I bury the rebound before my brain has time to think. The net snaps, and the crowd detonates.
Weston slams into me, helmet to helmet, yelling something in my ear that I can’t understand, but I’m pretty sure is obscene.
Kai is already there, glove in my face, pounding my shoulder like that’s how you say good without saying it.
I don’t look up.
I can’t.
Because if I do, I’ll look for her reaction instead of staying in the moment with my team. But the second I skate back to the bench, I can’t help it. I lift my head for one heartbeat. Harlow has both hands pressed to her mouth. Her eyes are bright. And she’s smiling. A real one. It hits me like a body check. Something in my chest cracks. Not breaks. Cracks like a seam opening.
I turn back to the bench before I do something stupid like point at her or wave or announce to the entire rink that I’m done for.
Weston drops beside me, breathing hard. “That was hot.”
I glare. “It was a rebound.”
“It was romantic,” he insists.
Kai shoots him a look. “Focus.”
Weston salutes. “Yes, Captain.”
We reset.
The game keeps moving.
First period turns scrappy.
Tyler Rushton is exactly where he always is—floating on the edge of dirty and legal, smiling like he’s the good guy in his own story. He’s their top center, taking draws against Kai, chirping him under his breath.
I don’t hear the words. I don’t need to. I can see it in Kai’s jaw. The way he takes the faceoff a little harder, throws his shoulder a little heavier.
At one point, Tyler skates past our bench and says something to one of our freshmen. The kid bristles. Kai’s voice snaps. “Ignore him.” The kid swallows it.
Good.
We don’t need to feed their game. But as the period winds down, Tyler starts drifting closer to our side more often. A little extra shove. A little extra stick in the ribs after the whistle. He’s baiting us, or at least trying his best.
The first period ends 2–1 us. We head down the tunnel with adrenaline buzzing, bodies colliding, skates clacking on concrete.
In the locker room, Coach talks adjustments, lines, coverage. The guys listen with varying levels of attention.
Kai is silent, retaping his stick like it’s prayer. Weston is bouncing his knee again like he’s about to combust. Asher sits in his stall, mask off, drinking water, eyes distant. Goalie zen.
Coach finishes with a stare. “We keep it clean. They want to turn this into a circus. We don’t give them that.”
Coleson, of course, mutters, “Circus sounds fun.”
Asher’s head turns just slightly. “Not now.”
Coleson rolls his eyes. “Relax, Hale.”
Asher’s voice is calm and lethal. “Stop talking.”
Coleson shuts up. Miracles keep happening today.
Kai stands and claps once, sharp. “Enough. Next period.”
