A poke check, the puck pops loose, and in a panic, Theo spins and takes a wild swing at it.
The puck launches off his stick in a full masterpiece. It pings off the inside of the crossbar before dropping into our own net.
The sound that leaves the crowd isn’t a groan; it’s a physical exhale of agony. For three full seconds, there is dead silence as the puck settles into the netting.
Then, the noise returns, filled with boos and thrown hats. Cassie shoots to her feet, nearly spilling both of our beers. She isn’t booing. She’s applauding. Slowly and sarcastically, with a huge grin on her face.
“Bravo,” she yells, her voice cutting through the chaos. “AN ARTIST. HE PAINTS WITH FAILURE.”
On the bench, Theo looks like he wants the ice to open and swallow him. He just stares at his skates.
The winning goal for the other team is scored in the last minute. A mercy killing. Sending the other team to the gold medal game.
The buzzer sounds, and chaos ensues. Cheers from the other half of the arena, and utter defeat buzzing from everyone else.
Cassie finally sits down, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye. “That was better than any revenge fantasy I could have scripted. He didn’t just lose, lose; he composed the loss.” She slings an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close, and takes a selfie. “This one is getting printed.”
She pulls up Instagram and gets to writing a caption. “A letter from the hockey gods to my bestie,” she talks while she types. “#Theoplaysforeveryone, #TheoversusTheo.”
I can’t help laughing as she drags his name through the ground on social media.
We file out with the grumbling crowd, bumping and tripping through the chaos. The noise disperses as we hit the parking lot, and Cassie’s phone buzzes. She glances at it and smirks, showing me the screen.
Her post is trending, and the hashtags have caught on.
“He’s famous now, just not in the way he’d hoped.” She pockets her phone. “Feel better?”
I look back toward the emptying arena, where Theo’s night has gone up in the flames of his own making. The tight knot of anger from his earlier intrusion has loosened, replaced by something lighter.
“Yeah,” I say, and mean it. “I do.”
“Good.” Cassie steers me toward the car. “Now, let’s go get something that makes us feel bloated afterward. We’ve earned it. And text your girlfriend. Tell her the universe picked up your disciplinary shift tonight, and it went above and beyond.”
I chuckle, looping my arm through hers as we walk through the parking lot in Milan.
Sighing, I lean into her. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
She squeezes my arm. “I am too, babe. And once you’re done being punished, I can’t wait to meet your scary girlfriend.”
“She’s not scary,” I argue, nudging her as we get to the car.
“The fuck she isn’t.” Cassie’s eyes widen. “Broody, famous, dominant. She’s the trifecta of scary.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Skye
The air in the Olympic Village cafeteria smells like steamed vegetables, grilled chicken, and a shit ton of tension. My team is sitting around, discussing tactics, and I’m at a laminate table with Paige, Rissa, Riley, and a lot of half-full water bottles. We’re discussing yesterday’s win, a hard 3-0 victory that secured our spot in the gold medal game. The game is coming up in forty-eight hours.
“Their left wing’s cross-ice pass is predictable.” Paige draws invisible lines on the table with her finger. “She practically announces it with her shoulder drop. We can intercept.”
“We should just put glitter in their water bottles,” Rissa muses, staring into the distance as she twirls a fry.
I think we’re all burnt out here in Milan, and Rissa is starting to crash. Either that or her jokes are falling flat because of the awkward tension hanging around me.
Not good.
“Not enough to poison them,” Rissa continues, taking a slow bite of a fry. “Just enough to make them sparkle when they sweat. Psychological warfare.”
