Theo nodded. “Got it.”
Second period opened as if it were a knife fight in a phone booth—tight, vicious, nowhere to hide. Corners turned into scrums, sticks cracked together, legs burned. Crestview got whistled for hooking Jax behind their net. Power play.
I won the faceoff clean and fed it back to Chase. He slid it across, tape to tape, smooth as if the puck was glued to his stick. Theo cut through the middle, drew two defenders, then kicked it out to my wing. I faked low and ripped it high. Off the bar, in. The ping rang in my skull. 2–1, us.
Their coach burned a timeout. Our bench buzzed with the fever of a hive. Student section roared, all noise and chaos, stomping the bleachers enough to shake the glass. I didn’t smile. Just breathed.
On my next change, as I glided past center, I let myself look. There she was—halfway up, one hand on the railing, light cutting her face into stripes through the shadows. Avery was beside her, screaming like a siren. Mila didn’t scream. She watched then shouted. Eyes locked on me. Steady. Fierce. Pressure and relief at the same time.
My chest went hot then calm. She lifted her chin a fraction. I did the same. Nothing crazy. Just enough. Then the whistle blew, and the world snapped back into motion.
They tied it late off a scramble our goalie never saw. 2–2. The crowd groaned, but our bench pounded sticks anyway.
Back on the bench, Coach pressed clipped words into our ears like bullets. “They’re gassed. You can see it. Stay disciplined. Don’t go fishing.” Across the ice, Mason leaned on the boards, helmet tipped back, smirking as though the whole game bent to him.
Theo leaned in. “You good?”
“Yep,” I muttered, barely audible.
Third period turned into hand-to-hand hockey. Every stride felt heavy. Every pass had to be fought for. Logan got a shift to give our other winger a breather—third line, desperate to prove himself. He sprinted behind their net and tried to stuff the puck in from the back side, no chance of it going in, but the scramble he caused bought us ten seconds of pressure we needed. He came off grinning as if he’d scored anyway. Coach barked after him to play smarter, but he didn’t tear into him. Not tonight.
Five minutes to go and it felt as though the whole rink had its hand at my throat in the best possible way.
Coach tapped our line. “Last push.”
Theo crouched for the faceoff. I lined up on his right. Jax rolled his shoulders, ready to break something. Behind us, Chase and our second defenseman dug their skates in, ready.
The puck dropped. Theo tied up his man then kicked it back with his skate so clean it appeared effortless. I collected, muscled through a shove, felt a stick tug at my hip, and shook it off. Boards to my right, open ice in front—but their defenseman stuck to me, hacking and leaning, body against body.
Jax cut across the lane and slowed just enough to block him off without drawing a whistle. Subtle. Brutal. I had half a heartbeat of space.
Half a heartbeat was all I needed.
I cut inside, faked high—same shot I’d buried twice tonight. Their goalie twitched, bit just enough. I dragged wider, opened my stick, and let it slide low, far side. Under his pad before he sealed.
Net. 3–2.
Sound detonated. Bleachers shook. Students hammered the glass. Jax slammed into me, yelling something I couldn’t hear. Theo smirked as though he’d seen it coming the whole time. I tapped gloves, helmet to helmet, let the surge carry me back to the bench.
Next shift, Mason lined up across from me. Crestview’s hammer. His grin was all teeth.
“Michigan coach’s here for me,” he taunted, just for me. “Not you. You’re a backup, King.” His eyes cut to the stands. “And your little distraction up there? Cute. Easy to spot.”
He wasn’t wrong. She was impossible to miss, and that scared me almost as much as it steadied me.
The words landed harder than the stick he jammed into my ribs right after. I shoved back. Sticks clashed, elbows, the scrape of cages. The whistle shrieked but too late. His glove raked across my helmet, and I answered with a punch to the chest that sent him stumbling.
Refs barreled in, wedging arms and skates between us, shoving us toward opposite ends. Crowd foamed, half chanting his name, half mine. The ref’s arm went up—roughing. Two minutes each.
I hit our box still hot, chest heaving. Across the ice, Mason sprawled in the opposite box, wearing that carve-on smirk like he’d gotten what he’d wanted. He leaned on the boards, jawing at me through the glass. Couldn’t hear him. But he got his point across.
Back on the ice, everything collapsed into survival shifts. They pulled their goalie, threw six attackers at us. Chase dropped in front of a shot that thudded against his thigh and still cleared it twenty feet. Theo scraped another faceoff win he had no business getting. I chased down a loose puck and thought about the empty net for one greedy second—then dumped it safe, Coach’s voice in my head:don’t be stupid.
The horn sounded, sharp and final. For a split second, nobody moved. Then arms shot up. Sticks hammered the ice. Somebody launched into me, and I staggered back, laughing breathless, helmet still on, sweat freezing at my neck. The game was over.
We lined up for the handshake line, and I played it straight. Glove taps, quick words, nothing personal. They’d pushed us. We gave it back. That was hockey.
Back to the locker room, everything hit loud again—steam, voices, showers hissing, the electric edge still snapping through my muscles.
