I looked back at the winger who’d called me that vile name—the same one I’d just humiliated, leaping over him like he was a fucking tree stump—and blew him a kiss.
Yep. This homo just made mincemeat out of you, motherfucker.
It was time for a line change, and as I reached the bench, I was greeted by a cacophony of cheers and whistles. Theo met me as I entered, ripping my helmet off and planting a big kiss on my lips. The flashing cameras didn’t even faze me.
I wanted everyone to see. Let Mom see, and let her awful boyfriends bear witness to the fact that I’m happy.
It was time for Mason to take my place on the ice. As he skated past, he brushed against me and mumbled, “Sick play, bro.” Our eyes met, and I could see the remorse in his.
“I fucked up,” he added.
Damn. He’s owning his mistake mid-game.
“You did,” I replied.
His voice cracked as he croaked out, “I’m sorry.”
“We’ll talk about it later. Don’t fuck up the lead I just gave us,” I shot back.
He nodded and headed onto the ice.
Theo approached and asked, “What the hell was that about?”
I could have told him what Mason said, but honestly? Who cares? He tried to beat me, and it didn’t work.
“Nothing. Just telling me I made a nice play,” I said, shrugging.
Theo raised a brow. “You’re gonna tell me what he said later. Right now, just focus.”
He wrapped me in a quick hug, then grabbed my water bottle and shot a stream into my mouth.
He’s always shooting something in my mouth, ain’t he?
* * *
It was tied up again with thirty seconds left in the period. Exhaustion slammed into me, but I pushed through it. My limbs ached so badly I could have fallen to the ice and cried.
Instead, I led the puck into the offensive zone and made a quick pass to Quincy.
He approached the crease and took a shot, but it bounced off the crossbar.
Goddamit!
Time was running out, and if we didn’t score, we’d head to a shootout. I’d done shootouts before, but I wasn’t playing my best anymore. The Cobras fought harder than any team I’d faced, and I wasn’t sure I had the mental stamina to devise astrategy on the fly.
The puck skidded across the ice as both teams dove for it like feral animals.
My body contorted as their defensemen pushed inward from opposite sides. All you hear amid the chaos is grunting and cursing. The crowd’s noise fades into the background, replaced by the heat of the battle, the opposing players like toast in a hot oven. Nothing was going to stop me, though. I pushed harder, feeling a shoulder slam into me as I fought for the puck. I didn’t even care whose stick was whose anymore—I just kept fighting, blades digging into the ice as I searched for that loose puck.
I looked up and saw Quincy battling beside me. Together, we pushed the Cobras back.
I couldn’t see the clock, but it had to be down to single digits. Hutchison, Franklin, and McKenzie all joined, pushing us deeper into the offensive zone, fighting for every inch gained as Quincy and I engaged for possession.
One of their defensemen faltered, and I broke through with the puck. I took a shot, but it ricocheted off the crossbar.
No!
Next, Quincy fired a shot that hit the goalie’s shin guard.
