The puck careened around the boards, past all the Maulers and several Grizzlies, to one lone player.
The Grizzlies centerman scooped up the puck, racing down the ice on a breakaway. The thunks of his stick drowned out everything as it bounced on the ice around the puck.
“Fuck he’s fast,” Joey said, and I nodded.
So fucking fast. And from out of nowhere. All the film on the kid, number twenty, showed some speed, but nothing explosive like this.
“What’s his name?”
“Eisen. Jordan Eisen,” Will said.
Eisen drove toward the goal. Our first line chased after him. Mercer, the fastest Mauler on the ice, closed in, but the kid had the jump on everyone. The only thing between him and the tying goal was Ryan Riordan. All I could do was stand and watch, praying that Riordan did what he does best: fill the net and stop the puck.
As if in slow motion, the lead the team worked so hard to maintain swirled down the fucking tubes. Eisen took the shot, the biscuit found the back of the basket as if Riordan wasn’t even in the building, much less the ice.
That goal turned the tide. The team rallied, but it was clear to see that the will to win was gone. The Grizzlies took control, and two more of their shots lit the lamp before the buzzer sounded.
TWENTY-TWO
AIDEN
As the buzzer sounded, I stood up, my momentum carrying me across the ice from the boards, coming to a stop in front of Ryan and the Mauler’s net. My stick, held tightly between my hands across my body, rose to rest on my shoulders.
Pandemonium seized the crowd and half the players on the ice. The players screamed, knocking into each other as they cheered and hugged. Their happiness drowned out by the fans in the stands who whirled towels above their heads and beat the acrylic dividers on top of the boards, cheering the win. Half the players on the benches hopped over the boards, surrounding the other half of the players celebrating on the ice.
Unfortunately, the colors of the towels and the uniforms weren’t the black my teammates and I wore. So, no, I wouldn’t be joining in the chaotic celebratory scrum at the other end of the ice. Instead, I stood next to Ryan, Trey, the Huston twins, and Ethan Rugger as we stared up at the scoreboard. My stick flexed across my shoulder pads. The numbers glowed and seemed to grow bigger and bigger the longer I looked at them.
Maulers: 1 Visitors: 3
We lost.
Our first home game, and we freaking lost. It was just an exhibition game, but I didn’t care. Every game mattered. Especially with my last shot at the draft nine months away.
I couldn’t even say what happened. Despite all the craziness between me, Trey, and the twins, the first line just clicked. All week, every practice, we found each other with ease as if we were speaking to each other telepathically. The twins were our defensemen. They did their thing and did it well, and Ryan Riordan stopped everything that came at him.
All freaking week.
Staring up at the scoreboard, emotion swarmed like a disturbed hive of bees. I couldn’t even tell you what emotions I felt.
“C’mon, Mercer, we gotta line up.”
I skated off to the end of the line, Trey Malachek at my side. The others on the first line followed along behind us. All of us looked like we shut our dicks in the card door.
“What the fuck happened?” Ryan mused.
“I sucked.”
Trey opened his mouth, and I knew what he would say before the words left his lips. “No ‘I’ in team, dude. None of us is solely responsible.”
His words rang true, but I couldn’t accept them. Trey might be captain, but I was the center forward.
“Get outta your head,” Trey muttered in my ear as the starting lineup for Boston came toward us. “There’ll be plenty of time for that shit in the locker room.”
Oh, god.
I groaned under my breath. The locker room. With Alex…
Crap.
