I waited.I held my edge.I didn’t drop.
I watched his hips turn.He wasn’t shooting far side; he was trying to open me up for the near side.
I saw the real lane open glove side.
He released.
I pushed—a hard, explosive T-push across the crease.I snapped my glove hand out, tracking the puck all the way into the pocket.
Snap.
Clean.No rebound.I held the catch for a full second, proving possession.
“Better,” Harper muttered.Her approval measured.
We ran the drill until the Zamboni gate creaked.By the final rep, my calves quivered from holding the stance, and every heartbeat thudded against last night’s short sleep.
Doesn’t matter.Net still mine.
Locker room steam fogged every mirror.I peeled sweat-stiff undershirt, bruise on the shoulder blooming red-violet again.Ryan tossed a towel over the stall wall.
“You good, Monk?”he asked, voice muffled by his jersey half over his head.
“Fine.”Standard lie.I shoved the towel against the bruise like a mute button.
He dropped onto the bench, gear half off, energy still bouncing.“Coach was in murder-hobo mode.”
“Playoffs in three weeks,” I said.“Not murder, prep.”
“Prep with machetes.”Ryan bumped my knee.“Come to Buckman tonight?Team’s grabbing burgers.”
“Need to study.”
Ryan eyed me.“Study hall or Lovell private tutorial?”
“Study Hall.Grades don’t fix themselves.”
“Neither does fun.”He shoved my helmet into the cage bag for me.“Don’t let your brain gridlock, Carter.”
Easy for him to say.He hadn’t watched his dad couch-surf after one blown ACL.
Across the row, Javier snapped his tape roll shut.“Head in the crease tomorrow, Carter.Not in the spreadsheets.”
I met his stare.“Copy that.”
He nodded once—agreement or warning, impossible to tell—then left.
Ryan followed, humming off-key.I lingered, packing slow.Helmet, pads, glove.My phone buzzed in the stall shelf.
Austen:Should be in the room by 19:45.
My chest squeezed.Want flooded so quick it felt like weakness.
Me:Probably be back late—lift got extended.Keep options open?
Three gray dots blinked, then stopped.No reply.
Good.Space.
