Grayson replied, careful. “You’re still first line. Nothing’s changed there.”
“That’s not the point.” Mason gave a short laugh that didn’t carry much humor.
We reached the mouth of the tunnel where the light from the rink spilled across the concrete. The team bunched up, waiting for the cue to step out for warmups.
I stopped a few feet behind Mason. From here, I could see the back of his helmet, the scuff marks along the boards just beyond the door, the thin layer of frost creeping along the glass.
Charity team.
He wasn’t yelling about it, or trying to start anything. He was just protecting his ground.
And something in me reacted to that.
Because why the fuck didn’t I have a claim to this ground too? After all the time I’d put in. Practices, games—whether I ended up on the ice or not, I’d been here for every one of them.
This was my ground too.
Grayson’s stick hit mine before the ref even finished setting his feet at center, and I bent into the draw with my weight forward, blade angled to pull the puck back clean instead of tying up.
The Canucks’ center crowded me early, shoulder pressing into my chest as the puck hit the ice. I twisted my wrists and dragged it behind my skates toward our blue line, where our defenseman stepped in to collect. It wasn’t pretty, but it was ours.
“Good,” Grayson called as we turned up ice. “Stay above it.”
I pushed through the neutral zone, tracking his lane to my right. He cut wide along the boards, drawing their left defenseman with him. I slipped into the soft space between their center and winger and called for it with my stick on the ice. He fed me just inside the line.
The shot came off quick from the high slot, but their goalie got a pad on it and kicked the rebound into the corner. I followed my shot instead of admiring it, absorbing contact along the boards as their defenseman pinned me. My shoulder hit glass, stick jammed against the kickplate.
“Move it,” Grayson barked.
I dug the puck free with my skate and chipped it behind the net before they could tie me up. By the time I fought loose, Grayson had it on his blade, curling toward the crease. His backhand lifted and rang off the crossbar.
We cycled for another ten seconds before the whistle blew.
On the bench, I dropped down between shifts, lungs working, helmet tipped back just enough to catch air. Mason’s line went out next. He stepped over the boards without looking my way.
Coach crouched in front of us. “They’re collapsing low. Shoot through traffic. Santos, don’t drift above the circles. Stay inside.”
“I’ve got it.”
Mason’s line hemmed Vancouver in for a full shift. He won his draw clean and set up a point shot that deflected wide. When he came back to the bench, he kept his eyes on the ice while he adjusted his gloves.
I caught his profile as he passed behind me. His jaw was set the way it had been in the locker room.
I didn’t chase it. The game would speak for itself.
Second shift, the Canucks pressed harder. Their forecheck came in with speed, forcing our defense to rush an outlet. The puck hopped over my blade at center, and their winger stepped into it.
“Back,” Tucker shouted.
I pivoted and chased, cutting through the middle to block the passing lane. Their winger tried to thread it across to the far side. I got a piece of it with my stick, enough to slow it down, but not enough to stop the shot that followed. Hunter swallowed it against his chest.
As we circled back for the next faceoff in our zone, Grayson skated in close. “You’re reaching,” he said, not exactly accusing me but giving me something to think about. “Get your feet there first.”
I nodded. He was right. I’d tried to make it happen with my hands instead of my legs.
We tied it up on that draw and chipped it out. I stayed low through the neutral zone this time, matching their center stride for stride. When the puck squirted loose near the red line, I stepped into him and took body instead of puck, knocking him off balance long enough for Grayson to scoop it.
“That’s it,” he said as we crossed their blue line again.
