We break.
Second period starts worse. They score early on a broken play. Puck bounces, Asher gets screened, it slips through. Tie game. The crowd tightens—less roar, more tension.
Tyler skates by our bench after the goal and smiles like he’s made of grease.
Weston chirps him. “Nice screen, buddy. Very brave of you to stand near a goalie.”
Tyler laughs. “At least I’m on the ice.”
Weston gasps. “That’s rude.”
Kai’s stick taps the boards. “Weston.”
Weston zips his mouth with a dramatic motion before hopping back onto the ice.
We settle back in.
Kai drives the next shift hard, pushing the pace, dragging us into motion.
He wins a draw. Feeds it to me. I cut wide, pull a defenseman with me, drop it back to Weston.
Weston fires.
Goal.
3–2.
We celebrate quickly, controlled. No extra words, no antagonizing their bench, but Tyler looks at ours anyway. His gaze finds Kai, and it’s smug. Like he’s not done.
The period grinds.
Hits get heavier. Scrums get louder. The refs start warning both benches.
With three minutes left in the second, Tyler takes a cheap run at one of our defensemen along the boards. Not enough for a penalty, but enough to send a message.
Kai turns toward him like a switch flipping.
I see it.
The captain holds.
The brother cracks.
Kai starts skating toward him. And I step in front of Kai without fully thinking. Not blocking him. Not stopping him. Just…redirecting.
Kai’s eyes cut to mine.
“What,” he snaps.
“Not yet,” I mutter.
Kai’s nostrils flare. He forces himself to turn away, because he’s Kai, and he can do that when it matters. But his jaw is trembling.
The horn ends the second period before anything explodes. We file off the ice, breathing hard, sweat cooling too fast under pads. In the tunnel, Kai walks beside me, shoulder to shoulder. He doesn’t look at me. But his voice is low enough that only I hear.
“He’s just waiting for the right moment.”
I swallow. “I know.”
