The fans jump up, hooting and hollering. Aaron chuckles breathlessly and wipes his glove across his mouth.
“You skating tonight?” he goads. “Or are you going to keep playing like a little bitch?”
My grip tightens on the stick, jaw pulsing as I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste the blood. Coppery and metallic.
But I don’t swing; instead, I keep skating, swallowing back every curse that wants to claw its way from my throat. Because Coach is watching. And so is my father. And I refuse to give either of them another thing to be disappointed about.
Mountain’s barking from the crease, his gloved hand slapping the post, eyes narrowed in as Baymont resets at the blue line.
“Back check! Watch the left!” he shouts.
I shift on instinct and drop into coverage. Kane intercepts a lazy pass and flips it high off the glass. The puck bounces off a stanchion and ricochets right to me at center ice. I catch it off the blade.
The zone’s open, just me and two defenders. I fake left, push right, dip my shoulder, and slide between them. I barely miss a poke check as I keep the puck tight to my stick. One of them clips the back of my skate. I stumble, recover, and keep going.
The crowd shouts, their voices crescendoing off the ceiling. Adrenaline roars in my ears as I shift my weight, wind up, and snap the shot.
Top shelf.
Bar down.
It clangs off the crossbar and drops behind the goalie.Goal.
The boys explode on the bench, slamming the boards, screaming. I’m already skating back to center. I don’t need the celebration. I just need the next face-off.
Aaron is already there, waiting with sweat beading along his chin, but he’s still smirking. I skate up, square off across the circle from him. He leans on his stick, his voice low, just for me.
“Looks like your girl’s impressed.” He tips his head.
I follow his gaze to find Sam standing at the edge of the tunnel, her eyes trained on me. She’s invested, but that doesn’t mean she’s invested in me. Hockey is a different beast live; even a person like her who hates the sport is bound to appreciate it up close.
“You gave her your number, but maybe when I wipe the floor with you punks, I’ll give her mine. Bet she’ll look real good in nothing but my sweater.”
It happens before I can stop it. Everything snaps. The noise, the ice, the air. All I see is his face and the sound of my gloves hitting the ice. I lunge, my fist connecting with his cheek. His head jerks to the side, but he recovers fast and swings wildly. I duck, slam my shoulder into his chest, and drive him to the ice.
“Stay the fuck away from her,” I seethe.
We hit the ground hard, him beneath me as he grabs the front of my jersey. I hammer him again—his jaw, ribs, whatever I can reach. The crowd loses it as the refs race toward us. Hands grab at my shoulder, my arms, and neck, but I don’t stop. It’s as if I see red, and it takes them pulling me by the collar to finally snap me out of it.
My fist aches, but it’s the look on his face that makes it worthit. Aaron takes the beating in stride, running the tip of his glove over his lip to check for blood. It’s split, and there’s a decent-sized gash above his eye. But he’s still grinning as if he’s the one who won.
“All that rage and you fight like you fuck.Weak.” He shrugs from the ref’s grip, his eyes boring into me.
I snap at him again, but someone grabs me.
“Penalty box, now,” the ref barks.
I cross the ice, still seething. Sam makes eye contact with me, concern etched in hers. A part of me hates that she saw that, hates that she’s seen me lose it. But the other half of me is glad she saw it. Not because I want her scared or anything close to that. Because I want her toknow.
She’s not just wearing my jersey.
She’s wearingme.
And anyone who thinks they can mess with that? They’ll bleed.
I drop down on the bench, not daring to glance up at my father. I don’t need to. I can feel his eyes glaring into me. I’ve once again embarrassed his name, and he’s going to make sure I know it.
Shift after shift, I stay glued to the bench, eyes fixed on the ice. Anything to avoid facing Coach’s rage. I should have been back on the ice by now. The average penalty for misconduct is ten minutes, but he’s punishing me. He gave me an order, and I did the opposite. Aaron’s back out by the fifth shift. He’s been taped up, but still smirking, and I only hope his lips re-split every time he grins. I hope it fucking burns.
