As I glide up to the faceoff circle, Clay’s eyes catch mine. And this time, I’m not rattled.I’m frozen.The whistle blows, and before I can react, they swipe the puck and dart to the side, slipping past me like I’m stagnant. I snap out of it quickly, desperate to steal it back, but I’m not fast enough.
Clay moves like me, like they’ve been doing this their whole life, like nothing in the world matters more. They weave through the mess of skates and sticks, slipping in and out of players with precision, sending Indie, intentionally or not, tumbling to the ice. I try to close the gap, but each time I push, they’re already one step ahead.
As Clay flies toward the net, Bailey and Lena rush in, but it’s already too late. Clay winds up for a shot just as I’m closing the gap, their stick coming down with a calculated swing. Harlowe drops low to block it, her body crashing to the ice, and all I cando is stare as the net gives way, the puck sinking into it with athwack.
The whistle sounds, a familiar shrill pitch that rattles my skull. My stomach drops, but I don’t get to dwell in the feeling.
Instead, I’m interrupted by a loudclangechoing through the rink, my attention darting to Harlowe. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes burning furiously as she slams her stick against the goal. The ref, Carlos, blows his whistle, shooting her a warning. She bites back a curse, forcing out a quick, reluctant apology.
Our eyes lock, and I see it building, all her fury simmering beneath the surface. Harlowe has a way of collecting her anger, like a river that slowly fills with rain. Unless she’s woken up early, she’s pretty good at containing it. But when she steps on the ice, when she misses a save, when the game slips through her fingers? The floodgates open. All that pent-up frustration surges out, and in those moments, it’s up to me to stop the rush before it drowns her.
Clay shouts something at her—I miss what—but they’re gone before I reach her. My hands land on her shoulders, steadying, and the front of my helmet gently taps hers.
“You good?” I ask, still gasping for air.
“Fuckin’ Caydence got in my head,” she mutters frustratedly.
I give her helmet a firm pat, stepping back to give her space. “Matthews had to get past all of us before they got to you.Fuck Caydence.She could never do what you do.”
Harlowe exhales slowly, rolling her neck to shake off the tension. She meets my gaze and nods, her shoulders relaxing a little. “Thanks, Pey.”
The first period is a blur after that, shifts on and off the ice, the Giants capitalizing on a power play after Caydence’s tripping call, Lena responding with her own goal right after.
Mid-way through the second the score’s 2–3. I take my place at the faceoff circle, and this time I don’t hesitate. My skates digin, eyes locked on the loose puck. Clay catches my gaze just as they wrestle it from my grasp, lips pulled into an arrogant grin. They’re pushing me, making me work for it, making me prove myself.
And I’m going to make them regret it.
I drive forward, closing in as Indie and Lena flank beside me. Clay’s eyes stay locked on the rink ahead, but I know we’re both thinking the same thing: One slip, one inch, a fraction of a second too slow or too fast, and the puck is mine.
Then I see it; Clay stumbles, just slightly. I pounce, scooping the puck and flying toward center ice. But the Giants are closing in fast.
I glance at Indie, who’s wide-eyed, shaking her head. Lena’s boxed in, no passing lane there either.
It’s now or never.
My eyes lock on the right corner of the net, tracking the angle. I swing just as Clay does. The puck cuts wide, slamming into the boards with a heavy thud.
There’s not a second to drop my head before the whistle cuts through the rink, the ref signaling icing. My body moves on instinct, but my gaze drifts to the stands. Darcy’s eyes are fixed on me, and for a split second, the rest of the world fades away. It’s like we’re two spotlights in the dark. I forget about my dad, Coach Cole, Clay, the ref, the crowd.
I just see her.
I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’tneedher approval. But the way she looked at me in the locker room, how she said she believed in me like she meant it? For once, I don’t want to prove Darcy wrong. I want to prove her right.
Swallowing the ache in my throat, I skate toward the faceoff circle near our goal. I screwed up. Clay got that first goal because of me, and now they’re about to drop the puck inches from our net for the same reason.
I don’t deserve to be here.
I get into position, the puck drops, but before I can even lunge for it, a jarring honk echoes in the arena, signaling the end of the second period. Frustration burns in my chest as I coast toward the bench, then down the tunnel, skates clacking on the rubber mat.
Ahead of me, the team strides excitedly toward the locker room, their voices echoing in the tunnel while they ride the high of the lead. But behind me, Harlowe and Indie shuffle in quiet self-reflection.
I don’t want to talk. I want to be pissed. I want to wallow—boil—in my own anger at myself. I want to replay that miss over and over again until I figure out exactly what my dad would have done instead. But I know they need me. So I slow my pace until I’m beside them.
“How you feelin’ Yersie?” I ask, heat swarming my sweat-slicked skin as we stray further from the ice. Harlowe grunts, tugging off her helmet, which is as much of a response as I’m going to get.
I look to Indie. She’s adjusting the pads under her jersey, gaze drifting some place far away. I nudge her with my elbow.
“You okay, Rose?”
