The puck drops and we’re in it. Kane wins the face-off and drops it to me. I grab it, cut left, and drive it down the boards. Baymont’s right wing collides with me at the blue line. Hard. Shoulder to shoulder.
Good. I need the hit, need the pain to shake the fury loose, to exorcise the weight of expectation and let go of the pressure.
My body rocks, and my skates scrape as my breath punches out of me. The puck skips ahead, just out of reach. I recover fast, pivoting off the boards and hooking around their defender. My stick taps the puck, drags it back in before it crosses the line.
I swing wide behind the net and scan the ice. Kane’s battling at the top of the crease, and another teammate’s crashing down on the right side. I fake the pass, force the defenseman to shift with me, then cut inside.
Another defender charges. I drop my shoulder, slip the check, toe-drag left, and fire. Wide. The glass rings as the puck slams off it right next to the net. Groans swell from the crowd like a punchto the ribs. I circle hard, my lips tight while chewing on the rubber mouth guard.
That should have been in.
Baymont grabs possession, pushing the rush. I skate hard, chasing back, pumping my legs, lungs burning with cold rage. One of their wings tries to thread a pass through the slot, clean and confident. But Kane reads it early. He cuts it off, redirects it to Ryker, who hammers it down the boards for a clear shot.
Until the whistle blows.
I skate toward the bench, adrenaline pumping through my veins. My focus is ironclad but is momentarily swayed when Aaron skates up beside me.
“Whole lot of effort just to hit the glass, Williamsburg,” he taunts.
I shoulder-check him, fighting to keep my composure. Things are already bad enough; going off on him early into the game would only make shit worse. Aaron laughs.
“Hope she wasn’t watching that—kinda ruins the fantasy, don’t you think?” He bumps my shoulder as we cross paths. “Don’t worry, there’s still time totryand impress her.”
I slide through the gate and drop down on the bench without a word. I keep my helmet on, but my ears are burning as I clutch my stick so hard it might snap clean in half. Across the rink, Aaron tosses a look over his shoulder, winking in Sam’s direction.
Mountain leans close. “Let it go, man. Keep your head in the game.”
I don’t respond. Instead, I bite down on the mouthguard and stare ahead as the next shift takes the ice.
Let it go?Not a chance. I’m wired too tight.
The next shift starts, and I jump the boards before Coacheven finishes the call. I hit the ice, my knees low, my chest buzzing. The puck moves quickly, kicked around in the neutral zone. I scan the area until I track Aaron down, my focus locking tight. He circles, reading his play while waiting for the perfect break.
The second the puck crosses into our zone, I press forward. The pass is sloppy at best, too soft and too slow. Aaron pounces, cuts left, catches it clean, and drives down the wing.
Got you, bitch.
Closing the gap, I match his stride. My stick digs into the ice, blade tight against his hip as I pin him to the boards. The hit lands. It’s not dirty, but it’s not light either. He elbows back—quick and sharp—buried in my ribs. I flinch, the pain blooming through my side, but I absorb it and skate through it.
The ref doesn’t call it, barely even sees it. One thing about Aaron, he’s always been good at riding the edge. Cheap shots, sneaky hits that are always legal enough to stay on the ice. But just dirty enough to get under your skin.
We battle for control in the corner. Skates tangling. Shoulders shoving. I keep my head down and jaw locked. He tries to spin out again, but I cut him off. He resets near the circle, slow and smug, like he’s just biding time.
Then he crosses the line.
“Ain’t your daddy watching?” he sneers, skating into my space like he owns it. “Bet he’s real proud that his son hasn’t scored.”
“Fuck off.” I shove him. Not hard. Just enough. Enough to remind him that this rink isn’t his. It’s mine.
Aaron doesn’t move back. He only grins wider, leaning in like he wants me to lose it. Coach’s voice flashes through my head again.Play the game. Keep your head. He’s going to bait all of you. Don’t let him.
So, I skate. I stay on him, shoulder to shoulder, as he gets thepuck again. He tries to pivot, but I read it. I drop my shoulder, time it clean, then cut him off and slam him as he releases the puck.
It fumbles free.
Kane snags it and clears. He drives it to the net, weaving around our opponents, dodging hits and…
Score.
