“It’s about to start,” Vinnie says.
“Yeah. I’m fine.” I nod too many times, then skate to the referee for the drop. My skates scrape against the Zamboniedice, like in the really bad horror movies from the 60s my brother loves, where they didn’t bother with a soundtrack.
The puck drops, black rubber on white ice, and I snap it to Finn.
I skate forward, cold air sharp in my lungs, relieved to have something to think about besides delicate facial features and a strong muscular frame. I receive Finn’s pass back, then I slam the puck behind me to my left without looking—and hear the snap of Enzo’s stick receiving it.
He passes to me. I pass back. The puck snaps between our sticks, tape to tape, the rhythm so fast I stop thinking and just move.
Enzo dekes around the last defender and slams it past the goalie. The horn blares. The arena erupts, eighteen thousand people surging to their feet, the roar washing over the ice like a wave.
Okay, would have been cool if I’d been the first person to score in this game, but I’m going to accept it.
The DJ playsThat’s Amore,leaning hard on Enzo’s Italian heritage, and some of the audience sing along.
He beams at me, flushed and bright-eyed. The DJ switches toI’m Shipping Up to Boston,and for a moment, I want to sweep Enzo into my arms like when we used to play for the Concord Cannons, but we don’t do that anymore.
Instead I raise my chin, and his face falls. He swerves away, like looking at me causes him pain.
A forward twice Enzo’s size barrels toward him. I open my mouth to shout a warning?—
Enzo doesn’t flinch. He drops his shoulder at the last second, uses the guy’s momentum to spin him into the boards, steals the puck, and is halfway down the ice before the forward hits the glass.
The crowd gasps. I forget to breathe.
He makes it look like physics bends for him. Like the ice is his and everyone else are intruders. He dashes toward me, and I’m there when he passes it, and I score.
I pass the puck back to Enzo, confident he’s on my heels.
I don’t need to check where he is. Every nerve in my body tells me his location constantly.
I pass to Enzo. He passes to me. We race down the ice, then turn around and do it over and over and over again.
My veins and nerves zing. I’m alive.
Enzo feeds me the puck at the perfect angle, and I one-time it into the upper corner. The goalie doesn’t even move.
The roar of the crowd vibrates through my chest, and I grin.
When I glance at Enzo, he’s beaming too, then he rearranges his expression into his now customary scowl.
A forward slams me into the boards. My shoulder screams, but I keep my grip on the puck and shove back. Enzo appears, snatches the puck and breaks away. Vinnie comes to scare off the forward, but Enzo passes the puck to Noah and attacks the guy himself.
I hear Coach shout my name.
Huh.
Did we miss the line change? Why is Noah on the ice?
I skate to the benches, then jump over the wall. Enzo follows.
I wipe sweat from my brow, careful to avoid looking at Enzo.
My legs burn. Sweat drips into my eyes. The arena lights are too bright, and the crowd is deafening, and I haven’t felt thisaliveon the ice in years.
“That was—” Coach pauses. He has a funny look on his face I don’t know how to interpret.
I raise an eyebrow. “See, we shouldn’t work together. I can go into defense.”
