of his wrist. "Neil Abram Josten" was scribbled across the cover in bold letters. He thought about picking it up, but what was the point?

That kid was a lie with an expiration date. In a month, he’d graduate. In a week later, he’d disappear, living as someone else. It didn’t matter what Wymack saw in him. It didn’t even matter if he wanted to be Neil. Because wanting was dangerous.

Lies stacked on lies. Neil had learned everything about the character he’d played for years. Neil was supposed to go to college, get a job, maybe even a family.

Then cancer happened.

Wymack´s voice cut through his thoughts.

"Sign on the dotted line, and you’re mine for five years."

Neil took a deep breath. Signing with a college team meant everything he couldn’t afford to be. Settling down. Forming attachments. Being seen. None of that fit into the deal he’d made with the feds — or his mother’s plans.

"I can’t. It’s a waste of time," he said, almost pleading. "Please, just go."

Wymack frowned, his expression turning rigid.

"Can’t? We’re not talking about some random community college in Alabama. This is McGregor. A full ride. Tuition worth thousands, covered. Don’t throw your future away. I’ve seen you play. Kevin was right, you’re starving for this."

Neil let out a dry, humorless laugh. Kevin? No way. Actually, of course it was. After all these years, wasn’t it funny how the past always found a way to creep back in?

"McGregor-Weston Foxes," he muttered.

Wymack’s eyes narrowed, surprised.

"So, I guess you’ve read the headlines."

The McGregor-Weston Foxes. Once a legendary team, now a desperate attempt to stay relevant in Division I. They had been great, until bad decisions, bad management, and bad luck caught up to them.

David Wymack had a plan to change that. A former NHL player and Olympic medalist, his career had been cut short by a spinal injury. With hefty funding behind him, he’d taken on the challenge of restoring the Foxes to their former glory. But his approach was controversial, to say the least.

Wymack turned the team into a kind of social experiment, recruiting players from troubled backgrounds — what the media called a "rehabilitation program on skates." It was a marketing goldmine: prime-time interviews, headline features, big-name sponsors drawn to the idea of redemption. David Wymack, Boston’s golden boy, saving hockey’s lost causes.

But in reality, the team was a ticking time bomb. The players — talented as they were — were volatile, self-destructive. They didn’t know how to be a team. Some didn’t even want to. The season had been a disaster, earning them the title of the biggest failure in NCAA history.

And then, last year, everything changed.

Andrew Minyard, their prodigy goalie, had been the turning point. After spending his freshman year barely stepping on the ice due to health issues, he came back to prove why he was the best in the league.

Then came Kevin Day.

Kevin joining the Foxes was the best thing that had ever happened to the team. A former champion, he had the experience and skill they desperately needed. To everyone else, it was a miracle.

To Neil, it was a nightmare.

His jaw tightened, any polite response dissolving under the weight of his thoughts. It didn’t matter if it had been ten years or ten lifetimes, Kevin was still the loose end he hadn’t tied up.

"I’m not playing for you," he said, arms crossed.

Wymack leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing.

"Did I hear that right? Need a pen?"

"I can’t."

Neil stood, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.

"Coach Hernandez, thank you for everything. And Mr. Wymack, I appreciate your time — and your faith. But I can’t."

He didn’t wait for a response.

He ran, the echo of his sneakers on the empty hallway drowning out anything Wymack might’ve said.

Chapter Text

Minneapolis, Minnesota

June 2006

Lonsdale was the kind of small Midwestern town you could drive through without realizing you’d passed it. A speck suburb in Rice County, Minnesota — forty miles south of Minneapolis — where the air always smelled faintly of corn and cheap gasoline. And nothing — absolutely nothing — had changed since the last time Neil had been there.

The same McDonald’s downtown, still reeking of burnt fryer oil. The same family-run diner that handed out free slices of apple pie on Wednesdays. The same faded yellow department store, selling everything from power tools to prom dresses. The same public school beside the same baseball field. And every Sunday, the same congregation filled with the same faces he’d known since childhood.

For a while, Neil had truly believed he’d grow old here — in this small, predictable place, surrounded by people who knew his name and remembered his birthday. But when his mother died, any chance of that life died with her.

He parked his old teal Jeep under a sprawling oak tree and walked quietly down the narrow gravel path to the east wing of the cemetery. The wind carried that bittersweet scent of wilted flowers and damp earth — the same smell it had the day of the funeral.

Anne Josten

1959 – 2006

"Forever Loved, Forever Missed, Dear Mother"

Long story short, Mary Hartford had died the way she’d lived: swaddled and trapped in her own lies. The name carved into the headstone belonged to someone else — a widowed accountant who worked part-time and lived off a dead husband’s pension from Afghanistan. A woman who wore cashmere cardigans and linen pants, who asked politely about your family in the grocery store, who always sat in the third pew on Sundays.

So ordinary.

So invisible.

Neil crouched in front of the headstone, running his fingers over the cool, smooth lettering. He should have cremated her. Scattered her ashes over the lake. Wiped every trace of her existence from the earth. But he hadn’t — and that was his first mistake. There had been a million more after that.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice unsteady. “I got careless. I got comfortable. I stayed. And I still don’t understand how you could just die and leave me.”

Leave him with half-truths and countless lies. With a rusting car, five million dollars, a rented garage stuffed with burner phones and fake IDs — enough for at least five different lives.

Neil exhaled slowly, as if the words themselves might carve a hole through the marble. For a moment, he hated himself for still being here — stuck in the very place he’d sworn he’d never return to.

Then he heard footsteps crunching over dry leaves. At first, he thought it was the groundskeeper.

“Our conversation isn’t over,” Wymack said.

“You followed me?” Neil asked, incredulous. “What the hell is wrong with you? I already gave you my answer. I’m not signing with you.”

“You haven’t heard the whole offer,” Wymack countered. “I paid for a flight out here. The least you can do is give me five minutes of your time, don’t you think?”

The fact that Wymack had tracked him down to St. Hildegard Cemetery — actually searched for him — was reason enough to at least listen.

“How did you even find me?”

“I hated my mother,” Wymack said flatly. “She was an alcoholic. When she died, I was finally free. I bounced from foster home to foster home. I was good at hockey, damn good, but making it to the NHL is a hell of a lot harder when you’re broke and nobody’s kid. I had nowhere to go back to. But even though I hated her, the day I got drafted, I went to her grave and thanked her for being dead. That’s my sob story.

“Is that true?”

“Google it. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“There are hundreds of guys who’d kill to play for you. Why not sign one of them?”

“Do you think I don’t know that? I’ve read thousands of scouting reports. And we chose you. Kevin chose you.”

Neil’s stomach twisted, bile rising.

“I’m not playing with Kevin.”

“You will,” Wymack said simply. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not leaving until you do. Kevin says we need you — and he’s right. You don’t know him, but he’s petty and arrogant as hell. He told us to throw your file out because, well, you’re inexperienced. But lucky for you, coach Hernandez sent more than just your stats. He sent a video. Andrew wanted to see it — and Andrew always has his reasons. So we watched. And Kevin said, ‘I want him. He’s the only one who’ll do. He plays like his life depends on it.’”

If Kevin remembered him, he’d know that file was nothing but a carefully constructed lie. He’d know the truth about the junior league teams Neil had played for.

“So that’s why,” Neil murmured.

“Only players like that are worth playing with.”

Relief slams into him harder than he expects. If that’s all it was — a one-off reaction to some stupid video — then Kevin hadn’t recognized him after all. This was just an awful coincidence. Maybe the universe’s way of reminding him what happens when you stay in one place too long.

“Honestly, it’s better for us that you’re so far away,” Wymack said, nodding toward the headstones around them.“No one outside the team and the university board knows I’m here. We don’t want your signing turning into a headline this summer. Your contract has a confidentiality clause — you can’t tell anyone you’re on the team until the season starts in October.”

“I still don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Noted,” Wymack said dryly. “And dismissed. Now, do you have anything else to say, or are we ready to sign papers?”

The smartest thing Neil could do was run. Tear Wymack’s contract into a thousand tiny pieces and disappear.But Neil wasn’t ready to give up hockey — the only thing that had ever made him feel like he mattered. The only thing that ever made him feel like he was someone. And damn it, all of Wymack’s bullshit was almost convincing him that maybe — maybe — he could be okay. Maybe he even deserved this.

The contract, in a way, was permission. Permission to keep going. To play a little longer. To pretend he had a normal life. Wymack talked about five years, but Neil could vanish before then. Hide. Start over. He’d always have the option of following his mother’s plan.

Besides, Kevin apparently didn’t remember him. Why would he? Kevin had always had everything — he’d never remember the kid he’d played with a handful of times when they were eight. Kevin’s existence validated Neil’s own. It was proof he was real. And if he lived, trained, and played next to him, Neil would see the first flicker of suspicion. The second Kevin started asking questions — or looking at him differently — Neil would disappear.

“Well?” Wymack asked.

Survival instinct and desire were locked in a brutal fistfight, and the result was near-paralyzing panic.

“How did you find me?”

“Didn’t you get the point of my sob story?” Wymack said. “Guys like us — the screwed-up ones — we think the same way. Your file said you grew up here, so I figured your mom might be buried in this cemetery. Lucky guess. It helps that this is the only cemetery in town.”

“I need to talk to my aunt.”

“Do you want me to talk to her?”

“I’m fine.”

“Is she hurting you?”

Neil just stared at him, completely thrown. The question was so blunt — so deeply inappropriate — that he had no idea where to start. Wymack must’ve noticed, because he kept talking before Neil could.

“Let me rephrase. Coach Hernandez thinks you sleep in your car a few nights a week. He’s noticed you never change in the locker room, and you never let anyone meet your aunt. That’s why he recommended you to me. You get what that means, right? You know the kind of players I recruit. I don’t know if he’s right — but I doubt he’s completely wrong. And if she’s a problem, I can get you moved to Boston sooner.”

“What?” Neil blinked.

“Andrew’s crew stays in the city over the summer,” Wymack explained. “They rent a house off campus. You can stay with them until the dorms open in August. Andrew’s medicated, and the others are harmless. I promise they won’t touch you. We can say you’re there to start conditioning early. Half of them will believe it. The rest — well, you won’t fool them, but it doesn’t matter. Foxes are Foxes for a reason. They know we wouldn’t sign you if you weren’t good enough. That doesn’t mean they need the details. It’s not my place to ask, and I’d never tell them.”

It took Neil two tries to form the question.

“Why?”

Wymack was quiet for a long moment.

“You think I build a team like this because of deadlines?” he asked. “It’s about second chances, Neil. Second, third, fourth… however many it takes. As long as it’s one more than anyone else is willing to give you.”

Neil had heard people call Wymack an idealist before, but talking to him now, it was hard not to believe he meant it. He hovered somewhere between disbelief and disdain. He couldn’t understand why anyone would choose to be disappointed over and over again. In Wymack’s position, he would’ve given up on the Foxes years ago.

Wymack gave him a moment to think before asking again.

“Well?”

It was too much to risk — and too much to walk away from. It hurt to nod, but it hurt more to see the tired look in Wymack’s eyes. It wasn't a pity, exactly. It was something else. Something that said he understood how hard it was just to wake up every day and keep going.

“Keep the paperwork tonight,” Wymack said, sliding the folder toward him again. This time, Neil took it. “Your coach can fax me the signed copies on Monday. Welcome to the team.”

“Thank you” would’ve been the polite thing to say. But the words wouldn’t come. He stared down at his shoes instead.

Well, Mom. I guess this is goodbye for now.

Kevin Day and Andrew Minyard: The Duo That Could Redefine College Hockey

For years, the Foxes of McGregor-Weston University have been the closest thing college hockey has had to a natural disaster — unpredictable, problematic, and, above all, irrelevant. What was once a program synonymous with championships had become little more than a punchline, laughed off in barroom debates and cable broadcasts alike.

But everything started to shift the day David Wymack — a former NHL bruiser with a stubborn streak and a past as messy as the players he recruits — took over the team. His boldest move yet? Pairing two of the most unlikely players in the division. And, against all odds, it might just work.

On one side is Kevin Day, the golden boy who once had it all — titles, trophies, headlines, and a future written in ink straight into the NHL. Alongside his adoptive brother and longtime partner Riko Moriyama, Day dominated the college circuit with the Edgar Allan Ravens and seemed destined for legend status. But a skiing accident — and the sudden implosion of that historic partnership — sent everything spiraling.

Day vanished from the spotlight, resurfacing last season in a surprise role as Weston’s assistant coach. A few months later, he was back on the ice — starting as striker and hell-bent on proving he never needed the Ravens, or Moriyama, to shine.

On the other side stands Andrew Minyard, and “predictable” is the last word you’d ever use for him. Fresh out of a juvenile detention facility, Minyard turned down an offer from the country’s top-ranked program — the Ravens — and all the guarantees that came with it, to suit up in the Foxes’ orange. If most of Weston’s roster has a knack for self-sabotage, Minyard seems more interested in sabotaging everyone else. His criminal record and brutally aggressive goaltending leave no doubt: he’s here to make an impact.

And here’s the detail the entire NCAA seems to be missing: if Day is precision and technique, Minyard is pure entropy. On their own, they’re stories of wasted potential. Together, they’re a storm about to hit the ice.

The preseason told that story better than any press release ever could. Minyard was almost impossible to score against — a brick wall with a grudge. Day, meanwhile, did what he’s always done best: turn impossible angles into game-changing plays.

The season kicks off in October. And if you’re still not paying attention, now might be the time to tune in. Because Kevin Day and Andrew Minyard didn’t come here to save the Foxes. They came to rewrite the rules.

Chapter Text

Boston, Massachusetts
July 2006

Neil remembered little about his childhood. Yet, for some reason, the first time he boarded a plane was etched into his memory with unsettling clarity.

The muted roar of the engines. His mother’s hand crushing his during takeoff, as if he might splinter apart the second turbulence struck. He’d found it funny, her desperate clinging, while all he wanted was to press his face to the tiny window and watch the clouds.

They were flying to visit Uncle Stuart, who lived in a brick manor perched by the Cornish coast. The doors creaked even when they were shut, and the tap water tasted like rust. Neil had been six. He’d spent those days combing the shore for shells and crab carcasses, darting barefoot into the freezing waves. His mother complained about the cold. His father complained about her complaining.

And that was the summer of the hunt.

He remembered the hounds before he remembered the fox, massive, panting beasts snuffling for the scent of prey. He’d watched, rapt, his father’s hand heavy on his shoulder as the hunters’ shouts carried across the field. There was something glorious about it, something alive. The ground shook beneath the horses’ hooves. The dogs plunged into the tall grass.

What lingered wasn’t the excitement, but the blood. The sound, a wet, splitting crack, maybe. Sometimes he dreamed of teeth tearing through flesh, devouring. He hadn’t cried like the other children. He’d stared, wide-eyed, and decided he’d done well. That his father was proud. That he’d been part of something that mattered.

But he never forgot the fox thrashing. Or the warmth of its tail when they placed it in his hands.

Life was funny like that. That was what he was thinking as he sat in the aisle seat of a crowded Boeing 757-200, packed with strangers and bound for Boston. He was about to become a Weston Fox himself — at least temporarily. Too weak to refuse. He’d tried. He’d run. He’d fled. And that was the most uninstinctive thing he’d ever done.

Airports were all the same. The same relentless rhythm, bodies colliding in passing, tourists and students returning home for the summer. Neil hadn’t expected to recognize anyone, he’d never been to Boston before, but he stayed alert anyway.

It was Friday afternoon, which explained the jammed parking lots. Even so, spotting the sleek black BMW M6 Coupé Wymack had described was easier than he’d expected.

The Minyard twins were identical — calling them “similar” would’ve been a gross understatement. Maybe, in time, subtle differences would reveal themselves. But right now, Neil had no idea which one was leaning against the hood of the car.

The boy was smoking a cigarette, head tipped back, dark aviators hiding his eyes. His near-platinum hair caught the light.

What kind of college-level athlete smoked?

“Neil Josten?”

Neil nodded and extended a hand. He’d seen that face in enough newspaper clippings to recognize it instantly. He resisted the urge to ask Which one are you? and instead searched for clues. Shorter, maybe three inches shorter. Sharp cheekbones, freckles, a small mole just beneath his lower lip. A bored, flat expression. Dark-wash jeans, white sneakers, a long-sleeved gray shirt.

“Nice to meet you. And you are…?”

“The good twin.”

The good twin. A more accurate label might’ve been the slightly less volatile one, compared to a functioning psychopath. Calling Aaron “good” and Andrew "evil" required a very generous interpretation of both words.

Aaron stubbed out his cigarette, and Neil held his breath.

“Let’s get your bag.”

“This is it,” Neil said, tapping the strap of the canvas backpack slung over his shoulder. Big enough to hold everything he owned. Small enough to pass as carry-on.

Aaron didn’t comment, just clicked the remote and unlocked the car.

“Backpack goes in the trunk,”

he said, sliding into the driver’s seat.

Neil obeyed and climbed into the passenger side. The engine roared to life as Aaron turned the key. He shot Neil a sideways glance, the corner of his mouth curling into a cynical, not-quite-friendly smile.

“Neil Josten,” he drawled, savoring every syllable. “You’re the guy who’s too good to play with us, huh?”

“I never said that.”

“But you did say you wouldn’t play with Kevin.”

“How do you know that?”

Aaron ignored the question completely.

“You’re sticking around for the summer, right?”

Neil nodded. The AC kicked in with a growl as Aaron cranked the dial, and the BMW jerked backward into reverse.

“Then that makes five of us.”

Neil had heard the rumors that Kevin Day had been “tied” to Andrew ever since the transfer, but he’d never fully believed them.

“Kevin’s wherever the rink is,” Aaron said suddenly, almost casually. “He doesn’t know how to live without it.”

The parking barrier lifted and Aaron shot forward, pulling into traffic without so much as a glance. A horn blared when he cut off another car. Neil hurried to fasten his seat belt. Aaron didn’t blink.

“You’re only the second rookie who’s ever turned Kevin down,” Aaron went on, his mouth twitching into a smile that never reached his eyes. “Anyone with a smaller ego might’ve taken that personally. I mean. Who turns down Kevin Day?”

“I’m sure Andrew had his reasons. Same as I do.”

“Wanna hear what I think?”

Neil kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead. He didn’t actually care what Aaron thought, but he didn’t have many options besides letting him talk.

“You don’t think you’re good enough. But the coach told you what mattered, didn’t he? Something like, ‘This is about second chances. Third, fourth, as many as it takes.’” Aaron snorted. “Christ, he always knows exactly how to screw with us. Am I right?”

“He’s persuasive,” Neil admitted.

“And you, Neil, just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Karma’s a bitch, but for once, she was on your side.”

Neil let out a short, humorless laugh. The word sounded ridiculous to him. Karma. Fate. The universe. All just excuses, different ways to blame or justify human screw-ups.

“You don’t believe in karma?”

“Of course not. Do you?”

“Luck then.” Aaron sidestepped easily. “You believe in that?”

“I only believe in bad luck.”

Aaron’s mouth curved like he approved of that answer, then he swerved into the next lane without even touching the mirrors. Neil’s hand flew to the door handle.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped. “You’re not the only one on the road.”

“Oh, that’s disappointing. If you’re that scared of dying, you’re not cut out for us.”

The car veered across four lanes in seconds to hit the exit ramp.

“Hockey’s just a game,” Neil muttered. “Nobody’s died playing it since Bill Masterton in ’68.”

Aaron gave a dry, humorless laugh, like he knew something Neil didn’t.

“You have no idea how far people will bleed for Kevin.”

He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, ending the conversation. Neil took the hint. It wasn’t like he wanted to talk to Aaron Minyard anyway.

Kevin Day and Riko Moriyama — their names were bigger than most in the NHL. Practically niche celebrities.

Kevin’s mother, Kayleigh Day, had been the first woman to coach a league team and had Olympic medals to her name. After her death in a car accident, Kevin was taken in by Tetsuji Moriyama, Riko’s uncle and the Ravens’ coach.

Born and bred on the ice, Kevin and Riko had been shaped, and exploited, since before they could walk. Geniuses. Prodigies. A duo so inseparable that, before Kevin’s transfer to McGregor, they were rarely seen apart. That obsessive closeness stirred both fascination and concern, and it only made the public hungrier to see them play, whether in college, the NHL, or the national team.

Then, last winter, both vanished. When the spring season began, neither returned to the court. Not until January did Tetsuji break the silence. Kevin had shattered his left hand in a skiing accident, and both players were “too shaken” to return to the team or their fans.

The next day, Wymack announced that Kevin was recovering in Boston. For most people, learning he’d never play again was hard enough. Finding out he was leaving the Ravens was worse.

“Where are we going?”

Neil finally asked, he needed to know where he was, it was the only way to feel even a little safe. He didn’t trust Aaron. He didn’t trust anyone.

Aaron clicked his tongue and flicked him a quick glance.

“Where else?”

The Foxhole Court Ice Arena was exactly as Neil had imagined it, just like the photos he’d seen on a café’s public computer. It was impossible not to recognize it; he spotted it from a distance the moment they passed through the campus gates. The name blazed in giant block letters.

The building, with a capacity of sixteen thousand, towered over the neighboring structures. Its base was a massive rectangle of raw concrete, at least fifty feet high. The upper levels had glass façades veiled by narrow white louvers. Ethereal. Sharp. Almost like ice. Imposing. Expensive.

Neil couldn’t help calculating how much the university must have burned on the renovation and how much they must regret it, considering the team’s miserable performance.

Aaron drove to the fourth row of parking spaces before stopping. Only a few cars dotted the lot, probably belonging to staff or summer students. Near the entrance, beneath the canopy, three figures waited beside a bronze fox statue.

Aaron got out first.

“Leave your stuff in the car. This’ll be quick. Coach just wants a look at you. We’ll show you the arena, then head home.”

Home.

The word turned Neil’s stomach.

It had been over a year since he’d had anything resembling a home. He knew he’d be spending weeks in Boston, knew he’d be staying with Andrew’s crew. But there was a stark difference between knowing it in theory and actually living with strangers. Since his mother’s death, he hadn’t shared space with anyone. How was he supposed to sleep in a house full of four unknowns? Every sound would wake him.

He should book a hotel. But how would he explain that to Wymack? Would he even need to? Wymack believed Neil’s imaginary aunt was abusive, maybe he’d understand Neil’s reluctance.

Neil hesitated longer than he should have. “Oh God. His castle of lies was crumbling, and he was getting hopelessly tangled in the rubble.”

“I want my bag.”

“Whatever.” Aaron popped the trunk with a click and walked off toward the canopy, head down.

Neil grabbed his backpack. The familiar weight slung over his shoulder gave him a strange kind of relief, as if that burden was the only solid thing in his life. When he shut the trunk and lifted his head, his eyes locked on Kevin Day’s silhouette.

He saw Kevin before Kevin saw him.

The air rushed from Neil’s lungs. It had been years since he’d last seen him in person, but he knew that face as well as his own. Dark hair, green eyes, and the Roman numeral tattooed on his cheekbone. The number two. Second place — the first loser.

The sight of it twisted Neil’s stomach. When they were kids, Kevin and Riko had scrawled numbers on their faces with marker, always touching them up when the ink began to fade. Neil hadn’t understood it back then, but Kevin and Riko had ambitions. Big ones. We’ll be famous, they’d promised him. And they were right. 

But Kevin wouldn’t recognize him now. Too much time had passed, too much distance between them. Nothing about Neil resembled the boy he once was.

The twins were flanking Kevin. Aaron looked indifferent, mission accomplished. Andrew, in contrast, was all sharp edges, shoulders coiled tight with tension. Nicholas Hemmick was the only one who seemed genuinely glad to see Neil. He stepped down to the curb as Neil approached.

ed his hand, gripping Neil’s firmly. “Welcome to Boston. Flight okay?”

“Fine.” Neil’s voice came out clipped.

“I’m Nicky.” He shook Neil’s hand a second time before letting go. “Andrew and Aaron’s cousin. Second-line defense.”

Neil glanced between him and the twins. No resemblance whatsoever.

Aaron and Andrew were pale, almost unnervingly so, with hair so blond that even their eyelashes and eyebrows were light. They had Roman noses and angular jaws, and both were short and stocky. Aaron looked plain enough in casual clothes, forgettable at a glance. Andrew, on the other hand, looked like he’d wandered out of a diluted emo-grunge music video. Oversized black shirt draped over a dark blue maxi dress, baggy ripped jeans, heavy combat boots, silver rings on his fingers.

Nicky, meanwhile, was a person of color, possibly Latino or Afro-american. He was slender, with warm, tanned skin, taller in stature, and had dark, thick curls and deep brown eyes. He wore a long-sleeved, striped shirt with an open collar.

Nicky laughed. 

“Doesn’t look like it, huh? I take after mi mamá. My dad ‘rescued’ her from Mexico on some missionary trip.” He pulled a theatrical grimace, rolling his eyes, then jerked his thumb at the others. “You already know those two, right? Andrew and Kevin? Their faces are plastered everywhere.

Neil gave a short nod.

“Coach is still stuck in some meeting. Probably about pointless crap, like why we haven’t announced Gordon’s backup yet. Anyway, until then, you’re stuck with us.”

Nicky kept chatting, animated, as they crossed the lobby. It was stark and sterile, white walls, linoleum floors, a high ceiling, orange beanbags scattered around, pamphlets piled on glass tables.

Kevin wore a scowl when he finally spoke. His cadence was stiff, nothing like the charm he put on for cameras or the warmth he showed fans.

 “How about a tour?”

“Sure.”

“This is our entrance.” Nicky pointed to the keypad on the wall. “Code changes every two months. Right now it’s 0508. May and August. Coach’s birthday and Abby’s.”

Neil didn’t reply. He didn’t know Abby, and he couldn’t care less about such trivia.

“Abby’s our medic,” Nicky supplied. “You’ve heard about Wymack’s injury, right? She worked on his rehab team, and he landed her a job here. The team’s split. Half thinks they’re sleeping together, half doesn’t. Andrew refuses to vote, so you’ll have to break the tie. We need your answer ASAP. I’ve got money riding on this…”

“Neil will meet Abby at dinner,” Kevin cut in, punching in the code and turning the handle. “Let him breathe, Nicky.”

Nicky shrugged. “Well, aren’t we sweet today, Your Grace.”

Without turning around, Kevin lifted his middle finger.

 “Go fuck yourself, Nicky.”

“Is it hard playing with him?” Neil asked in a low voice. “I mean… because he’s a champion?”

“Technically we haven’t played with him yet,” Nicky corrected. “He only started training with us last month. But if his attitude as a teammate is anything like it is as an assistant coach, you’d better prepare for the worst year of your life.” Despite the ominous words, Nicky sounded amused. “Still worth it, though.”

Kevin’s shoulders stiffened. 

“It’s really gratifying to know how highly you think of me.”

The first restricted area was a lounge with two couches and three armchairs in a semicircle. On the left wall hung an official photo board of all the players; on the right, a messy collage of snapshots and cut-outs taped wherever there was space.

“Renée’s idea,” Nicky explained, gesturing toward the wall. “That board was her thing.”

“Who?”

“Renée Walker. She’s on the women’s team, but she’s out injured, so for now she’s helping us. Best person alive. Be nice to her.”

Neil raised an eyebrow. “Or what?”

“Andrew likes her. She’s his girl, right?”

Neil’s head turned before he could stop himself. Andrew walked a few steps ahead, indifferent, unreactive.

“Let’s go,” Kevin said.

Neil followed him through the lounge into a hallway. The first door bore a plaque: David Wymack. His office, Neil guessed. Farther down, a white door marked with a red cross had to be the infirmary. Kevin pushed open the next one just enough for Neil to glimpse glossy orange lockers and benches lined up on pale tiles. Neil’s chest tightened with the urge to step inside, to take in every detail.

“The locker room,” Kevin explained flatly, then kept walking.

The corridor ended in a larger space Neil half-recognized, probably from press photos. This was where the Foxes met with reporters after games. Orange benches were scattered across the room, but Neil’s eyes went straight to the massive double doors at the far end, painted in the same blazing orange as the team’s uniforms. Insulated doors. Which meant only one thing.

Ice.

All these rooms were just detours. What he wanted lay beyond.

“Dying to see the rink?”

“Can we?”

Kevin only flicked his hand in permission. 

Neil let him push the doors open first. Darkness. The ceiling vanished into shadow, but the towering concrete walls gave it away, they’d arrived. Neil stepped forward, counting his steps. Ten in, and he was sure. They were in the arena.

“You’ll see Foxhole Court at its peak,” Nicky said behind him. “With Kevin here, we got enough money to redo the walls and floors. Best it’s looked since opening day.”

The faint spill of light from the press room reached only a few feet. The rest was all shadow and outline, but Neil didn’t need sight to know. The smell of ice filled his lungs. He closed his eyes and imagined referees and cheerleaders, benches lined with players, glass panels ringing the rink and throwing back the floodlights. He couldn’t see a thing yet, but his heart still kicked hard, because he knew what was waiting just ahead.

“Lights!” Aaron shouted from somewhere behind.

First came the low buzz of electricity. Then, one by one, the lamps snapped on in a ripple effect — emergency strips at Neil’s feet, climbing higher until the entire arena flared awake. The sight punched the air right out of him. Tier after tier of orange-and-white seats rose into the rafters, and the rink stretched wide and gleaming under the floodlights.

Neil didn’t even realize he was moving until he found himself at the glass. He pressed both palms to the cold plexi, eyes tracking up to the hanging scoreboards, then back down to the ice. He wanted his skates on now. Even the markings — defense, midfield, attack — were painted in Foxes orange.

It was flawless. It was terrifying.

How could someone like him ever play here? 

How had he nearly lived an entire life without playing here?

 How had he almost given it all up — for something as fragile and disposable as his own life?

He drew a long breath and closed his eyes, trying to imagine the thud of colliding bodies, the muffled staccato of the announcer’s voice, the deafening roar of the crowd when the ball crossed the goal line. He knew he wasn’t good enough — God, he knew that — but the need to be here burned so deep it hurt.

For three and a half weeks, it would just be the five of them. In August, the full team would return for summer training. By October, the season would begin. Neil opened his eyes again and looked at the rink. Yes. He’d made the right choice. The risks didn’t matter. This — everything about this — was worth the consequences.

In the end, Aaron had been right.

He was willing to bleed for it. He might even die for it.

He needed to play on that ice. He needed to hear the crowd scream so loud the walls shook. He needed the scent of sweat mingling with overpriced food, the blare of the horn when the ball struck home, the red lights exploding overhead.

“Oh. I see” Nicky said, leaning casually against the wall beside him. “No wonder he picked you.”

Neil turned his head, confused, though his thoughts were still racing like a stopwatch in freefall. Kevin stood at Nicky’s other side, smiling like he’d just won a championship.

“Get him his gear. Now.”

Andrew — silent all day until then — and Nicky led Neil back to the locker room. Neil didn’t bother trying to decode Andrew’s silence. Whether it was shyness, disdain, or cold calculation. More likely he was deciding if Neil posed a threat to the fragile ecosystem he kept in balance.

The locker room was exactly what Neil had glimpsed through the cracked door earlier. Spacious, clean, lockers neatly marked with numbers and names. At the far end, he spotted sinks and assumed the showers were beyond. But nothing drew his attention like the locker with his name.

JOSTEN #10

Wymack and Hernandez had spent weeks hammering out the details of his equipment. Still, no conversation could prepare someone for the weight of seeing it all laid out. Full practice kits, a home uniform, an away uniform, neatly stacked protective gear, a chest guard taking up most of the space, and on the top shelf, a helmet.

Beneath it, wrapped in plastic, something orange caught his eye. Neil tugged it free with care. A hoodie, brighter than anything he’d ever owned. Across the back, stitched in white letters, were Foxes and Josten.

“You could spot this from space,” he muttered.

“Dan’s idea — the women’s team captain. She’s Boyd’s girlfriend. Means they won’t be able to ignore you. They won’t be able to ignore us. People like us? They want to pretend we don’t exist, like we’re some problem someone else will eventually fix. But they don’t get it, so they don’t even know where to start. They get overwhelmed and quit before they try.”  The shadow that had flickered across Nicky’s face vanished, replaced by a small, easy smile. “Did you know we donate part of ticket sales to charity? That’s why ours cost more than any other team’s. Renée’s idea. I told you she’s worth her weight in gold.”

He stepped away to grab his own gear, and Neil picked what he needed before heading to a stall. Changing felt strange, but familiar. At least the Foxes had individual stalls with doors. He strapped on shoulder and chest pads, twisted to check the fit, then pulled the jersey over everything.

Just as he was about to unlock the door, he heard Nicky speaking in heavy, American-accented German.

“Wann werdet ihr wechseln?”

When are you switching back?

Chapter Text

“Wann werdet ihr wechseln?”

When are you switching back?

How did they know he understood German?

German was Neil’s second language. Before Minnesota — before his father’s trial — there had been Vienna, then Switzerland. Months spent running. Months he’d rather forget. Everything he remembered from that time was cold. And terrifying.

The metallic taste of blood was only in his imagination — he knew that — but it still clung to the back of his throat. His pulse pounded in every vein.

How did they know he understood German?

For one reckless second, he considered bolting. Relief crashed over him when he realized — thank God — they weren’t talking to him at all. They were talking about him. Behind his back. And they didn’t want him to understand. Disrespectful, sure. But not dangerous. The danger was in the trick itself — and the fact that he’d fallen for it. He was getting too comfortable. His mother would’ve slapped him for that.

“You need to switch back before Coach gets here,” Nicky said.

“You think I don’t know? He’ll kill us if he finds out,” Aaron replied in a grotesque German, rolling his r’s with a Boston twang — makes sense, the twins are Bostonian

“I don’t get Andrew’s plan. Why pretend to be you? It’s not like the rookie knows any of you.”

“Andrew’s paranoid. He’s upscaling.” Aaron sighed. “Swears the rookie’s some kind of threat to our poor Raven King. Wanted to test the waters.”

“Did he even take his meds today?” Nicky asked, cautious.

“Wrong person. Kevin handles that, not me.”

Neil stayed frozen behind the stall door, listening hard. His heartbeat stuttered, uneven, already bracing to run. He pressed a palm over his mouth and bit down, willing himself to stay quiet.

A door opened, then closed. Footsteps echoed against the tiles.

“I don’t like people talking about me behind my back,” a raspy voice said — in German. Andrew.

Neither do I, Neil thought. And I like it even less when someone tries to fool me.

“Has he been in there long?” Andrew asked. Neil pictured those sharp eyes cutting across the room.

“No,” Aaron said — too fast.

“Whatever. Aaron, get your gear. You’re playing with the rookie.”

Neil pressed his forehead against the cold wood.

“Why? I need to study. The MCAT’s coming up.”

Andrew huffed. Neil heard fabric rustling — the subtle sounds of them changing.

“Because Kevin wants you two on the ice with him today.”

“Since when do we do what Kevin wants?”

Neil exhaled slowly. He didn’t leave the stall until he was sure they were gone. Only then did he finish adjusting his pads, inspecting every piece of gear in meticulous silence. It was habit — check everything three times before stepping onto the ice. His mother had drilled it into him: be careful, think ahead, plan every move.

He considered Andrew’s motives, sifted through what he’d overheard, and began drafting a mental strategy for handling this spoiled psychopath project.

When he finally stepped out, Aaron was already there — the real Aaron, this time — holding a bucket of black pucks. Nicky balanced three sticks under one arm.

Kevin waited near the boards, arms crossed, expression unreadable. From a distance, he almost looked like Wymack. He didn’t speak as they strapped on helmets and gloves, just watched in silence while Aaron led the way onto the ice.

“Where’s Andrew?” Neil asked, adjusting his helmet and snapping in his mouthguard.

“Probably unconscious somewhere,” Nicky said, amused. “He took a ton of meds. He’s about to lock up and reboot in pyscho mode.”

“You don’t think he’s already pyscho?” Neil asked, air-quoting with his gloved fingers. “He’s got that diagnosed… psychopathy thing, right? Like killing pets, wetting the bed?”

He glanced at Aaron, expecting a defense. Aaron offered none — just guided them to the center of the rink, a half-smile tugging at his lips, like he found Neil’s comment vaguely entertaining.

Neil figured he’d learn to tell them apart eventually. He’d already spotted a tiny mole beneath Andrew’s lower lip. He also suspected Aaron’s accent was heavier. Little clues. A human game of spot the difference.

“Andrew had a rough childhood,” Nicky said, tilting his head as he handed Neil a stick. “He’s not insane — just sick. And heartless, maybe.”

Neil considered saying something to argue — but he had an unfortunate talent for thinking of inconvenient counterpoints. He decided to let it slide as the ice gave under his blades. The sensation was addictive — each glide a reminder of why he was here. He matched Nicky’s rhythm, spinning the stick between his fingers, testing its weight.

“Why doesn’t Kevin play?” Neil asked, glancing at Nicky as they skated side by side.

“Because he only plays when Andrew does,” Nicky replied, shrugging. “And Andrew usually doesn’t want to. But now he can’t, you know… because of the meds.”

Neil’s mouth fell open. How arrogant. How codependent. Kevin only plays if Andrew is on the ice? As if Andrew were the only one worthy, as if Kevin were untouchable by mere mortals. Of course, he had been. Kevin had been the best — Neil knew it. He knew every detail of Kevin’s career, his shots, his stats. Kevin wasn’t just strong or tall like the defenders; he was smart, quick, technical, with vision that made it seem like he saw three moves ahead. If there was a way to get the puck in the net, Kevin would find it. He had said as much in an old interview after winning the state championship in high school: always be three moves ahead.

But this was a different Kevin now. A left-handed Kevin. A version who existed before breaking his hand.

“Kevin can’t really play anymore, can he?” Neil asked quietly, almost to himself. “I heard it’d be a miracle if he could even hold a stick again.”

“You heard right,” Nicky said, eyes flicking toward the far boards. “He’s not the same. Fast? Sure. Smart? Still. But the hand… it’s not Kevin anymore. At least, not the Kevin you read about. His left hand’s basically useless. But he’s going right-handed from now on.  ”

“What?” Neil froze, staring at him.

Nicky’s grin was self-satisfied.

“No wonder they call him a stubborn genius.”

“It’s not genius,” Aaron said flatly. “It’s stubbornness.”

“That too. Can’t wait to see Riko’s face when he watches our first game. That asshole.”

Kevin slapped the wall of the technical area, demanding they move.

“We’re doing this on our time off, remember?” Nicky yelled back.

Neil raised his stick. “Thanks,” he said, even though he knew everyone here was only playing out of obligation.

But the truth was, he didn’t care. Adrenaline roared through his veins until everything else fell away — Andrew forcing Aaron to play, Kevin looming like an executioner, Nicky’s constant chatter. None of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was the ice.

“Tell me about you, Neil,” Nicky said, circling him.

Neil shifted uneasily under her gaze. He knew what Nicky wanted. He didn’t do this. He didn’t exist the way Nicky imagined.

“What do you mean?” he muttered.

“Come on. Your childhood. Your favorite movie. Book. Food. Anything,” he pressed, eyes bright with curiosity.

Neil knew. He knew none of it mattered. Well, he could answer a few of these questions—didn’t have to get weird about it.

“Never really watched movies. Too many moves.”

“Favorite book?” Nicky tried.

Neil paused, briefly considering how these innocent questions might make him reveal more than he wanted. Was he giving too much leeway for the next ones?

“The Old Man and the Sea,” he said. True.

“Food?”

“Spaghetti,” he lied. He could’ve said the seafood stew his mom made on special occasions, but he liked lying to Nicky, and somehow it felt too personal to talk about his mother.

“When’s your birthday?”

Neil wondered when Nicky would finally put in his mouthguard and shut up.

“March,” he lied again without blinking.

“Already passed. What did your girlfriend get you?”

Neil frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Come on. With a face like that, you must have a girlfriend. Or boyfriend. In that case, better tell me now so I don’t waste time guessing.”

“What difference does it make?” Neil shot back.

“I’m curious,” Nicky said.

“He means nosy,” Aaron muttered.

“I don’t swing either way,” Neil said. “Can we get on with this?”

“Bullshit,” Nicky said.

“I don’t,” Neil repeated, impatience edging his voice. It wasn’t quite the truth, but it was close enough. “Can we play or not?”

“Nicky,” Aaron said, eyebrow raised. “Why does he sound like Kevin Day?”

It wasn’t a real game, not even proper practice — just passing drills and speed work. Still, Neil’s body responded instinctively. Every push of his legs sent adrenaline crackling up his spine. Every puck contact was a hit of serotonin. 

He couldn’t help thinking about the entropy of it all — the friction under his skates, the sharp crack of sticks against ice, the cold air pushing against his face.

“Off the ice. Now!” Wymack’s voice boomed across the arena. “Now!”

Neil ground to a stop, skates squealing. Aaron snapped out his mouthguard with a click and sighed, resting his stick on his shoulder.

“What’s up, Coach?” he called without turning.

“Do you have any idea how much I hate finding you all out here off the clock?” Wymack barked from the rink’s edge, eyes blazing beneath his frayed cap. “Practice starts Monday. I don’t need you breaking Josten before then! And you—” he jabbed a finger at Neil like he was the centerpiece of some disaster — “you’re spending three weeks with these idiots. Don’t let them turn you into one of them. I’ve seen enough Minyardization in Kevin already.”

“Sorry, Coach,” Neil said, though he didn’t mean it. He stepped off the ice beside Nicky and Aaron, who looked far more used to these tirades.

Kevin waited near the bench, scowling, hair even messier than before — probably from running his hands through it while he watched.

“Glad you survived,” he said sourly. “Thought Nicky would’ve killed you with the way you drive.”

Neil shot him a sidelong glance.

“I’ve survived worse.”

“There’s nothing worse than that car,” Wymack muttered. “Your only choice was an open or closed coffin.”

“Hey, hey,” Nicky protested. “That’s unfair.”

“Life’s not fair, grow up. Deal with it,” Wymack said, ticking points off on his fingers. “Now, a few words. One — Nicky, when I said ‘show the rookie the rink,’ I meant show him. Not a scrimmage. A tour. Walk, point, frown. Two — remember our little talk about not killing Neil or converting him into whatever cult you’re running. Three — get out of here. Got that, Kevin? No practice until Monday.”

He paused, scanning the group. “And finally… where the fuck is Andrew?”

The silence was almost comedic. Kevin stared at the floor. Aaron shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Here.”

Andrew strolled in from the hallway like he’d been there all along — loose shoulders, a manic grin, eyes sweeping lazily over the room before landing on Neil.

“Leaving,” he said. “You coming?”

Neil blinked. The automatic answer was no, but he swallowed it. Not like he really had a choice.

“Where are you going?” Wymack asked, suspicious.

“Seriously, Coach,” Nicky said, raising an eyebrow. “What kind of people do you think we are?”

“You want me to answer that?”

“Heading home,” Aaron summarized, already walking toward the exit.

“Okay, then, get out of here,” Wymack grumbled, snapping his fingers.

Andrew was the first down the corridor. Kevin and Aaron followed. When Nicky moved to leave, Wymack stopped him.

“Don’t you dare traumatize Neil on the first day.”

Nicky glanced between them, a half-smile curling his lips. “Neil’s not traumatized, right?”

Neil took a slow breath, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “Not yet.”

We Need Talk About Andrew Minyard

College hockey rarely makes the headlines — not because it lacks excitement, but because professional leagues usually dominate the conversation. Yet every so often, a player appears who demands attention. This year, that player is Andrew Minyard.

The nineteen-year-old freshman, recruited by Coach David Wymack for the McGregor-Weston Foxes, has become the name everyone whispers about. Wherever he goes, whispers follow — along with controversy and rumor.

By all technical measures, Minyard is a remarkable goaltender. The statistics are undeniable. His reflexes are lightning-fast, his timing almost preternatural, and his composure under pressure could unsettle even seasoned NHL veterans. Talent like his is rare. But it’s not just talent keeping his name trending on message boards, sports blogs, and late-night radio shows.

It’s everything else.

“Everything else” includes a criminal record the university would prefer remained buried: charges of contempt, assault, drug possession, theft, and a sealed juvenile restraining order. Persistent — though unconfirmed — reports also suggest Minyard has been diagnosed with a psychiatric condition. Add his prickly hostility toward reporters and impassive demeanor both on and off the ice, and the picture grows murkier. Who, exactly, is Andrew Minyard?

Since as his recruitment was announced, theories flooded the conversation. Sources close to the program claim Minyard displays traits consistent with Antisocial Personality Disorder (ASPD), a condition often sensationalized as “psychopathy.” Experts, however, are quick to clarify: in moderate forms, ASPD does not necessarily imply violence. More often, it manifests as difficulty forming attachments, emotional detachment, and impulsivity — behaviors that look far less cinematic than Hollywood stereotypes.

No official diagnosis has been confirmed. What is confirmed: Minyard plays under strict medical supervision, with clearance to compete while taking prescribed medication. It’s not unprecedented — many athletes manage mental health conditions at the highest levels, provided they follow protocol.

Even so, Wymack’s decision to put Minyard in net raises uncomfortable questions. . Hockey is a brutal, high-speed sport. In a sport contested on steel blades, how much risk is acceptable? How far does Wymack’s rehabilitation project go?

First it was players from abusive homes. Then, recovering addicts. Now, some say, a psychopath. What comes next — a mafia member? An FBI most wanted?

The question looming over McGregor-Weston hockey isn’t just athletic — it’s ethical: Does everyone deserve a second chance?

Andrew Minyard’s future remains uncertain. He could become one of the most brilliant goaltenders of his generation — or a cautionary tale.

For now, all eyes are on the Foxes’ net. And as the season unfolds, only time will tell.

Also read:

• Tetsuji Moriyama denies Minyard rumors – The Edgar Allen Ravens coach denies he ever considered recruiting Andrew Minyard for his “perfect court”
• A new face for the perfect court – Jean Moreau, French prodigy and Tetsuji Moriyama’s protege, joins the team as number three alongside Riko Moriyama and Kevin Day
• Jeremy Knox and the NHL – Could Jeremy Knox make it to the NHL despite persistent rumors about his sexuality?