He laughed louder, and tapped the door a few times. “Maybe that’s a good thing. Huddle’s about to start, and you know Coach hates it when we make him wait.”
My shoulder throbbed from that stupid reflex flinch, and holding it still only made the ache crawl toward my neck. I bit through it, until I was sure his steps were moving away.
I sagged against the stall, not relieved so much as annoyed with myself. For almost getting caught, for lying to my best friend and teammate, for having to lie in the first place…
I had about ten seconds to pull on my gear, get back in there, and pretend nothing was wrong.
“Minnesota Wild, boys,” Coach was saying when I sauntered into the locker room. The guys were pretty much geared up, helmets in hands as they listened to him. I gave Hunter a miss, and took up a spot next to Grayson instead. “I don’t need to tell you what’s riding on tonight’s game. A win takes us to first place finish. Anything less, and the Oilers steal top spot.”
“Not on our watch, Coach,” Shawn barked, and hit his stick against the locker for emphasis. We backed him up with a resolute, collective “Fuck, yeah.”
Well, mine was maybe not as insistent, considering the creeping pain in my shoulder. But I wore the right mask so nobody would notice. I couldn’t tape myself up for shit, but the mask I had down. Not even Coach picked up on the sag when he looked my way.
“What do you say, Captain?”
I straightened, knowing all eyes were on Grayson beside me.
He punched a gloved fist into his open palm, sheer menace shining in his eyes. Like an Alpha wolf about to spring on its prey. “I say we close up shop on the number one spot.”
The guys went crazy, sticks banging, skates stomping. I tried my best to blend in with the camaraderie, but Reese was right, I was an idiot.
Grayson, the wolf with his pack, salivating for the hunt. And me, the pet ferret they let come along for the ride.
First period had me staggering. My lungs burned through every shift, and my damn shoulder buzzed like a live wire whenever I reached for anything. Minnesota had pressed hard from the drop, bodies slamming along the boards as they raced the puck up the ice with almost no objection. For a while, we were at loggerheads, giving and taking in equal parts. Until a messy first touch from a Minnesota winger sent the puck rebounding.
The fans were on their feet. Hollering. I made a point of scanning only the parts of the arena that weren’t near the players’ bench. Reese would be sitting there, likely studying my every move and calculating how badly I lied during the exam.She was cute as hell… when she wasn’t sniffing around my injury so much.
Mason swooped onto the free-for-all and carried it up the right wing, weaving past a defenseman, head down, intent. I stayed behind, ready to intercept if Minnesota got a sniff, but mostly just trying to keep my arm from stabbing me in the wrong direction.
Into the slot, Grayson was sticking close for a tight passing game, which he faked on the last, holding onto the puck while the defense rushed Mason. He pulled back, sending a slap shot straight for the sweet spot. Blocked. The crowd’s chants liftedthe roof, chasing us out of the dip and straight into buffering Minnesota’s counter.
A searing poker stabbed through my arm as I lunged to the right. Even then, it wasn’t good enough, and the attacker handled his way past me. I felt Coach’s eyes burning into the back of my head and refused to look. Just picked it back up, and went to cover the slot while Tucker blasted the poor guy in a three-foot carry that shook the boards.
Counter on the counter; surely this had to be it. Our guys were firing for the blue line, crisp passes between Shawn, Mason, and Grayson. The puck slipped left, Grayson pushing into the slot like his skates were on fire. With only a split second to set, he took the shot. We all watched it curve on its bullet trajectory, right into the goalie’s waiting glove.
“Fuuuck!” Every one of us felt Tucker’s frustration. This was the worst freeze-out we’d had all season.
Second period kicked off, and my shoulder wasn’t subtle about it. Reese had tried to corner me during the break, but enough of the guys were hurting to keep both her and van der Berg at bay.
Minnesota came out like blood-hungry sharks, skating with an ugly efficiency that made the first period feel like a warm-up in comparison. I tried to line up with a winger charging through the slot, but my arm didn’t like the trajectory. I pivoted to avoid the incoming body check. It was a reflex more than anything. Not wanting to risk another hit.
But that move left a lane gaping. And my backward parry was too little, too late. The guy ripped the puck past us, and forced Hunter to lunge. I waited for the puck to skitter off his pad, his glove, stick. Hell, I would’ve taken a deflection off his face.
It never came.
First blood for Minnesota. 1–0.
I bit down on my mouthguard and cursed the joint that wouldn’t do as it was told, while the roar of the away fans pressed into me like dead weight, intent on suffocating me.
We tried to settle back into our rhythm and keep our lanes in check, but that goal had Minnesota’s tails in the air. They fucked us up in response times, counter feeds, and just plain, old never backing down.
“We’re still in this,” Hunter said to me as I skated by. “Gotta keep it tight back here, and leave the rest to the guys.”
He’d been a good friend from the day I started with the team, and we’d only grown closer over the years. No way was he gonna come right out and tell me I was fucking up. That the first goal was all my fault, and I needed to clean up my act or ship out.
I couldn’t let him, or any of the others, down again.
Deep in the second, there was a break on the wing. I clenched my jaw and pushed to meet another forward barreling into our zone. Every cell in my body screamed to hesitate, to pull out. But how the fuck was I gonna do that now? I reached past the blinding pain that shot through my arm, overextended to the point where I was bent so low I could smell the metallic tang wafting off the ice.
