Page 123 of Cut Off
I pick up the pen.
Outside, Dickens is doing what Dickens does, which is to be small, and pine-scented, and full of people who hugged meon the sidewalk. Somewhere across town, a nine-year-old in a Flash T-shirt is, possibly at this very moment, hearing from his father that he can see me in person this weekend. In another part of town live my parents, my sister, and one of my brothers. My other brother’s in Boise.
I don’t know what any of this is going to look like yet, but I have a pen in my hand and a man in a tie across a desk telling me yes.
I am, after five hundred miles of running, exactly where I’m supposed to be.
34
Fire on Ice
JONAH
The tunnel before puck drop feels like someone stuck a battery to my ribs.
Every guy in here is on edge. Traye’s chewing a mouth guard like it owes him money. The rookies are bouncing skates off tile, burning nervous energy. Somebody’s tried to hide the funk of old sweat with citrus body spray, but it only makes it worse. We wait for the anthem. Wait for the lights. Wait for the seconds to start sliding off the board.
First game of the Western Conference Finals, and I run my glove down my stick—one more time, for luck. The tape feels right tonight. Gloves broken in, boots laced down to the last fucking eyelet. I lean forward, elbows on knees, letting the noise of the arena bleed in around the edges.
Carter drops next to me and thuds a fist on my shinpad, saying nothing. Doesn’t have to. The look in his eyes is enough: whatever tonight takes, he’s all in.
Across the row, McDavid stares straight ahead. Helmet low, jaw flexing. He looks like a guy with something to finish, but rumor is he hasn’t slept in a week. Dylan gave birth totwins, and he’s been pulling the middle of the night feedings on off days. Nobody brings it up, because he’s Sawyer McDavid, and you do not fuck with the man’s home life, but it’s written in the set of his shoulders.
Coach runs us through the same pregame mantra. “Keep your head up. Move the puck. No hero plays.”
I nod. Tonight, I’m not interested in heroics. I want the win.
For once, the rest of it—the noise in my skull about Zoe, the swirl of regret and all the what-ifs—is background. Not gone, but quiet.
We line up for the walk.
Out there, the boards vibrate. The fans have packed every inch of the glass—somebody’s got a sign that literally says, “HOLT: HIT SOMEBODY.” I’d roll my eyes, but fair point.
I scan the arena. My eyes find them.
Third row, just left of the tunnel: Mom and Dad, sandwiched around Eli, who is wearing a replica jersey over a hoodie and has his nose almost pressed to the glass. He’s waving hard enough he might throw a shoulder out. Dad’s steadying him with one hand, but even the old man looks like he could break something.
Eli’s been back home for exactly two weeks, and I’m grateful for every minute we have together. Maddie’s stepped in as a great nanny, but she’s not Zoe, who’s back in Dickens, by the way, herZoe Knowspodcast now part of W2Beaver.
No one will ever be Zoe. I love her; I miss her, Eli too, and we want her in our lives. Today, I plan to do something about that.
The thought hypes me up even more.
The Seals pile out of the opposite tunnel. Seattle’s finest—or, depending on who you ask, the league’s biggest pricks. Their captain clocks me right away—dead-eyed, all business. Word is they’ve been chirping about running us out of the building. I believe it. I hope they try.
Anthem. Crowd noise. The ice lights up, blue and white, logos turning the surface into something electric. I don’t hear anything except the countdown in my own head.
Let’s do this.
First face-off, and the Seals send their top line.
I square up over the dot. The guy across from me is new this season, fast hands, dirtier mouth. He slaps at my stick before the puck’s even down. I don’t flinch. The referee drops it, and we’re live.
Chaos, right out of the gate.
They’re on us—hard. Zero respect. First shift, I eat a cross-check to the ribs so solid I see stars. Jenkins takes a run at a winger and bowls him into the stanchion. Boos rain down. The zebras whistle, throw Jenkins in the box for two. He gives the crowd double birds on the way, which only stokes them.
On the penalty kill, Carter’s a machine. He blocks a shot with his thigh, barely reacts. Clears the zone like it’s nothing. I get low, keep bodies out of the slot, take a stick to the wrist and don’t even bother barking at the ref. Not tonight.
