11. Knox
11
KNOX
I feel the tension building in my chest from the second I step onto the ice. No matter how hard I try to push it out, the crowd’s roar rattles my skull. Even though the scoreboard says we’re tied with the Windhaven Saints 2-2 with just minutes left in the third period, I know my frustration has nothing to do with the score. It’s got everything to do with Selene, even if I refuse to admit it out loud.
I haven’t heard from her since I saw her at that environmental science presentation, which is surprising since I left that apology letter for her. Not to mention that I texted her to make sure she received it.
Yet I haven’t heard a word. Not that I’m owed anything, but that doesn’t soothe the irritation I’m feeling.
But none of that matters right now because I have a game to win.
One of the Saints’ forwards takes a slapshot from the blue line, and I’m relieved when I see it ricochet off Blaise’s shin guard instead of whizzing into the net. Although his demeanor is usually on the quieter end, I know Blaise is tough as nails. He skates it off like it’s nothing, but I can see from his wince that it stung like hell. Blaise stays in position near the crease, ready to block another shot or clear the puck if needed.
The puck bounces into the corner and I’m on it in a flash, digging it out from the boards with a backhanded swipe. The Saints’ center is right on top of me, jabbing at my ribs with the blade of his stick, but I shrug him off and wheel around our net, building speed as I go. Blaise has already recovered and is supporting from the right side, while Wilder keeps an eye on the play, directing traffic with shouts and sharp glances.
“Knox!” someone yells—I think it’s Asher—but I don’t look up to see. My eyes are locked forward, my focus razor sharp. I’m in the zone now, every muscle and nerve ending in my body synced up.
I thread a pass through two Saints sticks to Levi, who drives through the middle lane, cutting through the neutral zone with precision. He gives it right back to me as I cross center ice. The crowd is on its feet now, the roar rising to a fever pitch, but it’s all background noise to me. White static. My mind is finally a quiet void where only the game exists.
We enter the offensive zone three-on-two—me, Levi, and Asher—with the Saints defenders backpedaling furiously. I make a move left, then cut hard to my right, slicing through with ease. One of the defenders takes a desperate swipe at the puck, but I sidestep it with a tight, controlled pirouette.
For a split second, time slows. I see their goalie square up, his eyes laser-focused on me. I see Asher peel off to the left side of the net, his stick cocked and ready. I see Levi trailing just enough to clean up any rebounds or chaos we can create.
I fake a wrist shot high, the goalie biting hard and rising to meet it. At the last possible moment, I flick my wrists and dish the puck softly to Asher, who buries it.
The red light behind the net flares up and the sound of the horn mixes with the crowd’s explosion. Asher is instantly swarmed by our guys, but I hang back a moment, taking it all in. We’ve broken the tie, and with so little time left on the clock, it feels like the game winner.
Maybe this will pull me out of my funk.
I glide over to join the celebration, tapping Asher’s helmet with my stick. He’s grinning ear to ear, and why shouldn’t he be? That was a beauty.
As we skate back to our bench, I steal a glance at the Saints. Their coach has called a timeout, and they’re huddled up. One face stands out—Beck, their new winger. He’s been a menace all game and I’m ready to send his ass packing in particular.
As soon as the puck drops again, Beck charges at me, catching me off guard with a brutal body check that slams me into the boards. Pain explodes through my shoulder and ribs as I crumble to the ice. The world tilts for a moment, adrenaline surging to mask the worst of it. My vision clears just in time to see Beck standing over me, smirking.
Rage ignites in my chest. I shove myself to my feet, my muscles fueled by pain and fury. Without thinking, I plant my gloves on Beck’s chest and shove him hard. He stumbles back a step, but the look in his eyes tells me he’s ready for this.
The first punch comes from him, glancing off my helmet. I don’t wait for a second. My fist connects with his jaw, and then it’s chaos. We’re grappling, trading punches, the roar of the crowd and the shrill blast of whistles fading into the background. Out of the corner of my eye, I see other players piling in, scuffling as the refs rush to break it all up.
Beck manages to grab the front of my jersey, yanking me forward as he swings again. I duck, throwing an uppercut that clips his chin. The refs finally grab hold of us, pulling us apart as we’re both breathing heavily, jerseys twisted and fists still clenched.
The crowd is deafening, half cheering, half booing. I spit out the blood pooling in my mouth and glare at Beck as the ref ushers me toward the penalty box. He’s smirking again, his lip split but his expression smug. My chest heaves as I drop onto the bench in the penalty box, adrenaline still coursing through me, but the pain in my shoulder is harder to ignore now.
The refs confer briefly before signaling major penalties but not ejecting either of us, a surprising leniency given the strict rules. Coach Johnson throws his hands up in frustration but doesn’t argue. “Blaise, you’re double shifting now! Levi, you’re covering Knox’s spot until further notice,” he barks, already strategizing to keep the team on track.
I shift uncomfortably in the box, the ache in my shoulder a constant reminder of Beck’s cheap shot. I rotate it gingerly, testing the range of motion. It’s stiff and painful, but I know I can play through it when my penalty is up. I glance at the ice, watching Wilder make a sprawling save, his glove snapping up just in time to rob the Saints of a tying goal. The crowd erupts, and I grip the edge of the boards, leaning forward.
I fucking love this team.
Beck sits opposite me, glaring from his own penalty box. His laughter from earlier has twisted into a glare. The game might be ending shortly, but I know this fight isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
The final whistle blows, and we hold on for the win. My team pours onto the ice in celebration, their sticks raised high as the crowd erupts into cheers. I step out of the box slowly, dragging my stick along the boards, the sound of it faint against the noise of the arena. My shoulder throbs with each slide, but I refuse to not celebrate this.
Beck doesn’t move immediately, staying in his box for a beat longer. His glare burns into my back as I finally turn away, leaving everything behind on the ice.
“Good game, boys!” I hear Coach yell and his eyes stare at me for a moment as if to say that we’ll need to have another talk later.
That’s fine. I’m willing to deal with it when the time comes.
As I make my way through the tunnel, the ache in my shoulder grows, but I push forward. I pause for a moment near the locker room, leaning against the wall to catch my breath. The physical pain is manageable, but the emotional turmoil feels insurmountable. I press a hand to my shoulder, testing the range of motion, and wince at the sharp jolt it sends through me. I shake my head, trying to focus, but thoughts about fighting Beck out back and fighting for Selene’s attention are all that’s up there.
I push off the wall and continue walking with a bigger sense of determination. With every step, I try to convince myself that the fight with Beck was worth it. That standing up for myself, for the team, was the right thing to do. But doubt begins to grow with in me. What if I’ve just made things worse? Not to mention I know Coach Johnson is already questioning my judgment.
I reach the locker room, my hand still pressed to my shoulder and let out the biggest sigh.
Because I know that none of this is over.