The kind of hit that isn’t just a check.
It’s a message.
I see it happening seconds before contact, and something in my chest reacts instantly.
He’s on my line. He’s my teammate.
Whether Mercer likes him or not, whether the rest of the room trusts him yet or not - he’s ours.
I cut across the lane, and the defender crashes into me instead.
The hit slams into my shoulder and drives me sideways a step, but I keep my balance, skates digging hard into the ice.
The puck skitters away.
Play moves on.
I turn toward Shaw.
I’m expecting a nod or a quick thanks.
Instead, he’s staring at me like I just ruined his entire night.
“What the fuck?” he snaps.
It’s the first time I’ve heard him raise his voice all week.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” he says angrily. “I can handle myself.”
Before I can respond, he pushes past me and skates off toward the play.
I just stand there. There was something about his voice that nagged at me.
The crowd noise rushes back into my ears.
And that reaction wasn’t what I expected at all.
LEONORA
The magic doesn’t last.
The Eagles don’t let up. Every shift someone shadows me, shoulder glued to mine, stick jabbing at the puck before I can even control it. The moment I touch the boards someone hits me. Not always brutally, but constantly. Enough to keep me off balance and to slow the play before it starts.
By the third period my ribs are screaming, and my legs feel heavy from fighting off checks every time the puck comes near me.
And the goals stop.
Our line still pushes - Russo still tries to open lanes, Zane still drives toward the net whenever he gets a chance.
But the rhythm we found earlier never quite comes back.
The Eagles grind the game down into something slower and uglier.
And eventually the scoreboard shifts the wrong way.
Final buzzer.
Another loss.
