With only a few minutes left in the third period, Parker drove past the Chargers’ blue line and streaked around the back of their net, his stick guiding the puck as though it was part of him. One moment he was behind the goalie, the next he was tucking the puck just inside the post. A perfect wraparound goal.
The arena erupted. My teammates cheered. And my heart filled with relief. The game was tied.
“And that’s how it’s done,” I said to my posts. Parker caught my gaze as he skated back to center ice and flashed me a cocky grin. It was no wonder he had such a big ego; he had the moves on the ice to back up every inch of it. I only wished I could stop myself from smiling back at him.
All we had to do now was score once more. But we were running out of time. And the Chargers had the exact same ambition. After a poor pass from Jansen to Owen, suddenly the Chargers had the puck. Their forward was thunderingtoward me like an out-of-control train. My eyes were on the puck as he drew close. I held my ground. He took aim and fired. The puck hit my blocker and dropped right in front of me. I’d made the save, but the puck landed in the perfect spot for a rebound. The Chargers player lunged. I dropped fast and my glove clamped down on the puck. The whistle blew and play stopped. I could breathe a little easier.
Wham.
A body collided with mine and I was thrown against the post. My head knocked hard against the metal, and I’d never been more grateful for my helmet. But then a knee jabbed my rib, and a stick was forced under my glove. The Chargers’ forward was scrambling for the puck as if it was still live.
“Get off me!” I snapped.
Then his leering face was hanging over mine. “If you can’t handle the heat, get off the ice.”
I didn’t have a chance to respond as he was yanked away. I pulled myself up, breathing hard. Everything hurt, but adrenaline propelled me forward. Seth was already squaring up to the guy.
“She can handle the heat just fine,” he shouted.
“Yeah, back off,” Owen added, shouldering in beside him.
But then Parker appeared, like an unexpected bolt of lightning. He grabbed the guy’s jersey and drove him into the boards. Their sticks clattered to the ice as the two of them grappled. Parker was out for blood. And he was too strong for the guy, despite their equally impressive heights. He practically lifted him off the ice and sent him sprawling to the ground.
Whistles blared. The refs rushed in. Every player on bothbenches was standing, and Owen and Seth dragged Parker off the guy before any other Chargers players decided to get involved. When the chaos settled, Parker was sent to the penalty box; two minutes for roughing. But the Chargers’ forward was only given a warning.
For a moment we all stared in stunned silence. Then the place exploded again. The crowd was booing. Several Devils players were protesting to the refs, and I could hear my dad yelling from the bench. I couldn’t believe they hadn’t penalized the Chargers player; had the refs forgotten he’d totally taken me out? Did they think it was an accident?
The refs refused to listen to our complaints, though, even when my dad pulled one of them aside to make his feelings clear.
I looked to the penalty box where Parker was sitting stone-faced, his jaw clenched. What had possessed him? There was no need to go after the player like that. And with less than two minutes left in the game, when we were still searching for a goal, it felt like any chance we had of winning was stuck in the box with him.
By the time play restarted, the atmosphere in the arena had shifted. Moments ago, we’d been celebrating a goal, and now we were shorthanded. I felt rattled, angry and hurt—both physically and mentally. And as much as I wanted to get my head back in the game, I was struggling. I wasn’t the only one. The whole team seemed on edge, more frantic, as we desperately tried to hold off a relentless onslaught from a fired-up Chargers team. Eventually, their extra player proved too much for us, and they scored the winning goal just before the final siren sounded.
Defeat rang through me, cold and hard. I’d done my best, but it still wasn’t enough. That was strike number two for me, and the look my dad gave me as I came off the ice only confirmed it. I needed to pull off something truly special in my last game if I wanted to stay on the team.
We gathered in the boys’ locker room to listen to my father’s post-game speech. He pretty much told us, in as many ways he could think of, how disappointed he was. But his most cutting criticisms were reserved for Parker.
“Your time in the penalty box cost us the game, Twelve, it’s as simple as that. You need to start thinking about the team, not your own personal battles. Scoring two goals doesn’t mean anything if you’re not there in the last two minutes when your teammates need you.”
Parker didn’t respond. He simply nodded, taking each verbal blow. He’d been on fire until the final minutes, and I knew my dad was being unfair.
The moment my dad left the room, Parker slammed his gloves down on the bench beside him. I was sure everyone felt like doing the same. The nightmare of suffering a third straight loss had become a reality. And my dad’s rant seemed to have shattered the little confidence my teammates had left.
“We’ll do better next game,” Owen said hopefully. “We’ve got the whole season ahead of us.”
Parker didn’t respond. His eyes lifted to meet mine, and as they connected, I knew exactly what he was thinking. We didn’t all have the whole season ahead of us. For some of us, there was only one game left.
Chapter 22Parker
“You guys lostagain?”
I woke to find Reed standing over me. I hadn’t realized he was coming home today, and the disappointment in his eyes was the last thing I wanted to see. Sometimes I wished Ryker was just a little bit further away.
“Nice to see you too, Reed.” I slowly pushed myself up. “What are you doing here so early?”
“Early? It’s eleven a.m.”
I groaned and rubbed a hand down my face. It had been a rough night. Sleep had eluded me as I replayed the loss repeatedly in my mind. The final score might have been closer than the previous games, but I was still far from happy with the way we played. Missed passes, poor line changes, no communication, no intensity. This wasn’t how the Ransom Devils were supposed to play. We’d been floundering long before the refs made that terrible call. But despite all that, I knew I was the one who’d cost the team because I’d left us shorthanded with two minutes to go.
