I steal a puck. Spin past a defender. Pass wide.
Bodies slam. Sticks clash.
“MOVE IT!” someone shouts.
I drive toward the zone. A defenseman clips me hard into the boards.
Pain flashes bright, sharp enough to sting, but when I glance toward the tunnel…
Annabelle flinches just slightly. It’s barely there.
But she felt it.
And something territorial and primal surges up in my chest.
Good.
Let her feel something.
Next shift, I break free again. Rip another shot that's clean, fast, and unforgiving, right into the net.
Goal!
The arena detonates.
My teammates swarm, slapping my helmet and yelling, but I’m already skating toward the glass where she now stands.
I don’t think. I don’t plan. I just move.
Three taps of my glove to the glass.
Directly at her.
Claiming something I have no right to claim.
Luckily the cameras didn't find her, but I did.
Her cheeks are pink. Her mouth tense. Her eyes furious.
I smirk.
Of course she hates it.
Which means she felt it.
But the game isn’t over.
Coach sends the next line out and hollers, “THAT’S THE WAY TO DO IT, BLACKHORN! SHOW ’EM THEY’RE JUST PAYING RENT OUT HERE!” The crowd is still roaring from the goal as the puck drops again.
The other team answers and crashes our zone hard. Their winger fires a shot and it slips past Eli's glove, pinging the post and sliding in. The crowd groans while their bench erupts like they just won the lottery.
Shit.
Back on the ice, Colby breaks past a defender, toe-dragging the puck like he’s performing magic. Dex trails him, hungry for a rebound.
The opposing goalie drops low.
Colby shoots.
