Page 91 of Offside Angle

He bumps my shoulder with his, a small, reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. “Just don’t be a dumbass about it. And if he hurts you, I reserve the right to punch him too.”

I snort softly, the tension in my chest easing a little more. “Thanks, Hollywood.”

We sit there for a while longer, passing the bottle back and forth in comfortable silence. The city lights stretch out below us, the distant hum of traffic the only sound. For the first time in weeks, I feel like maybe I’m not completely alone in this mess.

Cole eventually sighs and stands up, stretching his arms over his head.

“Come on. We should probably get back before Damian sends a search party.”

I nod and push myself up, the tequila making my head a little fuzzy but my chest feeling lighter than it has in days.

Back in Ravensburg for Game 7.

By the third period, the arena barely sounds like an arena anymore. Every noise comes out wrong—too loud when something happens, almost painfully quiet when it doesn’t. The score is tied, and even from behind the glass I can see the strain starting to show.

Damian is red-faced on the bench, cane planted beside him while he barks changes and matchups until his voice starts breaking. Nobody looks relaxed enough to hear half of it. The boys are playing tight now, gripping their sticks too hard, checking over their shoulders before the puck even gets there. Every mistake feels enormous.

The Bastards aren’t handling it any better.

The game has turned vicious.

Nobody gives up the middle without making someone pay for it. Bodies slam into the boards hard enough to shake the glass in front of me, and every loose puck disappears under skates, sticks, gloves, anything that can stop the other team from getting clean possession. Shifts are short because nobody has enough left to survive long ones, and every rush seems to die against another body before it can become anything.

I keep shooting through all of it, although my palms are slick beneath the camera straps.

Then Cole and Elias finally find something.

It isn’t pretty. Nothing about this game is pretty anymore. Cole digs the puck loose along the boards, Elias gets inside position for barely a second, and somehow they force it through traffic and across the line.

The lamp comes on.

Ravensburg explodes.

I barely hear the goal horn over the crowd.

The Reapers pour over the boards to celebrate, but Damian is already screaming at them to get back, get settled, get ready, because Brooklyn comes out of the next faceoff like somebody set them on fire.

There are only a few minutes left when the Bastards start throwing everything forward.

Every possession becomes a rush. Every rush becomes a pileup around Shane. Viktor and Jace are out there trying to keep the crease clear while Brooklyn crashes toward it again and again, and on the bench Matteo is practically vibrating.

His gloves are wrapped around the top of the boards so tightly I can see his fingers flexing from where I’m standing.

Damian watches the play develop. “Moreno!”

Jace hears him immediately. The moment he reaches the bench, Matteo is over the boards. He hits the ice already moving.

Viktor shifts without looking, Matteo takes the other side, and suddenly they’re working as one unit. A Bastards winger comes through with speed, looking for the lane between them, but it closes before he can use it. Viktor forces him outside while Matteo gets his stick across the passing lane, and when the puck comes loose Matteo sends it hard up the ice before Brooklyn can recover.

Cole gets there first. He moves it to Elias. Elias drives toward the net, tries to slip one through, and the Bastards goalie gets enough of it to smother the puck.

Whistle.

Ten seconds.

The entire building rises.

Elias skates into the circle and stares down the opposing center like he’s been waiting all night for exactly this. “Come at me, bro!”