“You betrayed me.”
“We betrayed each other,” I seethed. “Everything on the line, and instead of working together, we fucking… What the fuck are we doing?”
He straightened, his face turning eerily stony in the semi-darkness of the bedroom. “I can’t answer for you, but I’m playing the most important game of my life. That’s what I’m doing. You should butt out and let me play it.”
“Do you hear yourself?” I whispered, voice raw. “This isn’t just a game. You’re risking your body, the season, your whole career.”
“You need to leave.”
I shook my head, tears stinging my eyes. “No. I won’t let you keep doing this. There’s too much on the line, and I care ab—”
“I said… leave.” He couldn’t even look at me.
I swallowed, voice cracking. “Fine.”
26
Theo
The boards rattled before my skates even found a groove.
Game 6, we led the series 3–2, and the Oilers came out like they’d been waiting years to hit something that could hit back. First shift, first contact, their winger drove through Tucker’s lane and sent him into the glass hard enough to draw a groan from our bench. I stepped in to seal the middle and caught an elbow high on my chest protector that knocked the air out of me sideways. The refs let it go. Message delivered.
I told myself to settle. Told my hands to calm down. The blocker in my system kept my shoulder quiet, almost polite, which only made everything else louder.
They pressed. Every touch contested. Every retrieval met with weight and teeth. Our breakout stalled twice in a row because their forecheck arrived early and stayed late. Hunter swallowed one shot clean and kicked the rebound to the corner where I tried to rim it out. My blade caught the dasher instead of the puck. It dribbled three feet and died. An Oiler pinched and fired. Hunter got a pad on it, but the rebound bounced straight into traffic.
“Tie him up,” Tucker called.
I leaned into their center and felt him lean back harder. We lost the puck again. Edmonton reset high and cycled. Shot from the point. Blocked. Another from the circle that Hunter snagged easily with his glove and held. Whistle. Their bench howled like they’d scored anyway.
On the draw, Grayson nudged my hip. “Breathe. We’ve got this.”
I nodded, though my lungs felt ahead of my head. I won the tie-up, kicked it back, and Shawn chipped it out just far enough to earn us a line change. Edmonton dumped it right back in.
Shift after shift, they leaned. They didn’t need pretty. They wanted grind and they were getting it. I went to reverse behind the net and hesitated, a half beat where my mind ran somewhere it didn’t belong. Their winger read it and clipped the puck off my stick. I recovered, got body on him, and jammed the puck free. Tucker cleared to center where it died again.
“Jesus, Bouchard,” Landon yelled from the bench. “Move it, move it, move it!”
I wanted to snap back. Instead, I skated on.
They got the first real chance off a mess. Three bodies went down in front of Hunter after a scramble at the top of the crease. I thought we’d swept it clear. I even turned up ice, exhaling relief.
But the puck slid out from under a skate and landed flat on an Oiler stick by some incredible twist of fate. He didn’t wind up, just snapped it short side while Hunter was still peering through legs.
Red light.
Our fans went quiet in a way that hurt worse than any noise they could’ve made. Oilers fans tucked in the corners lost their absolute minds.
Tucker slammed his stick once, ushering a string of choice curses that drove home the weight of that stupid goal. I stared at the netting, counting the knots.
“One goal,” Grayson said, calling us back to action. “Plenty of game left, guys. More than enough time.”
On the bench, Coach bellowed. “You two lost sight of it.”
“I had it,” I said.
“You thought you did,” Tucker replied with a shoulder-check as he skated by.
