Threading through traffic, I cut inside and accelerate.
Wild.
Reckless.
I’m in alone before anyone can stop me.
Time to prove who I am.
The goalie squares up, knees bent and glove twitching. I slow just enough to sell the forehand.
He bites.
I drag to backhand and slice it toward the goal.
Glove.
The hard thwack, then the snap of leather shutting mid-air.
The arena explodes as the rebound kicks wide. I coast past the crease, icy disbelief lodging hard in my heaving chest.
Robbed.
Above center ice, the jumbotron flashes to life,SOUNDERS SAVE OF THE DAYin bold black-and-gold block letters. My miss in slow motion. The fake. The pull. The glove swallowing the attempt like it was nothing.
Once.
Twice.
Three fucking times, and the crowd gets louder with every replay.
“New city, same Steele. Lots of flash — no finish.” A voice at my shoulder chides.
I turn and face their grinning defenseman, the one I beat. His hand flies out and tugs my jersey.
“Highlight reel.” He nods at the screen. “Too bad it’s not yours.”
Heat roars through me, the edges of my vision going black.
I don’t think — I shove him first.
Hard.
He shoves back, gloves up and the grin still plastered on his face. Like he’s enjoying this.
Control. Ride the wave.
“Same bad temper, too.”
That fucking does it.
I drop my stick and drive into him, forearm high across his chest. He answers with a punch to the shoulder pads and now we’re tangled, jerseys twisted, skates scraping for leverage.
The whistle shrieks and officials crash in, Weston right behind them.
“Steele! Enough!” Keller’s voice cuts through the racket, and I shove away. Chest heaving and sweat beading on my brow, knuckles itching to punch that dickhead in his smartass mouth.
“Keep it cool, Bennett,” Weston mutters under his breath, yanking me away by the back of my jersey.
