Chapter 2 — The Ice Den

Josiah

The Ice Den loomed ahead, its weathered exterior standing like a monument to all the expectations I carried. The sides were streaked with rust where the snowmelt had run over the years, and the neon sign above the entrance buzzed faintly, the flickering "I" looking as uncertain as I felt. I shifted my hockey bag on my shoulder, its strap digging into my collarbone, and tried to steady my breathing. The sharp bite of winter air filled my lungs, but it did little to dull the knot of nerves tightening in my chest.

Hockey had always been my escape. My anchor. But now, standing in front of this rink, I felt less like I was returning to something familiar and more like I was wading into uncharted territory. If I couldn’t prove myself here, where hockey was everything, would I ever feel like I belonged anywhere?

Inside, the cold hit me immediately, sharper and more biting than the air outside. It smelled like ice and sweat and determination—a cocktail of sensations that was both familiar and intimidating. My boots squeaked against the wet rubber mats lining the floor, the sound echoing through the cavernous space with every step. I forced myself to look around, taking in the scene.

The ice stretched out before me like a canvas, painted with the blur of players in navy and gold jerseys skating drills with quick precision. Their blades carved into the surface with sharp, deliberate movements, the sound mingling with the low hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional bark of a coach’s orders. The entire place hummed with energy, a mix of history and intensity that pressed against my chest.

As I made my way toward the locker room, I caught glimpses of worn posters for past championship teams taped to the walls, their edges curling. I slowed for a moment, my fingers brushing one of the frames. A team photo from ten years ago stared back at me, the players grinning, their hands clutching a battered trophy. The nameplate beneath read “Evergreen Heights High—State Champs.” I wondered how many of these kids had grown up with this rink as their second home, how many of them had memories tied to its creaking beams and frosted windows. I wanted that. Not the trophies or titles, but the connection to something, anything, bigger than myself.

I passed the maintenance room beneath the bleachers, its door slightly ajar, revealing a sliver of dusty shelving inside. It looked unremarkable, but something about its quiet, hidden presence caught my attention before I turned back to my path.

The locker room was loud before I entered, a mix of chatter, laughter, and the clatter of gear being shuffled around. But as the door creaked open and I stepped inside, the noise faltered. A dozen pairs of eyes turned toward me, the weight of their stares immediate and sharp. My pulse quickened as I gripped the strap of my bag tighter, the fabric biting into my palm.

“New kid,” someone muttered just loud enough for me to hear. A smirk followed, passed like a secret among the others. Their ease—the casual way they slouched against the benches, already half in gear—only made my own movements feel stiffer, more awkward. The knot in my chest tightened.

I forced a smile, small and uncertain, and moved toward an empty bench. My fingers fumbled with the zipper of my bag, the smell of damp gear and deodorant filling the room. My hands shook slightly as I unzipped the bag, the need to blend in clashing with the overwhelming sense that I didn’t belong.

“Ellis, right?” A voice broke through the tension.

I glanced up, startled. A guy around my age was sitting a few feet away, his gear already on except for his helmet. His freckled face was open and friendly, his brown hair sticking out messily from under a backward cap. His knee pads tapped lightly against the bench as he leaned forward.

“Yeah,” I said, clearing my throat. “That’s me.”

“I’m Trevor.” He grinned, his voice warm and casual, like he wasn’t bothered by the stares around us. “You play center, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” I replied, caught off guard by his familiarity.

“Heard you’ve got some skills,” he said, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Guess we’ll see if you can keep up.”

I shrugged, trying to seem unfazed, though the compliment felt like a crack of light breaking through the tension. “Guess so.”

“Don’t worry about these guys.” Trevor gestured toward the others, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “They’ll warm up eventually. Probably. Just don’t sit too close to Parker—his skates reek.”

“Hey!” someone called from across the room. Trevor winked at me, and I couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped me.

For the first time since stepping into the rink, the knot in my chest loosened. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

But by the time I laced up my skates and stepped onto the ice, the nerves were back in full force. The rink felt bigger now, the cold air sharper against my face. Coach’s whistle pierced through the chatter, cutting into my thoughts.

“Alright, boys!” he shouted. “Line drills! Let’s see what you’re made of.”

I moved into formation, joining the others. My skates glided over the ice, the rhythm of the movements grounding me. The puck snapped against my stick as we began, the sound crisp and familiar. For a brief moment, the noise around me faded, replaced by the steady hum of focus. This was my element. This was where I felt most like myself.

And then I saw him.

Fox Ridley.

He was leaning against the boards, his helmet tucked under one arm, his dark blue eyes scanning the ice with sharp precision. His posture was relaxed, confident, but there was something in his gaze that sent a chill through me. His smirk was subtle but cutting, like a blade sharpened just enough to pierce.

Our eyes locked, and the weight of his stare hit me like the coldest slap of wind. My chest tightened, anger flaring unexpectedly. But beneath the anger, there was something else. Something raw and uninvited.

The air between us felt electric, like a live wire humming just beneath the surface. He didn’t break eye contact, and neither did I, though every instinct screamed at me to look away.

“Ellis!” Coach’s bark snapped me back to the present. “You waiting for an invitation? Move it!”

I tore my gaze from Fox and pushed off, my strides quick and deliberate. The drill was simple—puck handling, passing, sprints—but I threw myself into it with everything I had. Each turn, each push of my skates, felt like a battle against the knot in my chest. The cold burned in my lungs, but it was a welcome distraction.

As I rounded the corner during a passing drill, a blur of movement caught my attention. Fox cut in front of me, his shoulder brushing mine just enough to throw me off balance.

“Try to keep up, rookie,” he said, his voice low but venomous, the word “rookie” dripping with disdain.

I steadied myself, my grip tightening on my stick. “You cut me off,” I shot back, my tone steady despite the heat rising in my chest.

Fox raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening. “Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he said, skating away.

The words lingered, cutting deeper than they should have. My jaw clenched, but I forced myself to stay focused, pushing harder with each stride. The rest of practice was a blur, a mix of drills and Fox’s unrelenting presence like a shadow I couldn’t shake.

When Coach finally blew the whistle, my legs ached, and my chest felt tight. I skated off the ice, collapsing onto the bench in the locker room. Trevor slid in beside me, his grin as easy as ever.

“Not bad for your first day, Ellis,” he said. “You didn’t even trip. That’s more than I can say for most guys.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, my gaze flicking toward Fox, who was peeling off his gear with the same sharp precision he’d carried on the ice.

“Don’t mind him,” Trevor said, his voice quieter now. “Fox is… complicated.”

My jaw tightened. “Yeah, I noticed.”

Trevor hesitated, then clapped me on the shoulder. “You’ll figure it out. Or not. Either way, you’ll be fine.”

I didn’t feel fine.

As I dragged my bag out of the rink and into the biting cold, I glanced back at The Ice Den. The neon sign flickered against the dark, the “I” almost disappearing before buzzing back to life.

Fox Ridley might have been a complication, but I was here to prove I belonged. And I wasn’t about to let anyone take that from me.