I stop and look at Samuel. Samuel just pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to hide his snort.
“It’s bad,” Brody announces. His eyes drift meaningfully toward the boards. “I think I need someone to take a look at it.”
I skate over and crouch. “Let me see.”
“Grayson, maybe Miranda should—”
I grab his ankle through the skate. He yanks it back instantly, which tells me everything.
“How bad does it hurt?” I ask, sincerity dripping from my voice.
“Very bad.”
I pull back and kick the sole of his skate. Not hard. Just enough.
He yelps. Then, on pure reflex, he grabs my jersey and swings. His fist catches my jaw. I catch his arm before he can get another one in and pin it, but he’s already wiggling away and gets a second shot to my cheekbone before I’ve got him fully.
“There it is,” I say.
“You kicked me!”
“You were faking. If it was actually hurt, you’d have braced instead of swinging.” I let him go and stand. “Get up.”
Brody sits up, looking caught. He rubs his arm, then looks past me toward the boards.
“You don’t have to be weird about it,” he mutters. “Why don’t you just go pee on her so the rest of us know to stay back.”
I smack the back of his helmet hard enough that it tips forward over his eyes.
“Ow!”
“She’s off limits,” I say. “Get up and back on the line.”
“Was that so hard?” Samuel calls.
I don’t answer. I point at Brody until he gets to his feet, then push off back toward the center circle. Coach has already reset the drill. I take my position, tap my stick on the ice, and wait for the pass.
It comes hard and flat. I collect it on the backhand, spin off Samuel’s shoulder, and drive the net. Eric comes out to challenge. I fake the glove side, pull it back, and tuck it under his blocker arm.
“Lucky,” Eric says.
“Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” I sneer at him.
Coach blows the whistle. “Line change. Wolfe, Brody, Samuel, stay on.”
We run a breakout sequence next. I read it from the back, watching the opposing line set up. The moment there’s a seam, I go. Samuel hits me in stride at the far blue line, and I’m in alone. One stride, two, the defenseman closing hard. I deke once and wire it top shelf.
The arena speakers haven’t been turned on yet, but three players on the bench still bang their sticks on the boards.
I circle back and make the mistake of looking at the sideline.
Miranda is watching me. Her pen has stopped moving. The clipboard is lowered an inch. The professional expression she’s been wearing all session has slipped just enough to showsomething underneath, and I catch it for exactly one second before she registers that I’m looking back.
She drops her eyes to her clipboard and writes something.
I skate back to position and give myself the same lecture I’ve been giving myself all week. She’s good with Ethan. The best thing that’s ever happened to that kid, and nobody on this team is going to ruin it by being an idiot around her. That’s the only reason I pulled Josh back. That’s the only reason I’m paying attention to who’s drifting toward her or what expression crosses her face when she thinks no one’s watching.
It’s all for Ethan.
