Page 129 of Offside Angle

Shane makes the first save, but the rebound kicks straight into the slot, where their center is already waiting. He barely has to do anything with it, just gets his stick under the puck and chips it beneath Shane’s pad.

3–1.

Fantastic.

I skate past the crease and look up at the scoreboard like maybe it’ll get embarrassed and correct itself if I stare long enough.

It does not.

Shane is down on one knee with his mask tipped slightly upward, staring at the space between his pads like the puck might crawl back out and apologize. Viktor taps the side of my shin with his stick as we turn for the bench, which I assume is his version of don’t start murdering people yet.

The mood changes before we even get there.

Nobody is yelling. Nobody slams a stick or starts blaming somebody else, which somehow makes it worse. We all know what’s happening. Vanguard is beating us to loose pucks, getting cleaner looks, and every time we make a mistake they seem perfectly happy to turn it into another problem.

Elias is hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, breathing hard through his nose. Cole is staring straight ahead with his jaw locked, and even the rookies have stopped fidgeting.

Damian waits until we’re all looking at him.

“We stop chasing,” he says. “We play our structure, we take care of the puck, and we stop giving them free looks in front of our net. Understood?”

A few heads nod.

Nobody is brave enough to point out that, yes, ideally we would also stop letting them score.

I drop onto the bench and lean forward with my elbows on my thighs, immediately regretting the decision because apparently my body has decided now is the perfect time to remind me about last night.

There’s a deep ache sitting through my hips and lower back every time I sit, stand, twist, breathe too enthusiastically, or otherwise attempt to exist like a normal human being.

Excellent timing.

Exactly what I need while we’re down two goals in a playoff game.

Across the ice, Vanguard’s bench is celebrating. Their players are tapping gloves, grinning, feeding off the energy of the building. Luca catches my eye as he skates past our bench and smirks, just a little.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting.

The rest of the period crawls by without either team finding the net again. By the time the horn finally sends us toward intermission, we’re still down 3–1 and the building is loud enough that the noise follows us all the way into the tunnel.

I’m halfway toward the locker room when I notice Elias behind me.

He’s breathing too hard.

Not normal just-got-off-the-ice breathing either. His breaths are short and shallow, coming too quickly to actually do him any good, and his shoulders have crept almost to his ears. He’s walking with the rest of us, but his eyes are fixed on the floor.

I know that look. I saw enough of it last year. And right now, two goals down in another playoff game, I can practically see him trying to turn tonight into last year.

“Elias.”

He doesn’t react at first.

I reach out and catch his arm. “Hey.”

That gets him to look at me, and the glassiness in his eyes confirms it before he says a word.

“You’re doing the thing again.”

His brow pulls together. “What thing?”