My stick cracks against the ice as I take a shot on goal. It goes wide.
“Save some of that aggression for the game, Patty,” Jacob says while skating past, and I roll my eyes without breaking stride.
By the time we take the ice to start, my blood is pumping. We win the opening face-off, and Callan sends the puck back to Mason, who fires it up the boards. I chase it down with mymuscles burning as I cut around Mason. When Hunter gets open on my left, I hesitate a half-second too long, and the pass gets picked off. Their center takes it the other way, and we’re stuck scrambling back on defense.
The first period is a disaster. Not for the team, but for me. I’m playing angry, which usually benefits me, but tonight, I’m being too fucking sloppy. I’m a half-second late on passes, taking shots I shouldn’t, checking guys harder than necessary, and drawing warnings from the refs.
We’re up 1 to 0, thanks to a goal from Wyatt, but I’ve contributed nothing.
Every time I touch the puck, I hear her voice in my head.“How about you not suck tonight on the ice and actually win the damn game?”
If she cared about what this team needed, she’d get the fuck out of the city.
During the TV time-out, Callan moves beside me without saying a word. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay or tell me to get my head right. He stands there, watching the Jumbotron replay Wyatt’s goal while letting the silence stretch between us.
“I’m fine,” I say, even though he didn’t ask.
“Never said you weren’t.”
“You were thinking it.”
He shrugs. “The only thing I was thinking about was that Wyatt’s form on that shot was garbage, and he still scored. How?”
I snort.
“Whatever’s eating at you,” Callan says, “use it. Don’t let it use you. You’re in control of this.”
He skates away before I can respond.
The second period starts, and I’m on the bench, watching the Falcons tie it up, 1 to 1. Coach is full of disappointment, but it’s mixed with expectation. We can turn it around. Every singleperson in this building knows what I’m capable of, and right now, I’m giving them half of that.
I scan the crowd—a habit I’ve developed over the years to check the energy of the arena. My eyes drift toward the section where my family and friends usually sit.
And I see her. Brown hair, sitting in the stands, with her eyes fixed on the ice.
The anger doesn’t disappear, but it focuses into an emotion I can use. If she’s here to watch me fail, I’ll make damn sure she leaves wrong. If she wants a show, I’ll give her one she’ll never fucking forget.
Coach sends me back out, and I hit the ice with different energy. The sloppiness and desperation are gone. I’m reading the defense, anticipating passes before they happen, while finding the open lanes.
Coopers feeds me a cross-ice pass, and I don’t hesitate. I wind up and bury it in the top corner so fast that the goalie doesn’t even flinch. The red light flashes, and the crowd erupts as my teammates crash into me.
“There he is!” Smiley shouts while slapping my helmet. “Where has that been hiding?”
I shake off the celebration and glance toward the stands, searching for Kendall. I want to know if she watched me score. But when I find the spot where she was sitting, there’s a blonde woman in a Falcons jersey instead.
It’s not Kendall. Not even close.
I scan around, realizing I imagined her. It should throw me off, but it makes me angrier. She’s probably at home painting, not giving a single thought to this game or me, and yet I played the best shift because of her.
I’m so fucked.
I channel the frustration into the rest of the game. Hunter scores midway through the second to put us up 3 to 1, andJacob adds another early in the third after a beautiful assist from Callan. The Falcons manage one more, but it doesn’t matter because I bury two more goals in the final ten minutes to complete my first hat trick of the season.
The crowd loses its mind, throwing hats onto the ice as my teammates surround me. We win 5 to 2, and it’s not even close by the end.
In the locker room afterward, the energy is electric. Guys are shouting, and music is blasting, and Coopers has already popped a bottle of champagne even though we usually save that for playoff wins.
“Put that away,” Callan says, but he’s grinning. “We have a lot more work to do.”
