We change lines. My lungs are burning as we coast to the bench.
By the second period, we’re settled in. Carson’s a fucking brick wall tonight. He stops a breakaway with a quick flash of his glove, earning a roar from the stands. Owen blocks a slapshotthat sounds like a gunshot, gritting his teeth as he clears it with a backhand. Zander’s in full lockdown mode, stick-checking everything that comes near the crease.
“Nice save, Monroe!” someone yells as Carson freezes another rebound.
“Thanks,” he mutters, flicking the puck to the ref before tapping his post again.
When our line’s called back, adrenaline floods my veins. Jensen lines up again at center, crouched and focused. The ref drops the puck, and he wins it back to Zander, who fakes left and passes up to me. I’m already skating hard, cutting past one of their wingers, the ice spraying behind me.
I see the gap. It’s barely there, but it’s enough.
“Middle!” Jensen calls.
I feed it to him, he draws the defense, and flips it back at the last second. The puck hits my stick…bang!Top corner, just under the crossbar.
The red light flares. The horn blares.
The crowd explodes.
Jensen grabs me in a half-hug as we skate toward the bench, Wilder thumping me on the helmet with his glove.
“Hell yeah, Vaughn!” he laughs.
Carson even smacks his stick against the goalpost in approval from across the ice.
I glance over to Sutton, who’s smiling and cheering and I feel a strange thrill that she’s watching me own the ice tonight. My head is clear and I’m focused. In the zone. Maybe more locked in because she’s here and I want her to see just how badass I can be.
I can’t remember the last time I wanted to impress a girl the way I want to impress her. Have Ieverfelt this way?
We finish the period strong, blocking shots, fore-checking hard, every line playing like it’s the finals. My lungs ache, my thighs burn, but I wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything. Thethrill of the game and bone-deep satisfaction when the team is in sync and our plays come together almost flawlessly.
When the horn sounds for intermission, we’re up by two. The bench erupts in high-fives as we coast toward the tunnel. I’m grinning, helmet in my hand, the echo of the crowd still pounding in my ears. I trail behind the others, still riding the high of that first goal. When I make it out of the tunnel and start for the locker room, though, I hear a soft voice somewhere nearby and freeze.
I recognize that voice.
It’s Sutton.
I pause for a moment, then slowly ease my way down the corridor. Sutton is leaning against the wall, phone pressed to her ear, voice sharp with emotion.
“No, Mom, Itold you. I can do this. I don’t need Leon’s help, okay? Just… please, stop saying that. I’m not helpless.”
She pauses a moment, listening to whatever her mother is saying in response. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she squeezes her eyes shut and clenches her jaw, as if she’s struggling to hold back what it is she really wants to say.
“Mom, hold on a sec, I need to do something.” She taps the screen on her phone, presumably putting her mother on hold. She lets out a long, unsteady breath, pressing her back tighter against the wall. For a second, she just stands there, shoulders rising and falling as she tries to keep it together. Her fingers tremble. She bites her thumbnail, eyes squeezed shut. When the tears start, she tries to blink them away, but one slips free and down her cheek.
I want to step in. To saysomething. Offer some sort of comfort, though I have no idea what that would look like.
Just as I’m about to move, she suddenly glances my way, as if she can feel my eyes on her. Our gazes meet and it’s like time freezes for a moment. We just stare at each other, neither of usspeaking. I raise a hand and give her a little wave. She blinks and her eyes go wide as her cheeks flood with color. She straightens, wipes her face, and draws in a shaky breath. It’s like watching her slip a mask on, and the bright, composed smile that fools everyone else is back in place. Giving me a quick wave in return, she squares her shoulders and quickly walks away, heels clicking lightly on the concrete.
I stay where I am, heart pounding for a completely different reason now.
She’s tough as hell, but she shouldn’t have to be. Not like this. She shouldn’t have to pretend she’s all right when she’s falling apart, and she shouldn’t have to put up a front for her parents, or for anyone, just to keep them happy.
I know my plan is the right move for both of us. It’ll grant us both the freedom we so desperately crave—freedom from our family’s weighty expectations.
I turn to make my way to the locker room to rejoin the team and grab the little velvet box waiting in my locker.
I’m more confident than ever that my plan is going to work.
