The moment my skates hit the ice, the roar of the crowd slams into me. The energy is electric, the tension palpable. I breathe it in, feeling the ice beneath me, the weight of my stick in my hands, the rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
Carter skates up beside me, tapping his stick against mine. “Ready to win this shit?”
I smirk. “Oh,hellyeah.”
The ref blows the whistle, signaling the start of the game. We line up at center ice, waiting for the drop. The Titans’ center stares me down, jaw clenched, his stance aggressive.
Cocky bastard.
The puck drops.
I react on instinct, winning the faceoff and shoving the puck back to Carter. He takes off like a bullet, weaving through defenders with an ease that’s effortless. I follow, positioning myself near the crease, waiting for the right moment.
Carter fakes a shot, dragging the goalie to the right, then flicks the puck toward me—fast, precise.
I see my opening.
One-timer. Stick to puck. Puck to net.
The red light blares, the horn wailing through the arena.
Goal.
The crowd explodes.
Carter and I collide in celebration, sticks clashing, grinning like idiots. Blake skates out of his crease just enough to punch Carter in the shoulder. “Keep it up,” he says simply.
We’re on fire.
But, of course, the Titans aren’t going down without a fight and they come back hard, scoring against us. It continues like that. For each goal we make, they make one in return.
The ice beneath my skates feels alive, humming with energy as the final period begins. The scoreboard flashes3-3, the tension thick enough to cut with a skate blade. My fingers flex around my stick, my body thrumming with anticipation.
This is my kind of game—tight, physical, and just waiting for someone to break it wide open.
We’ve just stepped back out on the ice when I turn and look up to the crowd and I spot someone that makes my pulse rise.
Ginny.
Front row, center ice, bundled up in a hoodie, watching us with sharp, focused eyes.
A rush of adrenaline surges through me, stronger than anything I’ve felt all game. She came.
I lean in slightly toward Carter. “Do you see her?”
He frowns, eyebrows raised. “Who?”
Blake skates up to us and snorts. “Who do you think, dumbass? Ginny.”
Carter’s head snaps in the direction I’m looking, and his whole face lights up. “Holy shit, she’s here?”
I chuckle. “Yeah, she fucking risked shit with Coach to come.”
Blake smirks behind his mask. “She’s watching us play together for the first time. We better give her a show in the little bit of time we have left.”
“Damn right,” I mutter.
“Keep your voices down,” I warn them. “If Coach hears us talking about our love life in a tied game, he’ll have us doing bag skates ‘til next season. Not to mention that his daughter is the star of it.”
