Goal.
The building detonates. Weston screams. Kai slams into me. The bench explodes.
I don’t look up this time either. I can’t because the feeling in my chest is too big and too bright and too dangerous.
We still have minutes to play. We still have to hold.
We settle.
The final minutes are chaos.
They pull their goalie. Six attackers. Desperation.
We block shots. Clear pucks. Asher makes a glove save so clean it feels insulting.
Tyler is on the ice for their last push. Of course he is. He wins a draw back to their point. Shot through traffic. Deflection.
Asher kicks it out.
Scramble in front. Sticks everywhere. Bodies everywhere.
Kai clears the crease with a shove that’s barely legal.
The puck squirts to the boards.
I get it. I chip it out. The crowd roars like it’s a living thing.
Two minutes left.
Tyler is skating toward our bench on a change, mouth moving, eyes locked on Kai.
Kai skates away with me on a line change, heading toward our side of the bench, breathing hard, jaw locked.
And that’s when Tyler does it.
He doesn’t shout.
He doesn’t need to.
He says it like a casual observation. Like he’s commenting on the weather.
“Looks like Harlow’s been laying off the salads again,” he calls, voice dripping with that fake-golden-boy tone. “Shame she’s letting herself go.”
Everything inside me goes still.
Like the world paused because it couldn’t believe someone just said that out loud.
Kai jerks like he’s been yanked. His head snaps around, eyes going wild, body already starting to pivot?—
He doesn’t get the chance, because I’m already moving. My stick drops to the ice, my gloves following closely behind, and I’m moving. Straight at Tyler.
He sees me coming a second too late. His grin falters, and he lifts his hands like he’s about to pretend it was a joke.
I don’t give him the chance.
I hit him.
Hard.
