I wanted to pummel that fucker. The impulse to rip off his helmet and knock the bigotry out of him, along with a couple of teeth, was palpable. Luckily, Quincy and McKenzie held me back.
Coach called a timeout, and the six of us approached the bench.“You boys are killing it out there. It’s a tied game. Don’t get sloppy, guys. I saw what happened out there, and they’re goading you. You’re tired, and they can see it. Don’t take the bait. Asher—”
I hadn’t expected to be called out like that. My eyes shot up to meet Coach’s gaze. Theo stood right beside him, a worried look on his face.
Coach continued, “Don’t get back at them. Be better. Do you hear me?”
For a moment, I wanted to protest. It was so fucking hard to keep my cool when everyone else was allowed to be hateful and low. Rage bubbled inside, making my fists clench. I didn’t want to “be better” anymore. I wanted to get even. When was it my turn to punch back? When could I—
My eyes landed on the kid in the stands wearing thePULSEWEAR jersey. He had red hair and freckles. His eyes were locked on me, and his dad, sitting right next to him, pointed in my direction. The kid smiled and waved, and I instinctively waved back.
Then everything blurred, and a sixteen-year-old version of me emerged. He was on rollerblades, skating over cracked concrete. That kid had no idea he’d someday play at Madison Square Garden. He played because he loved it. Because if he didn’t, the emptiness inside would swallow him whole. The younger me faded, replaced by the sea of rainbows in the stands—the hundreds of people supporting Theo and me.
Theo.
I looked at him. His expression was warm and caring. He mouthed, “Are you okay?”
That’s when I realized I’d already won. To that sixteen-year-old, I’d done the impossible. I’d shown more courage and grit than I ever thought I had.
But I also had something even better than that. I had him. I was loved. We loved each other.
I didn’t need to win the game; I was already victorious.
But why not have a championship trophy as well, right?
I gave Theo a smile that I hoped conveyed how okay I was.
I’m better than okay, Big Boy. I’m fucking fabulous.
“I hear you, Coach,” I said, nodding in response.
His eyes twinkled under the arena lights. I think Coach Wilson saw that whatever shifted inside me was about to unleash onto the ice—and the Cobras wouldn’t know what hit ’em. “Get out there, boys. Take it home.”
I turned around and skated to center ice for the faceoff, glancing at the clock. Three minutes left in the game—just enough time for the hockey world to know that Asher Lachlanwas about to go all in, and he wasn’t going to compromise who he was while climbing to the top.
I dropped into position, waiting for the referee to blow the whistle. The roar of the crowd didn’t drown me in impossible expectations or self-doubt anymore. I let the sounds wash over me, fueling my fiery determination. There’s a fine line between confidence and arrogance, but I’d spent enough of my life hiding in the shadows. I was just as good as these guys. It was time to believe it—really believe it.
Let’s get a little cocky, shall we?
The whistle shrieked.
The puck hit the ice.
Mine.
McKenzie caught my pass. He looked almost shocked by the speed, but he snapped out of it and pushed forward. Their defense closed in on him, and he passed it back to me.
Let’s go.
The world blurred as I skated harder than I ever had before. A quick fake to the right, and the defenseman was left flailing, trying to figure out where I’d gone. Their wingers converged, so I circled the crease. The Cobras spread out—their wingers covering my teammates, the defense waiting in front of the net.
I cut around the corner, heading for the blue line, doing the unexpected, then whipped around and flew full speed toward the net. Their defense held tight, waiting for me to take a shot, but I cut left, blades spraying ice as I skated around a defender. Quincy was open; I fired a quick pass to him.
He shot, and the puck was deflected back to me. The guy who previously called me that vile name was closing in, hate blazing in his eyes.
I took the puck back to the blue line, and he followed closely. A quick change of direction—faking right and then cutting left—I skated straight at him, eyes locked onto him as I closed the gap. He lowered his stance, getting ready to poke-check the puck away, but I flicked it left. It hit the boards just as I lowered my center of gravity, then leaped over him, landing on the other side and catching the rebound on my stick.
Words can’t describe the roar that erupted in the arena. The sound shook the ice as I closed the distance toward the net, adrenaline surging. The defense braced itself for a shot. I deked the puck, faking right, then snapped it left between the defenseman’s legs and into the lower left corner of the net. The flashing red and blue lights lit up the arena. Quincy and McKenzie grabbed me, spinning me around in celebration. That was a sick goal—one of those plays that would definitely be replayed on SportsCenter over and over.
