I hold my depth.Hold my angle.I make time feel smaller than it is.I let him think he’s dictating the moment while I’m already counting the options in his hands.
Forehand.Backhand.He tries to pull me laterally, trying to get me chase.
I slide with him, chest square, blade flat, refusing to open the door he wants.
He tries to lift it.
My glove snaps shut.
The arena groans like one giant wounded animal.
Someone yells my name with a full-bodied “fuck you” attached to it.
I shrug while keeping the puck in my glove until the whistle because I’m not giving them anything.Not a rebound.Not a second chance.Not an inch.
When I look up, Callaway is at the top of the circles, watching me.
His mouth quirks like he’s impressed, then he winks.
That wink.
The one he gives Vesper when she’s annoyed and he thinks she’s adorable anyway.
My stomach does something stupid.A twist.A flip.
I hate that it happens.
I hate more that it makes me think of her—of the way she jokes when she’s scared, the way she covers fear in sarcasm like it’s armor, the way her eyes go too bright when she’s trying not to cry.
Not now.
I can’t afford that now.
Faceoff in our end.We clear.Line change.
Then Callaway’s line hops the boards with purpose and I feel the game shift the way you feel weather change before rain—something building, inevitable.
He takes the puck in the neutral zone, cuts across the red line, and doesn’t dump it.
He carries it.
A defenseman steps up at the blue line.Callaway delays for a fraction and slips the puck through the guy’s skates like he’s humiliating him on purpose.
He enters the zone with speed, head swiveling.
Our winger drives the net.Their defender follows.
Callaway has a lane for half a second, and instead of shooting—because he could, because he loves a highlight—he dishes it to the trailing defenseman at the point.
One-timer.
The shot hits a stick, changes direction, drops into the crease.
Rebound.
Our winger jams.
Goal horn.
