Halfway through, Leander feeds me a perfect cross-ice pass. I see the net wide open, the goalie off balance. It should be easy.
Then something flashes in my head: Alaric’s smirk, the way he’d whisperedshow me firebefore pulling me under him. I flinch. The shot sails high.
The Pirates scoop it, break away. Their winger beats our D-man clean, goes top shelf. 3–0.
Phoenix’s whistle pierces the air. “Flint! Bench!”
I skate over, vision tunneling. He meets me halfway down the boards, fury barely contained.
“You’re tanking this game!”
“I’m fine,” I bite out.
“Bullshit! You’re not fine, you’re a liability!”
Something inside me snaps. “You think I don’t know that?”
He steps in closer, voice low. “I don’t care what’s eating you. You’re not taking the rest of us down with you. Sit. Down.”
I slam onto the bench so hard the boards shake. My gloves creak from how hard I’m gripping my stick. I stare out at the ice, watching the Wolves scramble to save my mess.
When my next shift comes, I shouldn’t take it. I know I shouldn’t. But when Phoenix’s back turns, I hop the boards.
If I can score one, maybe it’ll quiet the noise. Maybe it’ll fix something.
The puck comes loose near the blue line. I dive for it, desperate. I manage to knock it loose, scramble to my feet, and shove it toward the slot. My teammate’s there wide open. All I have to do is pass.
Instead, I shoot.
The puck slams into the goalie’s pads. Easy save.
Their defenseman shoves me after the whistle. “Nice job, hero.”
I shove back. Hard.
Gloves hit the ice. He swings first. I don’t hesitate. My fist connects with his jaw—once, twice—before the refs pile on top of us.
The penalty box door slams behind me. The crowd’s half cheering, half booing, all noise. Blood runs down my knuckles. Two minutes for roughing. Game misconduct for unsportsmanlike.
I can see Phoenix’s expression from across the rink—disbelief curdling into rage.
He doesn’t even yell when I skate past him after the ejection. He just says, “You’re done.”
Not for the night, for the week, maybe the season if I don’t get my shit together.
I strip off my gloves, my helmet, my pride.
From the tunnel, I watch the rest of the game unravel. The Wolves pull one back in the third, but it’s too little, too late. The Pirates seal it with an empty netter. 4–2.
Final buzzer. Loss.
Because of me.
The locker room after the game is dead quiet. Even the showers sound muted. I keep my head down, pretending to re-tape my stick while the others pack up.
No one says it out loud, but I can feel it—the distance growing. A few sideways glances. A muttered “unreal” from somewhere near the benches.
Eric passes behind me, muttering under his breath, “We had that game, man.”
