“First game back. Gotta remind these assholes I exist,” I said.
Third period. The Oilers were pushing like madmen. I intercepted a cross-ice pass at the slot, body low. Their winger tried to force me out. I hit him shoulder-first, turned, and grabbed the puck. Launched it up to Shawn.
Shawn flicked to Grayson, who flicked it to Mason, who dodged one, two, three hits, and ripped a wrist shot from the face-off dot. The goalie dove, paddle spread, but the puck slipped under his glove. Surge 3, Oilers 1.
Frost Bank felt like it was shaking right down to its foundation. I skated back, legs buzzing, shoulders burning from hits taken and handed out.
And then there were three forwards collapsing the slot. I angled, checked, twisted. One hit into the boards, another shoulder meeting me at the crease. I didn’t budge. I leaned into the contact, took control, and poked the puck free. Hunter slid in for the cover.
Final minutes. Oilers desperate, slamming into everything, trying to get even one more. But we kept them at bay, and didn’t even care that they did the same to us. It was enough.
Whistle blew. Game over. Surge 3, Oilers 1.
I skated toward the bench, chest heaving.
“Talk about a comeback.” Coach slapped my back as I left the ice. “Good to have you back, Bouchard. Not sure who to congratulate… you or Hopper.”
“The answer’s me.” Hopper appeared, wearing a wide smile. But the way she tilted her head when she looked at me made my gut roll over itself a few times. “I thought we agreed to take it easy for your first game.”
I shrugged. “I’m fine. For real. You can check me out and see for yourself.”
Her eyes narrowed, but the rest of her interrogation was stalled when the team passed through. Hunter put both his hands on my back and pushed me ahead of him.
“Enough talk,” he said. “It’s time to celebrate.”
I managed one last glance at Reese over my shoulder, and she waved me off. We both knew there’d be time for our own personal celebration anyway.
25
Reese
Mason sat on the bench with his leg stretched out, knee already blotched from where I’d pressed too hard the last time. I had his report open on my phone and my hands on him, thumbs testing the edge of swelling he kept pretending wasn’t there.
“What is it with you guys and blatantly ignoring what your body’s telling you?” I pushed down and watched him wince. “I don’t think a more stubborn bunch of people exist on the planet.”
He tipped his head back against the lockers. “It’s the Finals. What do you expect?”
“Cartilage doesn’t give a shit about finals.”
He scoffed, and tried to pull his leg away. I held it where it was and leaned in until he stopped fighting me.
“Game’s about to start,” he said.
“I have the power to pull you from it if you keep this up.”
That changed his tune pretty quick, and he became a well-behaved athlete for the rest of the taping.
Someone laughed, the music got turned up. The locker room held that pre-game edge where everyone was moving around atthe same time, but doing something different. Nobody able to stop and take a breath for five seconds.
Which meant I couldn’t stop and take a breath.
Theo cut past us in full gear, the sight of him causing my brain to stutter.
“Hey,” I called after him.
He kept going.
“Theo.”
