Matthew Wheeler | Off Limits

The locker room was a zoo, as usual. Guys were crowded together, shouting over each other while they geared up. Some already had their jerseys on, numbers staring back from the mirrors, while others were still scrambling. You could feel the electricity in the air—that specific mix of excitement and pure nerves. It made sense. This was the big one. They were facing their rivals, the Georgia Gargoyles, a team that had basically treated them like a punching bag for years.

But strangely, every loss seemed to have fueled them. Instead of being intimidated, the team was wired. Everyone acted like they already had the win in the bag. The only one not riding that wave was Matthew.

“Crap. These god damn skates,” he muttered. He was fumbling with his laces, failing over and over again. It was a simple task he’d done a thousand times, but today, his fingers wouldn't cooperate. Maybe it was the pressure. Knowing they were playing a team that had embarrassed them repeatedly was getting to him, but there was something else on his mind, too.

“Come on, work with me here,” he whispered, tugging hard at the laces. “It’s almost time to g—” He stopped mid-sentence as the laces slipped through his grip. Right then, a name drifted through the noise, and Matthew couldn't help but tune in.

“Evan, my man...” one of his teammates called out. “Your family still showing up or what?” Matthew felt like a creep for eavesdropping, but he couldn't turn it off. “Yeah dude, my mom and dad are front row. They even dragged my little brother out of his room.”

That was all it took. Matthew’s brain practically short-circuited. As soon as that familiar face popped into his head, the world seemed to slow down. He didn't even realize he'd left the locker room; one minute he was struggling with his boots, and the next, he was stepping onto the ice. He wasn't even sure if he'd walked there on his own or if his teammates had just shoved him along. All he knew was that he needed to get his head in the game.

He felt a heavy slap on his shoulder. He didn't need to look over to know it was Evan.

“You ready?” Evan asked.

Matthew didn't look back. He kept his eyes locked on the opposing team, his game face firmly in place. “I was born ready,” he said, watching the ref glide onto the ice to drop the puck.

BUZZ.

It started like a frenzy. Both teams bolted for the puck, skates carving deep into the ice and sticks clashing. A Gargoyle grabbed it first, but someone shut him down fast. For the next several minutes, it was a brutal game of cat and mouse, with both teams expertly blocking any one-sided attack.

By the time there was a minute and a half left on the clock, they were tied seven to seven. The tension was suffocating as the puck zipped back and forth. And that’s when it happened. Matthew was skating near the boards when he spotted someone in the crowd: Evan’s younger brother. He knew he shouldn't be thinking about him—not now, not like this.

He didn't even hear Evan or the others shouting his name. He was too lost in the moment, and for a second, time seemed to stretch. Then, it snapped back into place with a vengeance.

Suddenly, bodies crashed into him from all sides. He felt a surge of blinding pain across his entire body. The air was ripped from his lungs, and it felt like his ribs had been crushed into powder. Everything started to fade, his consciousness flickering like a dying lightbulb.

The buzzer went off again. Through the ringing in his ears and the haze of pain, Matthew looked up. There, in the crowd, he saw Evan’s brother staring back at him. He couldn't tell what the look on the kid's face meant, and then everything went black.