“Said he’ll be watching from his room,” Grayson replied, skating up beside me. Then the others were there too, tapping their sticks as they pulled me into a slow circle around the rink.
“For Shawn,” they started chanting in time to the beating of their sticks.
I joined in. “For Shawn.”
The ref blew the whistle for us to clear the zone, and I headed for the bench, tugging my helmet down, eyes flicking instinctively toward the stands. Nicole was in her usual spot, and beside her, far too close for my liking, was James.
He was taller than I expected. Dark hair, neat. The kind of guy who looked like he owned several expensive watches and never lost his keys. He leaned in to say something to her, and she smiled, polite, distracted. Not the full smile. Not the one she gave when she forgot herself.
“How’s that?” Mason asked, following my not-so-furtive daggers.
I turned away before I did something stupid. “Nothing. It’s game time.”
“Then let’s do it.” He clapped me once on the shoulder, practically shoving me onto the ice.
The puck dropped.
Utah won the opening faceoff and dumped it deep, immediately trying to set the tone. I chased it into the corner with their left winger on my hip. He tried to pin me, forearm up, shoulder grinding. I let him have it for half a second, then rolled off and slid the puck back to Tucker behind the net.
“Wheel,” I called.
He took off, smooth as ever, and I cut up ice instead of hanging back, pulling their defense with me. Grayson picked up the drop pass at the red line and carried it in clean.
The bench erupted and our fans shook the arena.
We didn’t score on that rush, but we hemmed them in for almost a full minute. Shots from the point, rebounds, Utah icing the puck just to catch a breath.
When I got back to the bench, Coach nudged me with his elbow. “See what happens when you don’t try to do it all yourself?”
I smirked. “I’m just easing them in, Coach. Giving them a shot to shine.”
The first goal came seven minutes in.
Utah tried to clear, and bobbled the puck at the blue line. I knocked it down with my glove, dropped it to my stick, and instead of winding up like I used to, I slid it laterally to Mason.
Their goalie bit on me. Mason ripped it far side.
Red light.
Crowd went insane.
1–0 Surge.
I skated past the bench, pointing at Mason. “That’s you.”
He grinned, breath fogging. “Keep feeding me like that and I’ll buy you dinner.”
Utah answered back the way grinding teams always did. A greasy net-front scramble. Hunter made the first save, then the second, then someone jammed it under his pad.
1–1.
I coasted to center ice for the faceoff, jaw tight. These fuckers weren’t going to do this to me tonight. Not with James-asshole-Resident in the stands.
Grayson leaned in. “Next one’s ours.”
Second shift after the goal, Utah tried to run me along the boards. Their defenseman caught me high, shoulder to chest. Old me would’ve dropped gloves or taken a retaliatory penalty.
Instead, I kept my feet, chipped the puck ahead, and chased.
