I hear it—I do—but it feels distant, like I’m underwater. My heart’s pounding, gloves soaked, every inch of me running hot and wild and jittery, but I can’t break formation. I can’t fuck this up.
Because the Hawks don’t make mistakes.
And if we do, even once, they’ll make us pay in blood and goals.
We hit the bench again—shift change—and I slump beside Cole, gasping for breath. I can feel Damian’s eyes on me from the far end of the bench, steady and burning, but I don’t look. I can’t. Not yet.
I clench my teeth, tap my stick twice against my skate—grit, focus, breathe.
Just one mistake,I think.One. And it’s over.
We’ve never faced a team like this.
Second period. Four minutes in we’re deep in the Hawks’ zone, puck moving fast between Cole and Mats, and for a second, it feels like we’ve got them, like maybe the wall’s cracking. I cut left, Cole cuts right. Shane’s pounding his stick at the far end. And then Tyler misses the read.
He’s floating too far up. Drifting toward the puck instead of watching the zone collapse behind us. Their winger sees it instantly—shifts, pivots, flies past.
The counterattack is lethal. One pass, two strides, and suddenly it’s a breakaway.
Shit. Shitshitshit.
I’m already moving, pivoting so hard it wrenches my knee, but I don’t think, I just skate.
Tyler’s yelling something behind me, but I tune it out. The ice is a blur under my blades, wind screaming in my helmet, heartbeat pounding. The Hawks forward is flying—lean, brutal. But I’m faster.
I have to be faster.
I’m not letting them score.
I reach him at the circle. Lunge with my stick out. He tries to shoot, fast wrist flick, low blocker side, but I’m already there, dragging my stick across the ice like a goddamn guillotine. The puck ricochets off the blade and skitters wide.
The crowd erupts.
Shane throws both arms up. Tyler skids into the crease, panting. The Hawks winger slams his stick against the glass, pissed.
I don’t celebrate. I’m too busy choking down the scream in my chest.
Coach is already yelling for a line change. I skate hard toward the bench, vision blurry, and collapse onto the seat beside Cole. My ribs feel like they’re cracking. My hands are shaking so bad I almost drop my stick.
Tyler slides in two seconds later, face white. “Fuck,” he gasps. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“Don’t talk,” I snap. I don’t mean to, but I’m wired. My blood is still boiling. He almost gave them the lead. One slip. One drift, and that could’ve been it.
Tyler looks like he wants to disappear. I press my glove to my forehead and force myself to breathe, counting it out in my head, one more period, just hold the line, just hold the fuckin line.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Damian watching me. Not Tyler. Me. And I know exactly what that look means: don’t lose your head, pup. Keep skating.
So I do.
Next shift, I don’t sit. I seethe.
The second my skates hit the ice, I’m already hunting. Vision narrowed. Blood screaming. The crowd’s a wall of red and black, stomping and howling. Somewhere up there, someone screams my name—I catch “I love you, Elias!” and another “Marry me!”—but it barely registers.
The Hawks are smirking.
I line up at center. The same prick from earlier locks eyes with me across the circle. Gold jersey. Too-perfect face. Stick twirling lazy in his hand. “Bet you choke,” he says.
I smile, wide and feral. “Bet you eat my fucking dust.”
