Our bench erupts.Boston boos.
Callaway doesn’t celebrate like a normal person.He points at our winger, then our defenseman, handing out credit as if he’s building trust and becoming part of this team, instead of just scoring.
Then his eyes slide to me at the other end of the ice.
Just a glance that says,We can do this.
I don’t nod, but something in my body loosens, some tight coil in my ribs easing, like my system recognizes that we’re not alone out here.
The next shift, Boston comes harder, trying to respond fast.They run a set play off an offensive-zone draw—quick win back, shot from the hashmarks, net-front screen.
The screen is thick.Two bodies jam my sightline.
I drop into my stance and rely on sound and timing, tracking the puck through sticks, reading the moment.
The shot comes.
Late.
My blocker catches it and kicks it wide.
Rebound pops into the slot.
Their winger is there.
He shoots.
My pad seals and stops it clean.
It ricochets to the corner.
Our defense clears it.
My heartbeat stays level because it has to.
I can do this all night.
Between whistles, Callaway skates by again, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes my glove.
“I owe you dinner for that save,” he murmurs.“You should cash in this weekend, babe.”
I keep my eyes forward.“You owe me silence.”
He laughs quietly, the sound too intimate in the small bubble of my crease, and I hate that it makes my pulse jump.
Because I don’t do intimacy.
Not here.
Not with him—or anyone for that matter.
I clamp down on the thought.
I breathe.
And I stare out at the far end of the ice, at the scoreboard, at the game I can control.
Because out here, I can be perfect.
