“Next time,” said August. He wanted to give him an excuse, but when he thought about it, his throat tightened. “Nice holding hands with you, Fraser.”
“It’s fucking Killinger,” Jett snapped, tearing his hand from August’s grip.
“I know you’re fucking Killinger.” August grinned and pushed toward his gathering teammates. “No need to talk about your sex life on the ice. We get it.”
Fraser’s angry sputtering got cut off by the call announcing the penalties, and August watched as Niko and Callahan stormed toward the gate. Callahan got in the bin, but Niko hurried down the chute with a curse that rang above the crowd.
When it was all sorted, the Bigfoots had to play four-on-four hockey with two of their best players gone, against a team that had Jett Fraser—Killinger.
Jett neededa cooldown, so August was called off the ice as soon as the puck dropped and the lines switched. Coach wanted him fresh for when Fraser was unleashed, which was the only real chance they had at holding their lead.
August downed water fast, his eyes never leaving the ice. He really needed to start remembering his teammates’ names, but the sharp pain behind his eye made thinking about anything other than the game impossible. It was both a curse and a blessing—one he was still learning to manage.
The Sunburst offence kept the Bigfoots pinned in their zone, but after a failed shot and a quick turnover, the shift changed again. The instant his teammate cleared the ice, August vaulted over the wall and hit the rink at full speed.
Jett was already moving, cutting across center ice with that effortless speed that made him so damn dangerous. August pivoted hard, digging his blades into the ice as he closed the gap, forcing Jett wide. The roar of the crowd swelled as they met at the blueline, sticks clashing in a burst of sound and motion.
For a moment, August thought he had him—thought the angle was perfect, and the timing was right. But Jett feinted left, slipped the puck between his skates, and was gone before August could recover.
“Shit—” August spun and gave chase, but Jett was already streaking toward the net. The defenceman tried to close him off, but Jett’s wrist flicked, and the puck sailed high.
Red light. Goal.
The crowd erupted with angry shouts and boos as Jett slowed, raising a glove in silent celebration. August coasted to a stop near the crease, chest heaving, and frustration simmering beneath the sweat and adrenaline.
He hated that Jett made it look that easy.
There were still thirty seconds on the clock, so August stayed out for the puck drop at center ice, taking position for Bradshaw as he went in for the face-off. If, by some miracle, August could get the puck and make a lightning-fast play, he could get that point back and set the tone for the second period.
Bradshaw lost the face-off, and August sulked for the last thirty seconds of the game as he went back on defence to protect their two-point lead. He stonewalled the Sunburst forward, who was trying to break past him, until the clock ran out of time.
The buzzer rang.
Endof the first.
Soaked with sweat and slightly fatigued, August left the ice to the sound of cheers from adoring fans, who waved at him like he was some kind of superhero.
He passed his gloves to the staff and removed his helmet, trying to alleviate the squeezing pain inside his head. It was impossible to dodge all the smacks and good-natured elbows from his teammates as he put his stick down and hit the locker room to take a goddamn break.
“Here he is!” Callahan shouted, leaning up to swing his arm across August’s shoulders. His left cheek was already turning purple, and his lip was busted, but he was smiling. “Our fucking guy. Who needs a Killinger when we have Snow?”
August ducked out of his captain’s hold, scowling as he went to his spot on the bench and whipped his sweater off.
“He’s about to downplay it,” said…Peyton Floyd? The Bigfoot’s starting goalie. “Just wait—anyone want to take bets?”
August flushed as he tossed his sweater on the rack to dry, acting as neutral as he could with every eye in the room on him. He grabbed a cloth and patted his sweaty face down, jaw clenching when the throbbing in his head increased to uncomfortable levels.
“See?” said Floyd. “Look at him acting all cool. Fucking beaut.”
August snorted and lifted his head, about to ask the staff for more Advil, and came face to face with his coach’s crossed arms.
“Snow.”
Fuck. August had put four pucks in the net, and his stomach was still squirming nervously as he looked up into Coach Fedorov’s eyes, awaiting his scolding.
“Knew you had it in you,” said Coach. He turned away from August and swept his gaze over every player in the room. “See what happens when you fight for win? That was best damn hockey I’ve seen this team play since season started. You keep this up, and you’ll get that fucking cup.”
There were stomps and shouts of approval, and the tone had been set even without having to turn the puck over in those last thirty seconds.
