As we head to the bench, Reed drifts wide, then snaps his elbow into my ribs. Not subtle. Not accidental.
Air punches out of me. The ref’s whistle comes a half second too late.
“Cut it out,” Mason warns between shifts. “Before McCarthy benches both of you.”
“Tell your buddy to pass the puck,” Reed snaps.
“Tell yourself to grow up.”
The ref skates over. “You boys want the box this early?”
We separate, breathing hard. Reed grins behind his cage.
Between shifts, my eyes drag back to the stands without permission.
She’s watching. Focused. Trying to follow the play.
The crowd presses in around her, too close, and something sharp and protective flares in my chest. During a TV timeout, I signal Riley. He nods, murmurs to security. They give her space.
She doesn’t notice.
She’s watching the ice.
Watching me.
I should feel triumphant. This is what Isabelle wanted—proof, optics, progress.
Instead, I feel sick.
Second period.Tied 1–1.
Maine plays heavy—hooks, late hits, grinding us down. My ribs ache where Reed caught me. Sweat stings my eyes.
But my head is clear.
Next faceoff. Reed at center. Me on his right.
The puck drops. He edges the win, sends it back. I’m moving, cutting across the slot. The goalie shifts. A lane opens—brief, precise, already closing.
I take the pass in stride. Push past the defender’s reach.
Top corner.
Bar down.
Horn.
The crowd explodes—red and white and noise crashing over me. Gloves slam my helmet, sticks bang the boards.
Usually I’d grin. Milk it.
Not tonight.
I skate straight to the glass and find the friends-and-familysection.
She’s on her feet, hands over her mouth, my number stretched across her chest.
For one perfect second, everything else disappears. Isabelle. The bet. The lie built around her.
