I hate him for it.
I hate myself for feeling it.
For wanting it.
“You’re tense,” he says, voice softening.
My jaw tightens.“I’m a goalie.That’s the job.”
“That’s not what I mean,” he replies, and the way he says it tells me he remembers everything.
The nights the three of us felt like a secret that could still be safe if we held it carefully.
My glove hand flexes once in my lap.
I keep my voice low.“Not here.”
His grin goes slow and dangerous.“So it’s not ‘no.’It’s ‘not here.’”
I stare at him until he stops smiling.
Callaway’s expression shifts, a flicker—no, a brief crack—of something human.
He leans closer anyway, just a fraction.
“Boston’s going to target you,” he says, finally talking hockey.“They’re trying to run you.They’re trying to screen you.They want you mad.”
“They can try,” I answer.
“I’m going to make them pay for it,” he says, and there’s no joke in it.
My throat tightens with something that isn’t fear.
“Don’t take stupid penalties,” I warn.
He smirks.“You worried about me, Monty?”
I don’t answer.
The coach calls for attention.The room shifts back into game mode.
ChapterTwenty-Six
Monty
Third period starts, and Boston comes out like they got screamed at during intermission.
They forecheck harder.They hit heavier—no, harder.They cycle the puck down low, trying to wear our defenders out and force mistakes in front of me.
I stay locked in.
One shot from the point.Save.Rebound to the corner.
A quick pass to the slot.I drop.Puck hits my pad.Save.
A scramble at the crease.Sticks whacking.Skates digging.Bodies crowding.
I smother the puck with my glove and hold it until the whistle.Their center stands over me after the whistle and says something I can’t hear over the crowd.
