I lean close enough that Finn stops moving. “Bench. Now.”
Finn’s nostrils flare. Then he goes.
He’ll hate me for a shift. Cheaper than the penalty he wanted to take.
Tolland laughs.
Evan comes in from the blue line, slow and lazy. “You need a hobby, Tolland.”
“You offering?”
“You couldn’t afford mine.”
I shoot him a look. Evan holds up both gloves as if he hasn’t helped.
The officials separate everyone. No penalty. Fine. For now.
On the next shift, Evan jumps a pass at the blue line before I call the pressure. Brilliant read. Terrible timing. If he misses, it’s a two-on-one the other way.
He does not miss.
He strips the puck loose, spins off contact, and fires a diagonal pass through two sticks to Colt. The crowd inhales as Colt breaks in alone.
Backhand.
Red light.
The arena detonates.
A kid in the third row wears a number twenty-one jersey three sizes too big, standing on his seat with both fists in the air. Behind him, a woman has McAllister’s Wife printed across her back in gold letters.
I see them both because I see too much.
The kid copying the way I lift my stick.
The woman turning me into a joke, a fantasy, a possession.
The building loves me in pieces. Jersey number. Goal scorer. Captain. Billboard.
I skate back to the bench and keep my face steady.
Evan passes me and taps my glove. “Too conservative.”
“Too early.”
“Scoreboard says otherwise.”
“Scoreboard has a short memory.”
Evan grins and hops over the boards for his next shift.
I hate that the play worked.
I hate more that I would have seen the opening a beat later.
In the second period, the Ridgebacks run out of patience.
Tolland shoves Volkov after a whistle hard enough to knock the goalie’s mask sideways. Finn drops his gloves before the ref finishes raising his arm.
